Red Dirt Duchess Page 12

  The wedding planner looked her up and down and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we need a professional.’

  ‘Right, then. I’m sure you’ll find one in the village,’ Jon added. ‘Come on, Charlie, we’re off to Stonehenge.’

  But what about Desiree and Keith? What about their wedding? Charlie stood her ground. ‘I’ve catered lots of events in Australia,’ she said, sick of these people looking down on her.

  The wedding planner looked doubtful. ‘Thank you, but I couldn’t ask a guest of the family to do that. What about the butler? Can’t he cook?’

  ‘You want him to wear livery and cook? Even we can’t get away with that,’ said Jon drily. He grabbed Charlie’s hand and addressed the room. ‘Good luck. We’ll see you all later.’

  Charlie pulled her hand away from his. Diana, Sarah and Jeremy exchanged quick glances.

  ‘What options do you have? A couple is getting married in your home, and you couldn’t care less what happens,’ Charlie said, shaking her head.

  Jon regarded her thoughtfully, interest sparking in his eyes. ‘You’re right. Not only are you the only person who seems to care, but I’d bet you’re the only person here capable of producing more than a boiled egg.’

  The wedding planner chewed her lip. ‘I’ve rung every major caterer in London. We’ve offered to fly one down in a helicopter but it seems the potential damage to their reputation far outweighs any financial benefit I can offer.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘You’ve really catered events before?’

  ‘I’ve been in the hospitality business for nearly ten years,’ Charlie boasted and out the corner of her eye she saw Jon’s lips quirk. She lifted her chin and fixed her gaze on the other woman. ‘But every second we stand here, we’re wasting precious time.’

  The wedding planner gave her a long level look then sighed. ‘Okay, let’s do it. Follow me.’

  As Charlie started to follow, Jon fell in by her side. ‘I think I may be able to help.’

  They pushed through the dark-coloured door at the end of the hall with Barker bringing up the rear. Jon leaned in close. ‘Just what have you catered?’ he whispered.

  She kept her gaze straight ahead, her voice low. ‘The Annual Bindundilly Cup. Biggest race meeting in five hundred square kilometres. I always close the pub that day so we can do the catering.’

  ‘Ah.’ His eyes lit up. ‘And just what do you serve at the Bindundilly Cup?’

  ‘We usually do a sausage sizzle.’ She clattered down the stairs behind the planner, her shoes noisy on the bare wood.

  ‘And what, may I ask, is a sausage sizzle?’

  ‘Big stack of buttered bread, with sausages and fried onions on a hotplate. You add your own tomato sauce or mustard. Everyone loves it and it’s easy to hold in one hand when you’ve got a beer in the other,’ Charlie explained.

  He burst out laughing. ‘That’s a relief. I was worried you weren’t qualified.’

  He might laugh, but 800 sausages to be fried, 200 onions to be sliced and forty loaves of bread to be buttered was no mean feat. She stopped so abruptly that he ran into the back of her. She turned with an acidic look. He was still laughing, his eyes crinkled.

  ‘Don’t worry, it will be all right. I know I’m going to have to draw on expertise far more sophisticated than anything required in Bin.’

  ‘One thing I can guarantee, my darling Charlie,’ he said as he wrapped an arm about her shoulders, ‘this will beat Stonehenge hands down.’

  The kitchens were vast dominated by a large fireplace over which a row of gleaming copper pans hung in rows. At one side of the fireplace sat a deep armchair with a small table beside it, a far cry from the icy formality of the sitting room. Was this where Barker relaxed until a bell rang and someone upstairs wanted something they could just as easily fetch themselves? It shocked her that it was along those endless corridors that he carried tea trays, or was summoned to answer the front door.

  The air was laced with the smell of exotic ingredients, which had no doubt been designed to go together in complex dishes. She wasn’t entirely sure she was up to it, but someone had to have a go, didn’t they? They couldn’t all stand around looking as helpless as Diana, Sarah and Jeremy.

  Jon had the air of a child strapping in for an amusement-park ride, equal parts terror and excited anticipation. His mood had lifted, as though something strange and thrilling was about to happen.

