‘anyone would think I was a grade A wimp to listen to you. We’ll have a lovely time, won’t we, boys?’ Lauren gave her a look that suggested she was fooling herself.
Was she? She’d put on a brave face for Beth, and the camp she’d chosen had sounded positively civilised. But to give Matt a chance to put things right she would willingly put up with a few days’ discomfort.
‘You’re right, Matt,’ she continued, with as much conviction as she could muster. ‘Uncommercial sounds like much more fun. Book the site, mark the place on the map and we’ll make like pioneers, won’t we, boys?’
And pioneers was probably right. She was well aware that ‘uncommercial’ was shorthand for an absence of any kind of running water, and ‘untouched’ meant that the toilet facilities would involve the enthusiastic use of a shovel.
Then she gave herself a mental shaking. She had volunteered for this trip and it was a small enough sacrifice to make to save her sister’s marriage. Although she rather thought she’d pass on swimming naked in some freezing Welsh lake at dawn.
She put the bread dough in a greased bowl and covered it with a damp cloth while she waited for it to rise. Then she turned out a solid, cut-and-come-again fruit loaf she had been making for their trip. And after that she started to make a shopping list. A long shopping list.
If she was going pioneering, she had better be prepared for any eventuality.
Nick had always managed to eat very well without ever developing his culinary skills beyond the ability to make a decent cup of coffee. If pushed, he could make a slice of toast, even a sandwich. But he’d always considered the kitchen very much a female province and women, in his experience, couldn’t wait to get in there and display their home-making skills, presumably in the hope they would become a permanent fixture. He’d never discouraged them. He’d never made any promises either. He enjoyed home cooking as much as the next man, but not to the point that he was prepared to give up his independence for it.
But now all that was about to change. He sat at his desk and opened Cassie’s book. It was organised neatly into courses and as he slowly turned the pages he could almost see her in some big, comfortable kitchen, full of the scent of herbs and baking bread, surrounded by earthy vegetables fresh from the garden.
Romantic nonsense, of course. She was a professional cook and almost certainly worked in a stainless-steel kitchen that had all the atmosphere of a hospital operating room.
He bypassed the recipes for rich vegetable soups. Somehow he didn’t think that Veronica was the kind of woman to eat ‘hearty’. No. He’d start with something simple. Something cold that could be prepared in advance and left in the fridge. His sister did it all the time.
Oysters? He grinned. No. That would be too obvious. And he prided himself on not being obvious. Smoked salmon would be better. With that special dill mayonnaise Helen made. And thinly sliced home-made bread. She’d part with a loaf if he asked her for one. Elegant, but easy. Pleased with himself, he made a note on the pad beside him. Round one and so far he hadn’t done a thing.
What next? Something unusual, something that would convince her that he hadn’t picked it up from a cook-chill cabinet at the supermarket. He would have liked to call Cassie and ask her advice. But he didn’t have her number. Beth would know it, of course. But Beth would be too interested in why he wanted it. And jump to all the wrong conclusions. Instead he called his sister.
‘Helen, how are you?’
‘Busy. What do you want?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Is that any way to speak to your big brother?’
‘Nick, darling, I’m not one of your doting fillies, so please don’t use your butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth voice with me; I know you too well to be taken in. What do you want?’
He considered acting hurt. But she was his sister. And, as she said, she knew him too well to be fooled. ‘Advice. I’m cooking a meal for someone tomorrow night—’ She began laughing before he could finish. ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, come on, Nick. Surely you don’t have to ask? You couldn’t boil water without burning it.’ Then, before he could reply, she said, ‘Oh, I get it You want me to cook the meal for you and hide in the pantry between courses. Sorry, sweetheart,’ she continued, before he could deny it, ‘I’m giving a dinner for Graham’s boss tomorrow night and his promotion rests on the piquancy of my chicken chasseur and the lightness of my pastry. Call a caterer. Or better still take the girl somewhere romantic. That usually does the trick—’
‘Helen!’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Not on this occasion.’ Nick gritted his teeth. ‘She thinks I can cook.’
‘Where on earth would she get an idea like that about you?’ Helen asked, hooting with laughter. Why did women always laugh? ‘You didn’t lie to the poor woman, did you?’ Nick was interested to note that Helen referred to Veronica as a ‘poor woman’, too. Maybe they should meet and compare notes.
‘No, I didn’t. She found a cookery book on my desk and sort of jumped to conclusions.’
‘A cookery book? What on earth...oops...was it my birthday present?’
‘More or less,’ he hedged.
‘Even so. Is she soft in the head?’
‘Does she have to be? Cooking can’t be that difficult. Women do it every day of the week.’
‘I guess it must be all that practice that makes us perfect,’ she agreed, with suspicious sweetness. ‘Let me know how it turns out, Nick. Better still, take pictures; I can always use a really good laugh.’ And she hung up.
‘Helen!’ Then, ‘Damn!’ He hadn’t even had the chance to ask her for the bread and mayonnaise.
He considered calling his mother. But not for more than ten seconds. He’d had a basinful of being laughed at.
He’d make his own mayonnaise. He’d do it all. He’d got a cookery book. He could read. If Helen could cook chicken chasseur, so could he. He looked through Cassie’s book. It wasn’t there. He was beginning to understand why there was such a big market in cookery books.
He stopped at the supermarket on his way home. It wasn’t something he did very often—he had a lady who came in every day to clean and organise the essentials of life, although she’d made it plain from the start that she didn’t cook. Even if she had he wouldn’t have asked her. He had something to prove to all those scoffing women.
Tonight he would have a practice run. Tomorrow—well, tomorrow his chicken with grapes, lemon and soured cream would make Miss Veronica Grant eat her words.
He manfully grasped a trolley with one hand and with his shopping list in the other he set about finding all the ingredients he would need. He had paused between a pyramid of canned peaches on special offer and a stack of cornflakes that would have given the Jefferson Tower a run for its money, wondering where to find the dried herbs, when he spotted Cassie Cornwell pushing an overloaded trolley that seemed to have a mind of its own.
She
