Recipe for Love

CHAPTER Two





WHEN ZOE GOT back to the cowshed she found it occupied by a very lovely blonde woman of about her own age who looked more like a model than a cook. Apart from the age, Zoe couldn’t discern any other similarities between them. The other girl was tall, with long straight subtly highlighted hair, a lot of make-up including false eyelashes, a tiny skirt and a strappy top, although it wasn’t all that warm. Her shoes, kicked off now because she was lying on the double bed, were high strappy sandals.

Zoe smiled, determined that the superficial differences between the two of them shouldn’t mean that they couldn’t co-habit happily.

‘Hi! I’m Zoe,’ she said.

‘Cher,’ said the model-alike. ‘I hope you don’t mind me having the double bed. I can’t sleep in single beds.’

‘Oh? But you’re so thin, it can’t be that they’re not big enough.’

Cher had a silver laugh, a little too high-pitched for Zoe’s taste. ‘No! Not that, but I need to spread out. It’s having such long legs.’

‘You’re not expecting me to be sorry for you because you’ve got long legs, surely?’

‘No,’ said Cher sharply, ‘but I do expect you to let me have the double bed.’

Zoe blinked at Cher’s sudden change of tone but decided against having an argument along the lines of ‘I was here first’ as they weren’t schoolgirls and if they had to share it would be better if they at least got on superficially. She could see she’d have to pick her battles with Cher and this was one she didn’t feel was worth a fight.

‘OK.’ She went to her rucksack, dumped unceremoniously on the single bed. She opened it and began taking out her things. There wasn’t very much and she didn’t usually bother to unpack, but some deeply hidden territorial instinct made her want to spread her spoor.

The wardrobe was full of Cher’s clothes. Tiny skirts, a couple of pairs of shorts (in case of a heat wave, obviously) and some skinny jeans. Many pairs of strappy sandals and handbags littered the floor of the cupboard.

Zoe hung up her one dress, a couple of pairs of jeans and some shirts and tops, then she took out her wash bag. ‘I must have a shower and wash my hair.’ She went into the bathroom, hoping her room-mate hadn’t used all the towels.

She was just drying her hair with her fingers, her normal method, when Cher, who was lying on the bed watching, said, ‘I’ve got a hair dryer if you want to borrow it.’

Zoe turned round. ‘Thanks, but I never bother to dry it. It doesn’t take long if I just scrunch it.’

Cher got up. ‘You’d look much better if you blow-dried it. Quite different. I’ll do it for you if you like.’

‘It’s OK, thanks. I decided years ago not to have a style that depended on electrical appliances, in case I don’t have access to them.’

Cher shrugged as if Zoe were mad. ‘I did hairdressing for a bit,’ she said.

Zoe tried to decide if she liked her or not. She seemed like a WAG, only interested in her looks and people thinking she was pretty. But the offer to help with her hair had been kind. Maybe she just couldn’t bear to see Zoe’s hair all tousled and unkempt, which might mean she was a control freak.

‘So what made you enter the competition?’ asked Zoe, deciding it was time to find out something about her room-mate.

‘Oh, I want to be on television. I really want to be famous and I think if I can get seen, I’ll get other offers.’

Zoe looked at her in surprise. ‘Don’t you like cooking?’

Cher shrugged. ‘Not much.’

‘But you passed the audition?’

‘Oh yes. I’m good, I just don’t enjoy it that much. I don’t like getting my fingers mucky.’ She paused and looked at Zoe as if somehow connecting her with the word mucky. ‘At least put on a bit of make-up and a dress. I don’t want to be associated with a munter.’

Zoe could hardly believe her ears, and had to bite back a retort, remembering her resolve to try and get on with Cher. She pulled on her dress, grudgingly admitting to herself that Cher, although unbelievably rude, could be right: it might be a good idea for first impressions. She looked at her watch. It was now nearly seven o’clock and she wanted an excuse to leave so she could help Fenella. She might have started being helpful to work off her nerves but now she was enjoying feeling part of it. ‘I might go for a wander. It’s very pretty round here.’

As Zoe had predicted, Cher didn’t suggest coming with her. ‘I don’t do walking. Wrong sort of shoes.’

Zoe glanced at Cher’s feet. ‘I’m surprised you can cook in those. How do you cope with all the standing?’ She couldn’t quite imagine Cher in the sort of clogs a lot of cooks wore; her own pair were in her rucksack. She hadn’t noticed any in the wardrobe amongst all the heels. Nor could she imagine Cher in check trousers. But then again Zoe didn’t wear those either.

‘I wear trainers to cook in. Not that I do a lot of it.’

That made Zoe even more curious. ‘But how did you get into a cookery competition if you don’t do much cooking?’

Cher got up from the bed and flicked her hair behind her shoulder. ‘I just make sure that what I do do is very good.’ She gave Zoe a smile. ‘I intend to win, you know.’ She went to the mirror and inspected herself closely. ‘I always achieve what I set out to do – get a job, get a man, whatever. This time I’m going to be famous, which means I have to win the competition.’