  A huge pine table had been shoved back against one wall and two long rows of gleaming stainless steel workbenches were positioned down the middle of the room. Towering stacks of white plates stood on trolleys at the end of each bench, and a bank of hired warming ovens flanked the rear wall.

  Three cooks wearing black and white checked trousers, white overalls and black caps were stacking carry trays of food on a portable table. Outside, a refrigerated truck was being used for cold storage.

  ‘So who’s in charge here?’ Charlie asked.

  One of the men turned. ‘I guess I am.’

  ‘So what is it you won’t do?’ Charlie asked. She grabbed an apron from a pile and put the loop over her head.

  ‘Listen, love. We just warm and cook the food, but Prue always finishes the plating. She’s renowned for her presentation.’

  ‘Well, it seems Prue has a problem right now. Couldn’t you do it?’

  The assistant folded his arms. ‘She arranged it with the bride. Everyone’s look is different, and it’s a close secret right up till serving.’ He turned away with a sniff. ‘These bloody women can’t just get married like normal people.’

  Jon was tying the strings of her apron, his hands firm at her back.

  ‘Well, can’t you improvise?’ Charlie asked. What was wrong with these people?

  ‘More than my job’s worth, love. I get a list and I cook it. If she wants 300 fillets, I do it. But she does all the decoration. What she has in there,’ he nodded towards several large stainless steel boxes, ‘is her business. Like a sorcerer’s cave, they are. Anyway, buggered if I’ll be the chef who stuffed up Desiree bleeding Walton’s wedding.’

  Charlie gave him a dark look. He wouldn’t last long in Bindundilly. And suddenly she found herself missing Rhonda and the pub. A simple, uncomplicated existence where no one worried about stepping over perceived borders and just jumped in and did what needed to be done.

  ‘Okay, so no help here, obviously. We’re dealing with monkeys,’ she muttered. ‘I’d better talk to this Prue and see what she had in mind.’

  Barker held open the door to a small hallway. ‘Last door on the left, miss.’

  She hurried along a dreary corridor lined with old servants’ bells with Jon behind, the wedding planner in the rear. They reached the end door just in time to hear the toilet flush. The door opened and a pale-faced woman stood there, slightly bent, her hand clutching her stomach. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her brow as her feverish eyes met Charlie’s.

  Charlie stepped back, horrified. ‘Oh, you poor thing.’

  ‘I need to get back to the kitchen,’ she groaned.

  The wedding planner stepped forward. ‘No, you don’t. The food not being right is one thing, but 300 guests, most of them celebrities, falling ill is another.’

  ‘Tell me what needs to be done with the presentation,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Who are you?’ Prue leaned against the door, rubbed her stomach and groaned.

  ‘Never mind. Just tell me,’ Charlie urged. ‘There’s no one else. Your “chefs” refuse to do anything.’

  ‘Bastards.’ Prue pulled herself together. ‘Mushroom foam on the sformato, porcini dust to the side – there’s a stencil for that. Mirepoix of celeriac, fennel and bottarga on the fish with lettuce butter sauce – nozzle number three with a toothpick to form a napoleon spiral in the sauce. Borage flowers on the salad. Smear the beetroot paste on the plates with the beef. The caramelised-onion wafers need to be layered on top in the shape of a …’ the blood drained from her face as she started to breathe shallowly, fighting to co
ntinue. ‘In the shape of a … a … aaaaaghhhh …’

  The door slammed in their faces and they waited a minute until a toilet flushed. When it opened, Prue peered out. ‘And crystallised violets on the chocolate fondants.’

  As they hurried back to the kitchen, Charlie turned to Jon and whispered, ‘What’s a sformato?’

  Behind her the wedding planner groaned. ‘We’re all ruined.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Charlie pulled a bag of herbs towards her and the scent of parsley, chervil and tarragon drifted up, reminding her of the past. What had Prue said? Was the mushroom foam on the beef or on the sformato? There was no time to check now that the pressure was on. The plates on the stainless bench were being pushed towards her, each with a small, delicate savoury pudding she’d since learned was the sformato, sitting in the middle. Bain-maries of sauces, bags of herbs, implements and foam dispensers were all lined up and ready. Waiting for her to do something. She sucked in a nervous breath and chewed on her lip.

