Today's Reading
Suzie climbs up the stairway and taps at the door, waits for a minute, then descends.
"Any idea where he might have got to?" I ask.
She raises an eyebrow, to indicate that it's no concern of hers, and I follow her back into the house. A fleeting idea passes through my head—why not slip out the front door and go home, pretend none of this ever happened? Then I think of Julie, and how I'd be letting her down.
I trail Suzie along a broad passageway lit by skylights and down a short ramp. She taps a green button and doors whoosh open. "The Old Ballroom," she announces.
Not a gallery, nor a library—but a ballroom. Of course! And now the HQ of the Chester Square Cookery School. At one end, a demonstration bench, with mirrors above to give students an aerial view. Two rows of workstations, each with its own hob and sink. Ovens down one wall, fridges another. Marble, stainless steel, Gaggenau, Liebherr—I'm impressed.
There's a clanging of the doorbell—the students have started to arrive— but before disappearing to answer it, Suzie indicates a piece of paper on the bench.
NAME / NOTES / PAYMENT STATUS
Lady Brash (Serena) / Travelling from Bath.
The Hon. Harriet Brash / Travelling from Bath. (daughter)
S. Cartwright / London SE25 / Concession (under 26)
De'Lyse / Press/Media / Complimentary
Gregory Greenleaf / Arr. Gatwick, 9.10 a.m.
Victoria Mortimore / From Kings Lynn. No avocadoes.
Lilith Mostyn / North Wales. Gluten-free.
Melanie Hardy-Powell / Friend of R.H. / (Pay on arrival)
The woman scribbled in at the bottom must have booked at the last minute—always beware friends of the boss. The name Gregory Greenleaf rings a bell, but I can't think why.
CHAPTER TWO
There's something about the light in the Old Ballroom—which comes in from above—that reminds me of our old gymnasium at school. On a sunny day it must be lovely, but today it feels cold and gray—like a prison. After turning lights on and off, which doesn't help, I log into the Chester Square wifi—password LobsterThermidor- and check for messages. Julie knows what I think about emojis, which only seems to encourage her.
Quite understandably, my friend is worried I bailed out on the cookery school; part of me wishes I had. The bit before that means "Full moon in Aquarius—strange times ahead." She believes in astrology, or pretends to, so I get a daily customized horoscope.
The first part of the message, however, is a bit more worrying. Roughly translated: "Not sure what's going on, but Dena" (that's the witch symbol) "has been shut up in her office all morning. Photographs from turkey shoot look lovely, but something's up."
Hmm... as every journalist knows, editors only close their doors when trouble is brewing. I call Julie, even though she won't pick up, and leave a message asking her to keep me updated. That photoshoot nearly killed me, and I won't rest easy till Dena's signed it off.
Back in the real world, I do a quick survey of fridges, drawers, and cupboards, wondering all the time where Christian's got to. With any luck he's joined the students in the Pink Room, for Rose's welcome chat about fire exits and defibrillators.
I use the interlude to lay out my knives. Like every professional chef, I travel with my own, though you have to be careful nowadays carrying them about in a place like London. (Mine are transported in a rather dashing leather affair with straps and buckles, tucked in my backpack, and no dilly-dallying on the way.)
First out is my trusty steel—of no great financial value, but one of my most treasured possessions. It was given to me on my eighteenth birthday by our local butcher, after Mum told him I was interested in cooking. She encouraged me to believe I could succeed as a chef (Dad wanted me to do something more "worthwhile"), and whenever I use this steel I like to think of her looking over my shoulder.
Next to it on the bench I place my small and medium chef's knives— German, engraved with my initials, and polished with an occasional drop of camellia oil, as used by the Japanese; applying it makes me think of waxy blossoms and Madam Butterfly, or should that be La Traviata?
This excerpt ends on page 17 of the hardcover edition.
Monday we begin the book SHE DOESN'T HAVE A CLUE by Jenny Elder Moke.
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