Amy nodded. She’d visited Nanna Gold in their local hospital. It hadn’t been much fun. Hugh looked so concerned, it bit at Amy. If she could help, why wouldn’t she?
She had managed to take copious voice notes as the day had progressed, recording anything she considered useful from the places they’d toured, so she could make up the notes at a later date, if necessary.
But would Tad even want assistance from one of the cookery school students?
Amy wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the evening working in such close proximity to a man who had made it blatantly clear he was only interested in whoever could further his career, that he was prepared to ‘look after’ Billie, if it got him what he wanted from their stay. After feeling such a pull to him it stung at Amy, as did the audacity with which he’d informed Billie that he didn’t like Amy’s hair because it was too long. As if her hairstyle choice had anything to do with him. Who made him the autocrat of hair? What an arse.
But Amy would be lying if she didn’t admit that she never felt more at home than she did when she was surrounded by ingredients for a wonderfully tasty dish, and it was down to her to turn the former into the latter. The idea of being able to spend hours creating something delicious for people to enjoy was like catnip. Irresistible.
Hugh sighed, looking every bit of his eighty years as he rested a hand on a convenient side table and sagged.
‘Listening to Matteo took me right back to being in Brian’s hospice, Amy. I have no idea how close he is to his grandmother – close enough, if the lad’s red-rimmed eyes were any indication – but he should be with his family; he should be with his grandmother while there’s still time. Afterwards is always going to be too late.’
Hugh folded onto the lounger beside hers, his expression brightening as he said, ‘It’s not like we haven’t all noticed how you’re always miles ahead of the rest of the class. I just thought…’
Amy smiled. ‘I’m not sure being a decent student is the same thing as being a good chef, you know.’
‘I wouldn’t normally be so presumptuous – if I’ve made you feel pressured, please know that’s the last thing I wanted. I understand you’re already here for work. I’m sure Tad will cope on his own.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘Please, forget I asked…’
It was hard to shake the feeling she was being manipulated, but Amy decided there were worse ways she could spend her time than assisting in a professional kitchen.
‘Listen, I’m not sure Tad will even want my help. We haven’t got off to the best of starts. But if it makes you feel happier, I’ll go and ask him.’
Hugh smiled. ‘Amy, you are a treasure. I’m so relieved to know my supper will be in such safe hands.’
And so it was that Amy found herself in the professional kitchen a while later, reporting for duty with hair still wet from her hurried shower and plaited to cause least offence, her cookery school apron cinched around her waist.
A prickle of nerves crawled up her spine as her arrival had Tad turning, even though she knew he was expecting her. Even though he’d seemed more than amenable to her offer of help earlier.
‘Hi, Tad. I’m ready for action. What can I help you with?’
His expression gave nothing away; if anything he now looked annoyed at having her in his space. Which didn’t make sense, because it had been him who had assured her that her offer of help was appreciated in a brief conversation they’d had earlier. It made Amy bristle in return.
‘I hope my hair is OK like this – I tied it back so there’s no chance of it getting in the food. Is a plait good enough, or do you need me to wear one of those blue net hats, to be sure it’s all out of the way? I draw the line at cutting it off, I’m afraid.’
He looked momentarily confused, then assured her it was fine as it was. Then he said, ‘Main course tonight is aubergineparmigiana. Have you ever made it?’
Amy did her best not to scrunch up her nose at the mention of aubergine. There wasn’t much she didn’t enjoy eating, but alongside celery, aubergine had to rank as one of her least favoured foodstuffs. Now was probably not the best time to say as much, though. ‘Afraid not. What is it?’
‘A bit like lasagne, but instead of pasta sheets, you use aubergine. What about focaccia?’
‘I made sourdough during lockdown,’ she said, frowning when Tad raised his eyebrows.
‘I think most people had a go at that, didn’t they?’
Amy crossed her arms. Maybe this had been a mistake. ‘I’ve never made focaccia, sorry. And I’m only here because Hugh seemed concerned that you couldn’t cope on your own. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with, sorting my notes from today.’
‘So why did you offer to help?’ he said, crossing his arms to match hers. Amy couldn’t fail to see the swirl of his tattoo, possibly the wing of a bird, as the sleeve of his chef’s jacket rode up his arm. And much as she tried to deny it, her pulse quickened as she wondered what else was inked on his body.
‘I’m beginning to ask myself the same question,’ she said. ‘Why did you agree to my helping you if you’re fine on your own?’
‘I didn’t say some help wouldn’t be appreciated.’
‘And what’s wrong with sourdough? I like it,’ she said, her tone spiralling in annoyance.
‘There’s nothing wrong with sourdough. But as breads go it seems to have taken over the world. There are so many other fantastic ones that never get a look-in. Never mind ciabatta and panini – have you ever tried pane Toscano, or pane di Matera? A freshly baked stick of grissini? And what about sweet breads? There’s Maritozzi…’
He sighed, then shook his head. ‘Sorry. Bit obsessed by bread… Can we start again? I didn’t mean to come across as ungrateful for your offer because the truth is I’d love you to lend a hand, if you still want to. I’ve already made the focaccia dough; it’s proving over there, and it would be great if you could go into the gardens and grab some rosemary from the herb border. We’ll need it to go on the bread before it goes in the oven, in…’ he checked the clock as he pulled the back door wide for her and handed her a pair of scissors ‘…in about ten minutes.’