  A bank of waiters wearing crisp white shirts and black waistcoats and trousers stood by the door that led to a long corridor and then into the Great Hall, where the reception was being held. She could practically see them nudging each other, whispering that it was bound to be a disaster. All afternoon the sound of choppers overhead had ratcheted the tension to an unbearable level.

  Jon stood beside her. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he murmured. ‘I’m your slave for the day. Just tell me what to do.’

  ‘Hold that thought. I may take you up on it.’

  Fire spiked in his eyes and she held his gaze a few beats before turning back to the bench. She closed her eyes, trying to remain calm, and a vision of her mother swam into view.

  ‘Food is art, darling. And love.’ Maddie would stand in the kitchen, sometimes swaying, a joint in one hand and a wine glass in the other. ‘It’s really no use working out how to present it till it’s right in front of you and you work out what it needs. Until it speaks to you. Anyway, let’s make this food look amazing.’

  Then she’d wander out to the garden, snipping loose herbs and flower petals. Back in the kitchen, she’d lift her hands high and let them shower down, falling in soft, random drifts on the plates. Such plates. Huge, haphazardly glazed platters handmade by friends without a perfect edge on any of them, they were the perfect background for Maddie’s creativity. Petals would be selected for contrast and beauty, pomegranate seeds scattered like jewels, exotic spices sprinkled like light rain. All that mattered was beauty and simplicity.

  I can do this, Maddie; I have to. For Desiree Walton. For Jon. Even for this batshit crazy family of his.

  The answer came: Keep it simple. Make it beautiful. She opened her eyes and turned to Jon. ‘Okay, we’re going in. Let’s get something happening here for Desiree bloody Walton.’

  Over the next two hours she hardly had time to think. The plates kept coming, the white ones for the sformato replaced by black ones for the fish. Back to white for the beef. And with every new course, new decisions.

  At some stage she moved beyond Prue’s supplies and ransacked the kitchen for anything else that might be of use, surprised at just what was stashed in the pantry. She’d sent Jon into the garden with a pair of kitchen scissors for the tiny rosehips she’d seen earlier in the day, and as the door opened the sound of the tattoo swirled into the kitchen from the other side of the house. She wondered if Vera was standing alone, watching from the oriel window.

  And almost the whole time Jon was there, handing her towels and implements, expertly cleaning the rims of plates and keeping her water bottle filled. Occasionally he’d step in like a theatre nurse in a TV drama and mop her brow with a paper towel.

  Now, they were on the home straight. The dinner plates had come back from the dining room and the waiters were smiling. Music from the Great Hall reverberated through the ancient timber, making the old house tremble.

  Charlie rolled a chilled, plastic bottle of water across her forehead and leaned back against the bench. One more course to go, and that was easy. Jon had his head in the fridge, fossicking for something. He straightened and called out, ‘There must be a decent bottle of champagne here somewhere, Barker.’

  In a crazy sort of way it had been fun. After the initial nervousness, they’d worked side by side, quickly setting up a rhythm. They’d abandoned the stencils and Napoleon swirls, whatever they were, and Charlie had channelled Maddie’s beautiful freestyle.

  Later there’d be champagne. There’d be time to relax and to just enjoy being with Jon. She angled her head to check him out. He had a smear of beetroot paste on his chin. For the last half-hour she’d wanted to grab him, pull him roughly to her and lick that paste off slowly, working her way to his mouth. He’d been amazing. She’d yelled at him, shoved him aside to reach things and stepped on his feet, but he’d remained unfazed.

  Moments later, the wedding planner walked in. With each course delivered to the ballroom, her face had lost some of its strain. ‘They’re about to do the speech. So those desserts should be out in fifteen minutes, okay?’

  Charlie nodded and straightened her cap. On the bench in front of her pretty, mint-green plates edged with gold, each with a chocolate fondant in the centre, were mounting up.

  ‘Apparently all we have to do is put the crystallised violets on these,’ Charlie called to Jon over her shoulder.

