Doubting Abbey

‘A kind of Mansion Masterchef,’ said Charlie. ‘I love it! After all, cooking is the new sex! Viewers love gastronomy programmes. Your cousin could be the next Nigella, perhaps. So, Abbey, Chat with the Chingo – tell me what you think to teaching people how to cook posh nosh.’

Huh? I felt dizzy. They’d got it wrong. I was only here to serve scones in a coffee shop. Waitressing, that was my experience – plus I could nuke food in the microwave, prepare cold snacks and order takeaway. But wait a minute… Cookery school? That’s what Abbey must have told Lady C about on the phone, that day in the park. The two of them knew!

My mouth went dry, knees weak, heart fast… Me, cook from scratch and instruct other people? Please don’t say the future of Applebridge Hall depended on that!

LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY

Saturday 1

September

‘Comments’

3p.m. Good afternoon. Time for a quick appearance whilst my, um, cousin… recuperates after her journey. Naturally, I am pleased to see her. It means…an awful lot. Family is of paramount importance to Father and me. Indeed, it is with amusement and a touch of family pride that I can again observe Abigail’s… outspokenness—a true Croxley trait. However, it’s her cooking skills which shall be most significant over the next two weeks, and I’m interested to see your comments about this morning’s poser question – do keep them coming until you discover the answer in tomorrow evening’s programme.

Some of you have even put forward your own entrepreneurial concepts for us to follow. Knityourownmansion, I’m intrigued by your idea of producing woollen earmuffs in the shape of apples. Tiarablogger, I like the idea of those cider flavours you suggested – although, utterly English as it sounds, I’m not sure about apple, sage and onion.

Time to dash, but Lovehotnoble, let me first decline your kind gift proposal. On a purely practical note, I suspect the sequinned trim would chafe in all the wrong places. I do hope my frankness isn’t offensive. I…where possible…always aim to tell the truth.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_bfc5160d-204e-5202-86cc-326e1178da88)

Within minutes of this announcement I had one of my funny turns. Unsteadily, I wavered from side to side, before my body went into spasm. There was no need to call the doctor. I’d suffered this before. The remedy was an afternoon in bed. Otherwise, I might have had to pull out of the show…

Sounded believable, didn’t it? And, sure enough, everyone in the orchard fell for my act, which was the only way I could cope with Edward’s terrifying announcement about me being some cookery teacher—distraction was the key, before Charlie asked me any awkward questions.

Yet I felt bad, putting on such a performance, which even Edward fell for after I’d writhed for a few seconds in the soil. He and Kathleen whisked me into the house, my eyes half-shut but still managing to goggle at some fancy staircase leading up to the first floor. Once left alone in my bedroom, I turned on my front and groaned into the pillow.

Urgh. Cringe. Blush. Poor Kathleen had seemed mega concerned, deep lines forming around her eyes as she’d tucked me in. But there was no way I could just stand in front of the camera after Edward dropped that bombshell. Gemma Goodwin run some cookery school? No way. After a minute or so, I sat up in bed and opened my eyes.

Forget my planned tour around Applebridge Hall. I needed the rest of the day to phone Lady C. I tugged off my mic. It was dark. Before leaving, Edward had gently pulled thick curtains around the – listen to this—four-poster bed. Stifled in the enclosed space, I drew them back.

Wow. The room was amazzzzzzin’, with the walls’ bottom half wood-panelled and the top painted plain red. In contrast, the ceiling was white and ornate. I bounced up and down for a moment. Talk about The Princess and the Pea - I’d never been on such a high mattress. To my left was the door and opposite an en suite. I gazed around at a floral tapestry and an intricately carved fireplace. On the right was one of the huge windows I’d seen from outside.

I picked up a glass of water from the bedside table. Mmm. I needed that.

Right. Time to ring Lady C. I reached for my handbag, which was on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed, next to a bowl of smelly pot pourri. On Lady C’s advice, I’d bought a cheap phone and set it up with the name ‘Abbey Croxley’ for her, as my supposed aunt, to contact me. Plus that meant I had a mobile to use out in the open, around Applebridge Hall. My real phone – my life! – with all of Gemma Goodwin’s contacts, was hidden in a pair of socks.

‘Please pick up,’ I whispered, which she did, within seconds.

‘Hello, Gemma,’ said Lady C in a small voice.

‘You knew! All about Applebridge Food Academy!’

‘Now, calm down, dear, you see…’

‘And Abbey! How could she not tell me, at least?’

‘Abigail only found out that day in the park – her father failed to mention the details previously. He has such faith – quite rightly – in my niece’s culinary talents that he didn’t think it would be a big deal. Which, of course, it wouldn’t, if it was actually her staying at Applebridge Hall…’

‘But why didn’t she warn me?’

Lady C sighed. ‘I, um, might have persuaded her not to – played down the whole “school” bit. I said you’d no doubt have cooks doing the real work… And she was so wrapped up preparing for her African trip…’ Another sigh came down the line. ‘Frankly, dear, I didn’t want you to change your mind. I apologise. That was selfish.’

‘But how did you think I’d cope, once here?’

‘Well, surely you can cook a bit, dear. I’ll help you choose the recipes. We’ll keep them simple…’

I shook my head in disbelief. Didn’t she know that, nowadays, it wasn’t the goal of every young woman to be a domestic goddess? That plenty, like me, considered the microwave a more important invention than the wheel?

‘We’ve got tomorrow to plan the recipes, then?’ she said, more firmly. ‘Your first class is on Monday?’

I gasped. ‘What… No… I mean…You’re taking this seriously? But I can’t cook, let alone teach. We need to think up some excuse, a good reason why I can’t possibly do that job.’

‘Keep calm and carry on,’ was the answer that came down the line. ‘Don’t arouse suspicion.’

‘But I can’t—’

‘No such word as “can’t” in a lady’s vocabulary,’ she interrupted – naughty! ‘I’m sure your culinary knowledge is better than you think.’

‘Okay. Test me on a few cookery terms,’ I said, determined to prove her wrong.

‘Bake blind.’

‘With my eyes shut?’ I replied.

‘Beat eggs,’ Lady C ventured.

‘That seems mega cruel.’

‘Skin a banana?’

‘Barbaric!’ I declared.

‘Follow the recipe,’ she said, hopefully.

‘Where’s it going?’

‘Turn on the oven, Gemma?’

‘How? Call it hot stuff and flourish a whisk?’

A sigh came down the phone.

‘Look, I can scramble eggs and bake a potato,’ I said, ‘but, honestly, that’s about it.’

‘Have they suspected you’re not Abigail yet?’

‘I don’t think so…’