Fiona Gibson - The Woman Who Upped and Left - A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!

‘Probably none,’ I reply tersely, ‘and it’s not a baking course. It’s classic French cookery—’

‘You’ve gone mad,’ he mutters.

‘Yes, I probably have.’

He pauses. ‘So anyway, what about my T-shirt?’

‘Sorry, but I can’t operate the washing machine from here. It’s not remote controlled. Much as I’d love to keep on top of all our domestic concerns from 200 miles away, it’s not actually possible to …’ I break off as the man catches up with me and we fall into step.

‘Mum?’

‘Just a minute,’ I hiss.

‘But I don’t know how …’

‘For God’s sake, Morgan. There’s a door at the front. You know the round bit you can see through? Open it and put your T-shirt in. Then open the little drawer at the top and put in some powder …’

‘Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear—’

‘I’m not whispering …’

‘Speak up!’

‘ Put-powder-in-the-little-drawer ,’ I bark, at which the man raises a brow in amusement.

‘Where is it?’

‘For goodness’ sake! It’s the big white appliance, the one that’s not the freezer, the one that doesn’t have peas in it …’

‘I mean the powder —’

‘Cupboard under the sink,’ I growl. There’s some urgent rummaging, then the machine door is slammed shut. Hope he hasn’t broken it.

‘Now what?’ Morgan huffs.

‘Select the programme,’ I instruct him as, mercifully, the man seems to understand that I require privacy and strides ahead. ‘That’s the round dial with numbers on at the top,’ I add. ‘30 degrees is probably best. Nothing bad ever happens at that temperature. Okay now?’

I hear clicking noises. ‘Nothing’s happening.’

‘Have you turned it on?’

‘God, Mum, why does it have to be so complicated …’

‘There’s an on button,’ I snap. ‘It’s not complicated. Just press the damn thing …’

‘How am I s’posed to know …’

‘You should know,’ I retort, far too loudly for the tranquil surroundings, ‘because I gave you that washing machine tutorial, remember? I showed you the dial and the little drawer but you wouldn’t pay attention. You wandered off to get ice cream …’

‘It really wasn’t that interesting,’ Morgan mutters.

‘No, I suppose it wasn’t, but what if I’d been teaching you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and you’d wandered off then, more interested in stuffing your face full of Ben & Jerry’s than saving a life?’

He splutters. ‘All right, all right! No need to go off on one. I was only asking …’ Now he sounds genuinely upset. I stop on the path, breathing slowly, and watch a squirrel scampering up a tree.

‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to sound so snappy.’

‘Yeah, well, I was only asking for a bit of help.’

Guilt niggles in my stomach. ‘Yes, I know. Look, I suppose I’m just a bit nervous about this whole hotel thing, okay? And I know I shouldn’t have just left like that, without saying goodbye …’ I trot up the wide stone steps and enter the hotel’s revolving doors. In the enormous foyer, the posh car man is waiting to be attended to at reception.

‘S’all right,’ Morgan mumbles.

‘I love you, darling.’

‘Love you too,’ he says grudgingly.

‘Did you enjoy the cakes?’

‘Haven’t tried them yet, had other stuff on my mind …’

I smile. ‘Like your T-shirt.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you managed to start the washing machine yet?’

‘Nah. Think something’s wrong with it …’

I inhale deeply and murmur, ‘Just hand-wash it, darling,’ and finish the call.

An elderly couple drift away from the desk, and the receptionist beams expectantly. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Erm, I think this man was first …’ I indicate the stranger, noting his soft grey eyes and the dark lashes around them. He has that bone structure thing going on: strong nose, defined jawline and chin. Bet he’s the sort who knows about wine and whirls it around and sniffs it instead of tipping it straight down his neck.

‘No, no, after you,’ he says graciously.

‘Oh, thank you.’ I pull my case towards the desk.

‘Do you have a reservation?’ The receptionist’s glossy black hair is tucked behind her dainty ears, and she has the kind of bright, white teeth that make ordinary un-veneered ones – the kind everyone used to have, perfectly serviceable teeth – look like trowels in comparison.

‘I’m Audrey Pepper,’ I say. ‘I’m here for the cookery course …’

She blinks at me. ‘The residential?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

There’s an almost imperceptible frown as she starts tapping away at her keyboard, still seeming unsure and perhaps suspecting that I’m trying to sneak my way in. ‘Ah, yes.’ Her pencilled brows shoot up. ‘Here you are. Oh, you’re in the honeymoon suite! It’s beautiful. I do hope you like it …’

‘I’m sure I will.’

‘If you could just complete this form …’

‘Yes, of course …’ I fill in my details and hand it back to her.

‘And if I could just take an imprint of a credit or debit card please …’ A wave of panic rushes over me as I rummage through my purse.

‘It 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 ?’