  When she turned back, a tall redhead, wearing a dramatic shade of purple that drew attention to her colouring, was standing in the doorway from the Great Hall. Her hair was drawn back from her face, twisted in an elaborate side chignon that lay low against her neck, accentuating her flashing green eyes and porcelain skin. Her gaze travelled around the kitchen until it fell on Jon, narrowing like a sniper taking aim.

  Jon’s back was to them as he thrust his hands into an immense bag of candied violets. He turned, his hands encased in latex gloves and full of violets. ‘Hey, Charlie, where do you want these —’ he caught sight of the woman and barely skipped a beat. ‘— crystallised violets?’ He moved to the bench and released the violets onto it in a gentle shower, then slowly stripped off the gloves. ‘Hello, Caro.’

  So this was the infamous Caro. She advanced into the kitchen like a panther, ignoring everyone but Jon.

  ‘I expected you at the reception, Jon.’ Her voice was a low, throaty purr, laced with equal parts threat and enticement.

  ‘I wasn’t invited.’ He picked up a violet and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘An invitation was posted to you.’ She’d reached the bench, and this close her fragrance overwhelmed everything. All the lingering odours from the sformato, the heavy, earthy porcini, the fish and roasted beef were subsumed by her richly sensual perfume.

  ‘Maybe it arrived while I was in Australia,’ Jon said with a shrug.

  Caro waved a dismissive hand. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. This is your house.’

  ‘Actually, no, it’s not. We’d better get that straight. I’m as poor as a church mouse.’

  Caro arched a disbelieving brow.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, ask Barker.’ He turned to the butler. ‘Barker, have I got family money, any inheritance at all?’

  ‘Not a cracker, Master Jon.’ Barker held a bottle in two hands so that the label was displayed. ‘Here’s that Krug Grande Cuvée you were looking for. Shall I put it on ice?’

  What was going on here? Despite his studied nonchalance, Jon had paled when he’d seen Caro.

  ‘So this is what Aristo is about now?’ He waved his hand at the kitchen and beyond, towards the Great Hall.

  Caro shrugged an elegant shoulder. ‘Readership is down, magazines are dying; everyone knows that.’

  ‘And Desiree Walton is the answer?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I couldn’t care less about Desiree Walton. But for now, her wedding will sell a lot of magazines.’

  Charlie gaped. That Desiree Walton, no matter what she was like, could be so casually dismissed as nothing more than a money-mak
ing nobody. It made a mockery of everything Charlie and Jon had been trying so desperately to do tonight.

  Charlie nudged Jon out of the way, flattened her palms on the bench and addressed Caro. ‘Look, I’ve got hot fondant here and you’re in the way. Besides, he’s working.’

  The feline eyes turned on her, their cool green depths full of calculation. ‘And you are?’

  Charlie was aware of her food-stained apron and flushed face under the chef’s cap. ‘Charlie Hughes.’

  She moved the plates along and started to sprinkle the violets. ‘I’d shake your hand, but …’ she looked down at her chocolate flecked fingers, ‘you know.’

  When Caro continued to stare at her she smiled. ‘From Bindundilly in Australia. You must have heard of Bin?’

  Caro regarded her for a long moment. ‘Oh, that little pimple in the middle of Australia, yes. Jon turned in a very dreary story about it. We couldn’t use it.’

  Beside her, Jon flinched, and opened his mouth to answer. Charlie turned and popped a violet into it, then closed his mouth gently around it. She turned back to Caro, hands on hips and allowed her anger to rear.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. Now, if you’re not here to help, get out of my kitchen.’

  Charlie pulled the apron off and dropped it on the table. Her legs ached and the room spun a little. Jon reached across and pulled her gently towards him, manoeuvring her until she sat on a stool. He raised his hands to take off her cap, dropping it on the apron, then reached up again to smooth the hair back from her forehead.

  It was better than the bottle of cool water had been; much better. Charlie closed her eyes and gave into the sensation of his fingers, rhythmic and soothing. A shiver of desire ran through her. She didn’t want his hand to leave her, but to run down her neck, kneading the tightly locked muscles until she sighed.

  His eyes, dark with barely controlled desire, met hers.

  A discreet cough interrupted them. The wedding planner stood on the other side of the bench, grinning. ‘Someone would like to see you both if you have a moment.’