‘But it’ll be a shortcrust pastry we’re making, so hopefully there won’t be too much flaking,’ he added.
‘Oh. OK. Bubble burst.’ She grinned, mimed popping a balloon, then was all business again. ‘Lovely to meet you, Tad. I’ll go let Billie know we’re all set. What time does our class start?’
‘Within reason it can be whenever suits Ms Forsythe-Rogers.’ He wondered if he should be more decisive, but the words were out, now. ‘Today it’s just your party having the extra lesson and you’re only responsible for the dessert. I’ve gone for a main course that isn’t time critical – flights can be delayed, so everything’s flexible. I’m ready when you are.’
‘Perfect. Thanks. I’ll let you know when she’s ready to get started. See you in a bit?’
‘I’ll be here,’ he said.
Amy paused again at the doorway leading to the reception, and the staircase to the guest rooms. Glancing back at him, she tilted her head. ‘Scottish, right?’ she said.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ he said.
Amy’s expression became neutral. ‘Hmmm.’
And with the non-word floating in the air, Amy was gone.
Did she have a problem with someone hailing from Scotland? To be honest the majority of Casa del Cibo’s clientele were from the UK and seemed to appreciate the ease with which they could communicate, even if there had been the standard jokes about understanding his Scottish accent. And it wasn’t as though his name wasn’t on the website – and while Tad could be mistaken for a nickname, there wasn’t much wriggle room with Campbell – it had an unmistakable Scottishness about it.
Tad shrugged – there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about any of that. The butter still needed weighing and portioning ready for the lesson, whatever the nationality of the person wielding the set of scales.
For Billie Forsythe-Rogers, the usual format of a stay at Casa del Cibo had been tailored to suit her requirements. Apparently, she wanted to hit the floor running, get cooking straight away. And so, while it was more usual for guests to be eased into the week with a champagne reception and a four-course meal – prepared by himself and sous-chef, Matteo, this time he was offering a mix-and-match meal. It was reminiscent of the soft opening of a restaurant, where the full menu was yet to be rolled out as everyone found their feet, but it should work. These guests were only making the pudding. And Tad would ensure he made enough to cover for any student disasters.
From tomorrow onwards the formal lessons would begin properly. A leisurely breakfast in Casa’s elegant breakfast room with its sunny yellow walls, bright drapery, locally sourced menu choices and tables grouped according to the bookings – to allow for a gentle start to the day for those who required it – would be followed mid-morning by a far more intense set of lessons. These tended to last a couple of hours, including coffee breaks, and culminating in the guests cooking everything they would then enjoy when they sat down to lunch. That first full lesson could be a bit of a bun fight as he gauged the guests’ abilities. By comparison, this evening should be a breeze. There were only a handful of them, and they were making nothing more demanding than lemon tarts – what could possibly go wrong?
* * *
Amy knew something was up before she’d even crested the staircase onto the first-floor landing. She could hear Billie shouting inside her room. A one-sided slanging match, so presumably a phone conversation. Amy pressed an ear to Billie’s door to try to get a clearer idea of what was happening, but she had a fair idea who it would be on the other end of the call.
The solid oak door didn’t give her a great deal more in the way of clarity. Billie’s tirade was muted, as though her indistinguishable words were being spoken underwater, but the inference behind them was clear. Amy swore silently. It was nobody’s business who Billie invited into her life, but ever since she’d fallen for the charms of Kelly Straker – household name singer-songwriter whose celebrity eclipsed Billie’s, as did his bad attitude – Amy’s boss had become increasingly challenging.
Amy pulled in a careful breath, aware she still had her shopping dangling from one hand as the cardboard bag from the lingerie boutique clanked against the door. Perhaps it was as well she didn’t have luggage to unpack – it looked as though it might be all hands on deck if Billie was upset. She wondered who had made the call. It would be so like Kelly to be stirring things, especially with this time-sensitive assignment barely underway.
A door opened behind her, and Amy startled away from Billie’s room, turning to see Malcolm exiting his.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked, moving close enough to favour Amy with a waft of his aftershave. Malcolm had managed to grab time for a shower and a shave, lucky sod.
She didn’t need to reply, his question irrelevant as another barrage of Billie’s supersonic shouting had him pressing his lips together, his shoulders dropping. They stood there, in the hallway, neither wanting to knock on Billie’s door, both fully aware someone was going to have to.
Standing like surplus extras on the fringes of a film set, Amy and Malcolm marked time, waiting for the furore behind Billie’s panelled oak door to subside sufficiently for the braver of them to check on her. Both had accompanied Billie on enough trips to know the wild spikes in temperature with which Billie could blow hot – and for that matter – cold. Sometimes what sounded similar to Armageddon turned out to be a minor scuffle, while a tiny disagreement could become enough to feed Billie’s emotions to the black dog. In short, Billie was complicated. This upset could turn out to be nothing, or it could derail the entire trip. And the only way to find out was to knock on her door.
As the noise died away, Malcolm hung back. Amy didn’t blame him.
‘Do you want to check on her?’ he said. ‘You’re better at this bit than I am.’
Amy gave him a wry smile. ‘Thanks so much for your vote of confidence.’
Malcolm shrugged. ‘I’ll only say the wrong thing. Thought I might scout out some suitable angles for outside shots of the building while we’ve still got the light.’
‘Coward,’ she said, only partly in jest.
‘Guilty as charged. I won’t be long.’ He waved his mobile phone at her. ‘Call me if… well, you know…’
Yes. She knew. Turning towards Billie’s door as Malcolm disappeared down the staircase, Amy sucked in a deep breath and knocked.
3
‘The last thing I want to do right now is any bloody cooking, Amy,’ Billie said as she yanked open her door.
