Recipe for Love

Recipe for Love - By Katie Fforde


Acknowledgements



Writers are like snowballs, they go through life picking up bits of knowledge – often without knowing they’re doing it. But there are several people who I know made real contributions to this book. In no particular order:

Elizabether Garret for Cliff Cottage which really helped to prevent deadline panic.

Judy Astley and Kate Lace, who helped Cliff Cottage with the deadline assistance.

Edd Kimber @theboywhobakes who was jolly helpful about cookery competitions.

Liz Godsell for telling me about cheese.

Heidi Cawley for telling me about delis, for making her own pancetta and for taking me shopping, also for learning about cupcakes with me.

Frank Fforde who helped with professional kitchen advice and for telling me you can make a quick custard with white chocolate.

Helen Child Villiers – Chepstow Cupcakes – who taught me how to make them and mocked my efforts

Molly Haynes, who, when I appealed on Twitter for a canapé recipe, responded with something truly delicious.

Karin Cawley, for producing bread pudding so delicious I had to put it in the book. She also produced Heidi, which was even more clever.

As always my wonderful husband and research assistant, Desmond Fforde, who continues to put up with me.

And not forgetting Briony Fforde who keeps me in order and makes me laugh. Nothing runs smoothly without laughter.





Chapter One





ZOE HARPER LAY ON the bank in the sun with her eyes closed, listening to a lark high above her. Nearer her ear she could hear the crackling of the grass and the buzzing of insects. The weather had been changeable recently in typical British-weather fashion, but today it was a perfect early summer’s day.

Warned that Sat Nav didn’t work in the area she’d allowed far too much getting-lost time and arrived far too early at the venue. She’d wondered if she was in the right place as the huge old mansion seemed to be undergoing some fairly major restoration, going by large sections of scaffolding and several contractors’ vans parked in the drive. Fenella Gainsborough, heavily pregnant, confirmed that she was, and, obviously not ready for her guests yet, had thrust a map into Zoe’s hands and sent her out for a walk. Zoe, relieved that she had reached her destination, was happy to leave her car and explore on foot. As none of the other contestants had arrived yet – they were not expected till the early evening – she’d set off alone.

Now she tried to relax but in spite of the sun on her eyelids she was finding it hard. Her walk from Somerby House had used up some of her nervous energy but she was still full of adrenalin. Excited about the impending cookery competition she’d been so thrilled to win a place on, she was also a bundle of nerves. It didn’t help that it was also being filmed, prior to being televised later in the year. Zoe consoled herself with the thought that at least it wasn’t going out live. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d made it through the rigorous selection process. She’d only entered on the insistence of her mother and her best friend, Jenny, but now, here she was in a field in the middle of nowhere feeling as if she was about to go to her execution. She sighed and stretched. She’d do better to breathe deeply and try and doze.

Just as the peace of the English meadow was finally beginning to work its magic she heard a car in the lane below her and was suddenly fully awake.

The car went past and then stopped. It had obviously reached the gate blocking the lane. Zoe had reached it herself about half an hour ago and had decided against climbing over it. A large notice saying ‘Trespassers keep out’ had helped her in her decision.

Zoe waited and then heard the car reverse throatily. It would have to reverse all the way back down the lane unless it was small, and it didn’t sound small. It stopped and she heard the gear change. Just as she realised what it intended, she sat up and started down the bank. There was a ditch, hidden by long grasses. She wouldn’t have found it herself if she hadn’t nearly stumbled into it.

Too late. By the time she had reached the lane, brushing bits of vegetation off her jeans, the car’s back wheel was hovering over the ditch. The front end was nearly in the ditch on the other side of the lane. The driver got out of the car and slammed the door.

‘Bloody stupid place to put a ditch,’ he growled.

He was a fairly impressive figure. Tall and broad with dark hair, he had the air of a person who was not accustomed to being thwarted by civil engineering.

Zoe wanted to laugh but managed to shrug instead. ‘A fairly usual place I’d have thought, by the side of the road, draining the water away.’

The man glared at her. ‘Don’t try and baffle me with logic. What am I going to do?’

