is paid for, the room? The suite, I mean?’ I haven’t made some awful mistake and it’s not free after all? Sweat springs from my forehead.
‘Oh yes, madam,’ she says brightly, taking my card and swiping it before handing it back. ‘Great, all done. I’ll ask Jasper to show you to your room …’ She waves to a uniformed porter across the foyer. I hover, hoping Jasper’s too busy to help me because I’d rather find my room myself and avoid some sweat-making tipping scenario (not a problem at a Day’s Inn motel).
‘I’m on the cookery course too,’ the posh car man offers.
‘Oh, are you?’
His eyes crinkle appealingly. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘No, not really – I mean, I have no idea who goes on these kind of things. I won my place in a competition …’
‘Really?’ the receptionist asks. ‘Which one?’
I sense my cheeks flushing. ‘Dinner lady of the year.’
‘Wow!’ She bares her perfect teeth. ‘That’s, er, fantastic!’
‘Dinner lady of the year?’ the man exclaims in one of those rich, rounded voices that carries across a room. ‘Gosh, you’ll be showing the rest of us a thing or two …’
‘Oh, I don’t actually cook at school—’
‘Sorry, I just assumed …’
‘Don’t worry, everyone does.’ I smile.
‘So you’re not vastly experienced in the world of classic French cuisine?’
‘Not remotely,’ I reply, laughing. ‘To be honest, I don’t exactly know what it is.’
He chuckles. ‘Can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that. We can sit in the dunce corner together …’
I laugh, sensing myself relaxing. ‘Sounds good to me.’
He reaches to shake my hand. ‘I’m Hugo. Hugo Fairchurch …’
‘I’m Audrey, Audrey Pepper.’
‘What a lovely, unusual name.’
I smile, taken aback by his enthusiasm. ‘Thank you. I must admit, no one’s ever said that before.’
‘It’s charming. Very memorable. See you at the welcome reception then,’ he says as the ridiculously buff young porter takes my suitcase and escorts me towards the lift. We wait in stilted silence. No one takes you to your room in the kind of places I usually stay at. But then, I have every right to be here, brassy highlights and charity shop dress and all. I can’t cook anything fancy but then neither can Hugo, who’s bantering away in jovial tones with the glossy receptionist. The lift arrives, and his voice rings out as I step in: ‘A dinner lady on a classic French cookery course. Isn’t that just so sweet?’
He didn’t mean to be patronising, I tell myself as I gaze around my suite. It’s just funny, to someone like him. He probably thinks we still dish up Spam fritters and disgusting mince with a tidemark of orangey grease floating around the edge. Anyway, never mind Hugo; I’m far too excited to feel annoyed about an offhand remark. I managed the tipping scenario by pressing a fiver into the porter’s hand (he looked faintly surprised; was it too little? Too much?) and, more importantly, this place is gorgeous. Floor-to-ceiling brocade curtains are held back with tasselled golden ropes, and the enormous four-poster bed is strewn with sumptuous furry cushions and throws. It is, I decide, unable to suppress a ridiculous grin, very Audrey.
Oh, she probably wouldn’t fling herself onto the bed with a whoop of delight – and with her shoes still on – like I do. But who’s watching? I stretch out like a giant starfish, relishing the bed’s vastness with the baby-soft covers billowing all around me. It feels like a continent compared to my bed at home. Thank God Stevie’s not here. It’s not that I don’t appreciate champagne, great sex and a Ginsters pasty. But if he were here he’d be pawing at me already and right now, I just want to be.
Scrambling up into a cross-legged position, I scan the room for a laminated card advertising the £5 all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. Of course there isn’t one. No hum of motorway traffic either, or a crappy chipped desk. There’s a polished oval table and two plump armchairs upholstered in pink brocade which look as if no human bottom has ever parked itself on them. There’s a huge, velvety sofa – how much furniture does one person need? – and from here I can see there’s another sofa in my other room (two rooms, just for me!) perfectly positioned for gazing down at the walled garden below. The bathroom is dazzlingly bright, with white mosaic tiles, a vast oval bath and a shower that’s easily roomy enough for four. The elaborate chrome knobs and dials have settings to replicate various weather conditions: fine drizzle, summer rain, downpour. I’ll try them all, first chance I get. I’ll experience multiple climatic conditions.
Feeling peckish now, I bound off the bed and burrow in my bag for the remaining motorway muffins. They’re squashed flat in their cellophane wrappers. While I’d normally scoff them anyway, it doesn’t feel right in such beautiful surroundings. Instead, I select a plump nectarine from the fruit bowl which has been thoughtfully put out for me, and feel as if I am almost sullying the room by dropping the stone into the waste paper bin.
Further explorations reveal that a gleaming dark wooden cupboard is in fact a fridge filled with booze, plus a multitude of snacks: three types of nuts, including pecans! Packets of thyme and shallot-flavoured crisps! A crinkly bag of truffle popcorn, several biscuit varieties including stem ginger, and a box of red foil-wrapped Kirsch Kisses, whatever they might be! There’s even a glass dish with a lid, filled with tiny slices of lemon. At Charnock Richard you don’t even get a bourbon biscuit.
I check the time – still half an hour until the welcome reception – and remove all the edibles from the cupboard and set them out carefully on the table. Grabbing my phone, I take pictures of the pleasing arrangement from all angles to show everyone back home. I also take a selfie, my grinning face poking in from the side in front of the swanky snacks. Kim, Cheryl and Ellie won’t believe what you get here. Neither will Paul. He eats like a horse; I often spot him marching about Mrs B’s garden clutching an enormous doorstep of a sandwich. He never seems to stop to eat lunch. So I stash all three packets of crisps into my case for him – handy to eat while he works – plus the pecans for Morgan as, to my knowledge, he’s never tried them. That boy needs to be educated in the world of posh nuts. The Kirsch Kisses will do nicely for Mrs B – nuts get jammed in her dentures – and the ginger cookies will be handy for home. It occurs to me that there’s not an awful lot left to last me the rest of the week, but I want to take a few presents home.
To quell my pre-reception nerves – and make use of the lemon slices – I pour myself a gin and tonic, discovering that the fridge has a tiny freezer section at the top, with ice cubes. Can life get any better than this? I prowl around my suite, clinking my glass and taking pictures of the pink chairs, the bed and the sweeping view of the manicured gardens below. In the bathroom I photograph the basket of Molton Brown
