A Brambleberry Manor Christmas - Rosie Green Page 0,1
altogether. I’m so glad I had the good sense to take on Florence Baxter a month ago, as my assistant. It’s a move I haven’t regretted – even more so with the house party to cater.
Unlike me, Flo is a party animal, out all the time. I think it’s a reaction to the fact that she and her husband, Ed, split up six months ago. They’d been together since school days and had two children in quick succession. Both girls are grown up and living in London with families of their own. And now, at the age of forty-two, Flo seems hell bent on living the hectic social life she missed out on in her twenties. She often looks rough in the mornings, but it never seems to interfere with her work. She’s calm, kind and very practical. And she can cook, which helps. Plus she can be really funny. She’ll keep me smiling this week, I’m sure…
I take the next speed bump more slowly, glancing anxiously at tonight’s dessert under the Perspex dome. It’s a white chocolate roulade; a light meringue, crunchy on the outside, lovely and gooey on the inside, all rolled up with a filling of black cherries and whipped cream. Once safely in Marjery’s big draughty kitchen, I’ll drizzle it with white chocolate, and shake icing sugar over it before serving.
I pondered for ages over the menu for the first night. I wanted to make an impression…especially knowing how much of a stickler my client is for things done precisely and perfectly!
It was Fen, my old school friend, who recommended me to her mum, Marjery, and I’ve been liaising with her over the menus. I’d lost touch with Fen, but we met up again when she was a guest at the wedding of a client of mine last month. Fen loved the food and asked if I’d be interested in a catering job at Brambleberry Manor, and being keen to boost the business, I said yes immediately. Much of my work was coming to me via word of mouth, so cooking for a larger number of guests than usual might well spread the word further.
Now, I glance at my lovely meringue roulade. I’ve got a lot to prove to Marjery – and to myself – and if anything happens to spoil that dessert, I will seriously weep. (I considered strapping it in with the car safety belt but then I thought that even for me, that would be just a little over-cautious.)
I’m meeting Marjery for just the second time at ten o’clock this morning. I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s a quarter to ten, and I’m hoping to see Fen first and get my dessert stowed carefully out of harm’s way in one of the big fridges.
I’ve been to the house once before, to chat to Fen about the food for the event, so I know to park around the back, in the little courtyard.
Getting out of the car, I try to examine my reflection in the wing mirror, leaning close to check my make-up and studying my crisply-ironed white shirt once more for smudges. Tavie threw a yogurt spoon into the sink, where I was washing some mugs just before leaving, but I think I managed to leap away from the splash in time.
My heart squeezes at the thought of my step-daughter.
Once, we were friends. I came into her life when she was eleven, and I became a bit like a second mum to her. Not that I’d ever dream of usurping her real mum Vivian’s place in her life. But the easy relationship between Tavie and I vanished after her dad died, and now it’s as if we live separate lives. I’ve tried so many times but she refuses to let me in. Her resentment of me runs too deep…
But I can’t afford to dwell on that now. I’ve got a business appointment to keep.
Round at the front door, I find the doorbell and ring it, hearing the stately ding-dong echo deep inside the building. Waiting there, I imagine Fen upstairs in her bedroom, having to run along endless corridors and all the way down the grand main staircase to get to the front door.
My tight black pencil skirt is rucked up in creases beneath my caramel-coloured coat, and I try my best to straighten it. In the kitchen tonight, Flo and I will be wearing something smart but comfortable – black trousers and a plain black top – but for