It was probably a rhetorical question but Zoe, who was very literal-minded, said, ‘Call the AA, RAC, something like that?’

He scowled. ‘Do I look like the sort of man who’s a member of the AA?’

Zoe considered. She hadn’t thought there was a typical look to a member of a roadside rescue service but as she studied him more closely she noticed his curly, slightly too long hair was actually a very dark red. He had green eyes and curving mouth and a large, slightly hooked nose. She couldn’t decide if he was very handsome or really quite ugly, but she did have to admit he was extremely sexy. He looked like the kind of man who assumed he’d never break down.

‘What am I do to?’ he said, again rhetorically.

He triggered the devil in Zoe. She knew he was expecting her not to answer, or just to offer to go for help, but she decided to tease him. She felt slightly light-headed.

‘Well, there’re quite a lot of branches by the gate. Maybe we could pile them up under the wheel and you could reverse enough to turn.’ In spite of her desire to provoke him, it was a genuine suggestion.

‘You are a practical little thing, aren’t you?’ he said, making it seem as if it was bad to be practical, but he set off down the lane in the direction she’d pointed and then called imperiously over his shoulder. ‘Come on. I’ll need you.’

Infuriated at his manner – ‘little thing’? – yet pleased to be doing something active so her nerves about the upcoming competition could be worked off, Zoe followed him. But as she went she chided herself; this could get her into serious trouble.

She’d worked out who he was by now – who else would be so close to Somerby who wasn’t going there? And this man – arrogant and argumentative – had to be one of the judges. He could never be a mere contestant in a cookery competition. And as she knew the other judges by sight from their television appearances, this could only be Gideon Irving. He was a well-known name in the world of food, as a critic, food writer and entrepreneur. His writing style was acerbic and often cruel, but he loved to discover new chefs and had brought a lot of young talent to the notice of the restaurant-going public.

She hadn’t been exactly rude but she had leant a bit in that direction. She wouldn’t win the competition now. And wouldn’t being alone with one of the judges – however innocently – be against the rules? Why oh why hadn’t she just stayed lying in the grass, listening to the larks? She ran to catch him up.

They found some biggish logs as well as the branches. Some clearing had been done nearby, most of the tree trunks had been removed but quite a lot remained.

‘I’ll take some of the larger bits of timber and you bring what you can carry,’ he said.

She nodded and began gathering up the bits of birch, fir and beech that lay about.

‘If this doesn’t work,’ she said, finding it hard to keep up with him even though his arms were full of logs, ‘we could go to the house and ask them to send a tractor or something.’

‘We could,’ Gideon Irving agreed, ‘but we’ll try this first.’ He didn’t quite smile at her but the speculative look he shot her indicated he liked what he saw.

Zoe wasn’t her own biggest fan but her short, curly brown hair, small frame, pale skin and freckles hadn’t given her any complexes. She knew she could scrub up fairly well, only today she wasn’t scrubbed up at all. She was wearing her jeans, plimmies and a striped Breton top. She never wore much make-up but currently wasn’t wearing any. She had blue eyes and dark lashes, and knew her size made her look younger than twenty-seven.

‘OK.’

Together they piled the wood into the ditch, building a platform for the overhanging wheel. They didn’t speak much but Zoe was enjoying herself. She liked problem-solving and when she spotted some stones that had fallen out of a wall, went to get them.

Her thanks was a glance and a grunt but somehow she felt rewarded. He did have amazing eyes. She felt a flutter of excitement.

‘The question is, do we have to do this all over again in the other ditch?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. She had been considering this while she worked. ‘But now we’ve got the stones it won’t take so long.’

Zoe was filthy and fairly sweaty by the time they’d finished. He’d long since thrown off his jacket and his white T-shirt was covered in mud.

‘Can you drive?’ he demanded.

‘Yes.’

‘Follow simple instructions?’

‘Yes.’ Yet again, Zoe decided not to take offence. It was easier to just get in the car. Really, she wanted to laugh but sensed that would not be a good move. Men really didn’t like being laughed at when they were in trouble with their cars. She was no expert on men, but even she knew that.

The car smelt slightly of rather delicious cologne and leather upholstery. It had a dashboard which took a moment to understand.

