Then, there’s the appointments. Liam needs to go to the hairdresser and Lexi has another trip to the orthodontist, which I’m not looking forward to, especially since the last time when I, jokingly, remarked to the dental assistant at the outside desk that I’d have to sleep with the orthodontist instead of paying because it was all so expensive.
Something dropped in the inner office where the orthodontist worked. The nurse went whiter than her lab coat. He’d clearly heard.
‘It was a joke,’ I said feebly.
I mean, come on, how could thatnotbe a joke?
Sometimes my mouth gets me into trouble.
I must have said that last bit out loud because Lorraine laughs.
‘Yeah, that mouth gets you into trouble,’ she agrees.
‘Kick me when I’m down, why don’t you?’
Lorraine laughed her evil cackle. It’s exactly the same noise Teddy makes when she’s planning mischief.
‘Sorry, Freya, but you’d be lost without me.’
‘I know, you’re brilliant. But too sassy.’
‘Pot. Kettle. Black,’ she shoots back.
‘Do you want to come out to the house this morning and see what it’s like? There’s a lovely coffee shop around the corner. So Italian, you’ll adore it. It’s run by these two fabulous guys, one of whom pretends to be Italian, but we are not telling anyone that. We’re all just going along with it because it makes him happy.’
Lorraine isn’t a bit fazed by this unusual concept.
‘Sounds great,’ she said, ‘I can do pretend Italian as well as the rest of them.Spaghetti alle Vongole,Frittelle di Mele, that sort of thing.’
‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘If you’re here for twelve, we can go in just before the lunchtime rush and have coffee and one of their beautiful cakes.’
Normally, I’d bake but I am not up to cooking today. I don’t say that in the last four months, my cooking brain seems to have abandoned me. I feel sure that Lorraine has already figured this out and is saying nothing. I am supposed to be working up recipes for a cookbook for which I’ve already been paid a signature advance. Which means I’ve been given some of the money up front and have done none of the work.
Stress number one.
Some of these unwritten/untested recipes will go in to the TV show I’m booked to film in the autumn, for which I have also been given a signature fee. Stress number two.
None of these projects will happen if I can’t get out of the quicksand of my own head.
Lorraine keeps going: ‘I’ll send over all the emails and a list of what we have to do. Now we need your autograph on a few books from the publishers and we’ve got a demo on Saturday in two weeks with that special tasting festival.’
‘Oh,’ I wince.
It’s in West Cork, a place I adore, but I feel a little fragile at the moment, not really able to go anywhere and it’s a long enough drive.
Stop being a wimp. This is your job and you need the money.
Shut up, Mildred.
‘OK, put it all down on the list. Will you drive this time?’
‘Sure,’ she says. There’s a pause. ‘You could talk me through the recipe ideas you have for the new book,’ she says gently.
I can feel my eyes narrow. Thinking of what I need to do but haven’t puts me on a stress level from hell.
‘Do you have a psychic granny hidden away in the cupboard?’ I ask grimly.
‘No, I’m just the person who sees all the recipes you write down in the middle of the night that you send to yourself to remind you. And if I don’t see them, I know they’re not happening. Also Nina wants a meeting about your social media. Acatch-up.’