He loomed over her as he spoke through the open window. ‘You accelerate – gently – and we’ll see what happens.’

Some moments and a fair amount of mud later, he came back to the window and scowled at her.

She smiled back sympathetically. ‘I can still walk back to the house and get help.’ Zoe looked up at him. He was sweating too now and a lock of hair was caught on his forehead.

He shook his head. ‘I’ll walk back if it comes to that.’ He paused, inspecting her, his gaze inscrutable. ‘Try reversing.’

It took quite a lot of backing and edging forward and ditch-filling but at last the car was turned round. Zoe felt she’d run a marathon. She got out and found she was trembling although she’d only been driving.

‘Well done,’ he said, and then smiled. She felt as if she’d just won Gold in the hundred metres.

‘Like a lift back to the house?’ He was still smiling.

‘Oh … yes,’ she said, unsure if her legs were shaking because of what she’d just been through or something else.

‘So get in then,’ he said when she didn’t move.

Somehow she made her body function and got in the car. Now the sharp smell of man overlaid the cologne and the leather. Zoe moistened her dry lips and looked firmly out of the passenger window. Being so close to him seemed almost too much although she wasn’t entirely sure why. He had a very unsettling effect on her. She wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not.

At the bottom of the long drive, he stopped the car. ‘Are you a contestant?’

She nodded. ‘Are you a judge?’ she asked although she knew the answer.

He nodded. ‘Better get out here then,’ he said.

‘Yup.’ She paused. ‘Maybe we’d better pretend we haven’t met before.’

‘If you like,’ he said, ‘but it won’t make any difference to how I judge you.’

‘Oh.’ She blushed. ‘Not that I thought it would. I just wanted to help.’

‘And you did.’ He almost smiled. ‘But it won’t make you win.’

‘I’ll get out now,’ said Zoe.

‘And I’ll have a drive around the lanes.’



Zoe walked up the hill to the house, her legs stiff after their exertion. Somerby was a big house, but not imposing. It was as friendly-looking as its owner had seemed on first meeting.

Brushing off flecks of mud and grass, she knocked on the front door and waited a little while for Fenella to answer. When she did, she didn’t seem very pleased to see her. Several dogs streamed out of the door and on to the grass in front of the house.

‘Oh! You’re back already!’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Zoe. ‘You said four o’clock before you wanted to see me again. And it’s four o’clock now.’

Fenella sighed and brushed her hair back from her face. ‘I would really like it to go on being two o’clock for a lot longer.’

Zoe laughed. ‘One of those days?’

Fenella nodded. ‘However hard you try to plan and prepare and make lists, some days just go wrong anyway.’

Zoe hovered on the doorstep. ‘Has anything in particular gone wrong?’

‘No, just nothing has gone particularly right.’ She sighed again. ‘It’s because Rupert – that’s my husband – is away.’

‘Bad timing!’

‘Yes! And I’ve got the judges’ tea to do and my careful plans for there to be a cake have gone wrong. I haven’t even got time to buy one now.’

‘Oh.’

Fenella held the door wider. ‘Do come in. None of this is your problem. I’m sure soggy digestive biscuits are just what snobby foody people like with their afternoon tea.’

‘Absolutely!’ Zoe agreed diplomatically.

‘We’re hoping to have a “restaurant with rooms” type thing in the barn. We might need the snobby foody people on our side.’ She paused for breath and looked at Zoe properly. ‘What happened to you? You look like you’ve been mud-wrestling!’

‘I know. I have. Well, sort of.’

Possibly sensing Zoe didn’t want to go into details Fenella went on, ‘Let me show you to your room so you can get cleaned up. Of course you know you have to share, but at least you’re in the grounds. Dogs!’

The small pack came lolloping into the house and Fenella led Zoe through the back and out across the courtyard to the converted cowshed where Zoe and another contestant were to be billeted. Not all of them could be accommodated at Somerby: some were in local B and Bs. The cowshed was charming and had a wood-burning stove, a little cooker, a dinky sofa and a double bed. A single bed had been squeezed in, presumably for the sake of the contestants. ‘You’re here first,’ said Fenella, ‘so you get the double bed!’

‘Fab! But a shower first, I think.’

Fenella said, ‘It’s through there. Do you mind if I don’t show you? I’ve got this bloody tea to sort out.’

Zoe sensed that Fenella didn’t usually swear about small things – she must be really panicking. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘why don’t I shower and change and then come and make you some scones or something? What time are they coming?’

Fenella looked at her watch. ‘In three-quarters of an hour. No time to make anything.’ She sighed. ‘A girlfriend from the village was coming up with a cake. I had it all organised but one of her children is ill and she can’t leave him.’

‘I’ll just wash my hands and come. Scones don’t take that long.’

Fenella made a face that was intended to be firm and denying but ended up pleading. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that!’

‘You didn’t and I’d rather be active. It was only when I got here – the first time – that I realised how absolutely terrified I am of this whole competition thing.’ She meant it: she’d always hated exams but at least exams didn’t involve television cameras. ‘I’ll be better if I’m doing something.’

‘So I’d be doing you a favour letting you help?’

Zoe chuckled. ‘Sort of. Although I suppose I’d better find something clean to put on.’

‘I’ll lend you one of Rupert’s shirts. I’ve been living in them. They’ll cover you better than operating theatre scrubs.’

After dumping her rucksack Zoe followed Fenella back to the main house. She noted a few ladders leaning up against random walls and that quite a bit of work still needed to be done on some of the outhouses, but it was all very picturesque. Somerby itself would be a beautiful backdrop to the competition and it was a very photogenic time of year.

‘This is probably horribly against the rules,’ said Fenella after she’d found flour, butter and eggs for Zoe. ‘We’d better not tell anyone. I mean if the judges found out that they were eating your scones and they were delicious—’

‘Which they will be. Baking is my speciality.’

‘—it would look like we were trying to give you an advantage or something.’

Zoe nodded. ‘I agree. I just won’t let anyone see me.’

Fenella suddenly looked doubtful again. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Oh yes! Doing something practical is so much better than sitting around chewing my nails.’ Or helping stranded motorists, however attractive, she thought. ‘I know what I’m doing in a kitchen with a bit of flour and a half-decent oven.’



The scones were too hot to fill with jam and cream so they were in separate bowls on the laden tray. Fenella had wanted to do this but Zoe – her knowledge of pregnancy sketchy – felt she knew enough to insist carrying heavy trays up flights of stairs wasn’t a good idea. She’d carry them up and then retreat to the kitchen and let Fenella face the judges. That way she should avoid being seen.

She was just setting things out before going back down for extra hot water when she heard voices and knew she was about to get caught.

She had a moment of panic but then she calmed down. Unless it was Gideon Irving she’d be fine. She wouldn’t make eye contact, she’d whisk out of the room before anyone took in what she looked like.

As the voices got nearer she realised it wouldn’t be quite that simple.

‘Got stuck in a bloody ditch,’ said a gravelly voice she knew quite well now. ‘Luckily a passing rambler helped me out.’

She turned her head away and carried on putting out plates, setting cups on their saucers on the little table in the window. She was swathed in white poplin, courtesy of Rupert, and doubted if she would be recognised. People didn’t recognise others if they didn’t expect to see then.

‘Yes,’ Gideon went on, ‘she was only a slip of a thing but could drive a car and heft logs like a weightlifter.’

Zoe felt herself blush at the back-handed compliment. She doubted Gideon would say that to her face.

‘So who was she again?’ The other male judge, an amiable chef who went into housewives’ kitchens and taught them how to make gravy, moved towards the table.

‘Just someone on a walk. I don’t see the point of walking myself, if you don’t need to get anywhere.’

Thankfully, Fenella then appeared and said, ‘Help yourselves to tea, gentlemen.’

Zoe scuttled away, muttering, ‘I’ll just get some hot water.’

Zoe had had a Saturday job in a café for years and was quite happy dealing with customers. What she wasn’t so happy about was trying not to be seen. She didn’t do subterfuge and now she had two secrets – both because she couldn’t help being helpful. Her mother had said she’d been born with a helpful gene. It was a virtue really, but just now it seemed like a vice.

Just as Zoe was about to return with the hot water, Fenella reappeared. ‘Oh thank you,’ she said. ‘Would you mind taking it up? I don’t think anyone noticed you, did they?’

She was about to say that Gideon might but then remembered Fenella wasn’t to know that she and Gideon had already met – and Fenella was pregnant. She didn’t have a choice. She took the jug. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘Now what do you have to do, Fen?’ she asked when she got back again. (Fenella had insisted Zoe call her Fen, saying no one called her Fenella unless they were cross with her.) Luckily Gideon and the other judge had been too deep in conversation to notice her. She was enjoying herself. She knew the nerves she’d been keeping at bay would come flooding back the moment she returned to her room. This had been just the distraction she’d needed.

Fenella sighed. ‘Oh, nothing much at all. Put some spuds into the Aga for supper. You’re all going to the pub to eat and the judges and telly people are eating here. Then there’s the official meeting afterwards? Or before.’ She frowned. ‘Honestly, the production company is dreadfully bossy. I gave them some names of lovely local taxi drivers but no, they had to get people down from London to do it. Mad!’

She pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead, making Zoe long to lend her a hair slide. ‘Anyway, I’m now cooking for the scary judges and the local pub, who is quite used to doing this, is cooking for you lot.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s Rupert’s fault. He told the TV people it’s easier to cook for six than twelve, but it’s become more than six with all the producers and things.’ She paused. ‘And he should be back to help with it. The stew’s done already. I just have to do the veg really.’ She leant against the kitchen table. ‘You can imagine how nerve-racking it is, cooking for famous chefs and a food critic.’

‘I can imagine it only too well, considering that’s what this competition is all about.’ Zoe thought Fenella looked really tired and, seeing her put her hand on her stomach, wondered if she was all right. ‘Supposing Rupert isn’t back in time?’

‘I’m sure he will be.’ She didn’t sound very sure.

Zoe made a decision. Fenella – whom she’d liked from the start – needed her. ‘I’ll prep the potatoes for you. What veg are you having?’

‘Things out of the garden: baby broad beans, some cabbage – and some asparagus from down the road. It’s all local stuff.’

‘Are you doing a starter?’

‘Soup. Rupert has made it all as easy as possible.’

‘So, do you want me to help?’

Fen chewed her lip and sighed. She fiddled with a pen out of a pot on the kitchen table. Indecision was written all over her. ‘Only if Rupert doesn’t turn up. You do have to be at your dinner. I’ve seen your schedule. It’s for briefing, getting to know each other, vital stuff.’ She paused. ‘But if Rupert isn’t here it would be wonderful if you could just help in the beginning.’ Fenella smiled. ‘The minibus isn’t collecting you until eight. My dinner is at seven thirty.’

‘So in theory I could get the stuff upstairs for you and then dash down in time to get on the bus.’

Fenella nodded. ‘When we’ve got the dining room restored we’ll have a dumb waiter for me to put things on but as it’s not such a nice room we haven’t done it yet.’

‘Well, I don’t mind being the dumb waiter.’

Fenella gave a half-smile and lowered herself into a chair. ‘I know I shouldn’t say yes,’ she said, ‘but I can’t seem to help myself.’ She put on a fierce expression. ‘And I know perfectly well you’re putting off thinking about the competition by rushing round being helpful.’

Zoe sat down next to her. ‘I know.’

‘I wouldn’t normally beat myself up about accepting help but if you’re breaking some rule or other you could ruin your chances of winning it. You might even be thrown out before you start!’

‘But we don’t know it’s against any rule, and no one will notice, I’m sure. I got away with it at the tea, didn’t I?’ She giggled. ‘I could wear an apron and a little mob cap, as disguise.’

‘Don’t joke about it!’ said Fenella. ‘I happen to have those very items! We did an Edwardian Tea last year and we all dressed up as maids.’

Zoe laughed. ‘I’ll do the spuds now and clean the other veg and then I suppose I’d better settle in over the road.’

‘Your room-mate is there. She came while you were upstairs.’

‘Oh, what’s she like?’

‘Very glam. I hope you put your bag on the double bed!’