Cher’s dedication was scary. ‘So why a cookery competition if you don’t like it? Why not – I don’t know – The X Factor, or Britain’s Next Top Model?’

‘I thought of them, of course, but there’ll be far less competition if I do cookery.’

‘What on earth makes you think that? There could be some really great cooks in this! Me for a start!’

‘It’s not all about the cooking. I’ve seen how contestants flirt with the judges.’ She regarded Zoe with something resembling pity. ‘I told you, I can cook well if I put my mind to it. I might not be the best cook here, but I will be the prettiest, the sexiest, so I’ll win. Although you look loads better now than you did before, don’t think you’re in with a chance.’

Zoe regarded her. After what Cher had said before, her bluntness was no longer a surprise. ‘That’s me told!’ she said with forced cheerfulness.

‘So why did you enter?’ Cher asked, turning away from the mirror, having obviously decided you couldn’t perfect perfection.

‘Oh, I want to win too. I want the money to set up a little deli or bistro or something where I can cook the food I love. What do you want to do with the money?’

‘The money’s not remotely important. My father’s really rich. I just want the fame and the opportunities that’ll bring me.’

‘Well, may the best cook win,’ said Zoe, her flippant manner disguising her ever-increasing determination to beat this woman at the competition even if it killed her. And not just because she wanted the double bed.

‘So did you give up a good job and a lovely boyfriend to come on this?’ asked Cher. ‘I do a bit of events management, by the way, although Daddy gives me an allowance I can just about live off.’

‘I had an OK job in an estate agent’s, but someone was promoted over me even though I’d been there for ages so I didn’t mind giving it up.’ She was still slightly sore about the whole episode but she wasn’t one for regrets and anyway, she really did want to run her own business.

‘And the boyfriend? I can see you going out with the same boy from school before settling down and having kids.’ She yawned. ‘So not for me!’

‘Not me either,’ said Zoe, infuriated by this assumption although still determined not to show it. ‘I decided a while ago not to pin my chance of happiness on a man. If someone wonderful comes along and sweeps me off my feet, I guess I’d go along with it, but they’d have to be really special.’

Zoe thought back to her rather uneventful relationship history: a short list of very nice, decent young men. She’d been fond of them all but there hadn’t been one she had felt she really couldn’t live without. A picture of Gideon all mud-splattered and sweaty sprang into her mind at this point but she dismissed it as quickly as it had appeared.

Cher was nodding. ‘Respec’, sista! I feel that way myself. No point in signing one’s life away for someone who turns out to be a no-hoper.’ She walked over to the little fridge. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine. Fancy a glass?’

‘No thanks. I’ll keep my head clear for tomorrow. I’ll have that walk now.’ Zoe suddenly felt she needed some air. She also wanted to check on Fenella.

As she walked over to the house she chuckled to herself. Cher was extraordinary but there was no point in being indignant at her wild pronouncements and steely determination to win. She and Cher had to share a room together, which would be impossible if she got upset and made trouble.

Slightly apprehensive about being seen by the crew and judges, Zoe was relieved to spot a large man in the kitchen, which meant Fenella wasn’t on her own. The large man – rather to her surprise – gave her a bear hug and kissed her fondly.

‘Thank you so much for helping my pregnant wife!’ he said. ‘For that you deserve rubies, coffers of gold but failing those, what about a glass of red? Or would you rather have a gin?’

‘Rupert! said Fenella, looking far less stressed than when Zoe had last seen her. ‘Zoe – you look lovely by the way – this, as you’ve probably gathered, is my husband, Rupert.’

‘Hello, Rupert,’ said Zoe, accepting the glass of wine he handed her and feeling a bit of a hypocrite for refusing Cher’s offer with such a priggish excuse.

‘Do sit down. Because you helped earlier there’s no great rush and anyway, Rupert will do it.’

Zoe pulled out a chair and looked around the kitchen properly; there didn’t seem to have been time before. She decided it was perfect. Huge, with an Aga the size of a car, an old dresser, a sofa, a refectory table long enough for a small school and a stone-flagged floor. There were pictures on the walls, a large bookcase full of an assortment of what looked like cookery, gardening, flower and bird books, and a lot of clutter. It felt like a proper home.

‘I’d love a kitchen like this,’ she said.

‘I’d like it better if it didn’t have a money pit to go with it,’ said Rupert, having just tasted the stew and tossed the teaspoon into the sink. ‘Although, of course, we do love the house too.’

‘Why wouldn’t you? It’s wonderful!’

‘It is,’ agreed Fenella, ‘but it’s so expensive to renovate and keep up. We keep having to think up ways of earning money from it, which is why we were so thrilled to get this cookery competition gig.’

‘We nearly didn’t,’ said Rupert, ‘as we’ve got a wedding right in the middle of the competition.’

‘Rupert! I don’t think you were supposed to say that. It’s a surprise. I mean, all the tasks are a surprise – the contestants aren’t to be told about them till the night before.’

Zoe chuckled. ‘Well, I won’t tell anyone.’

‘Fortunately, the wedding planner for it is a mate of ours, Sarah, and she managed to convince the couple that the enormous amount of money they’ll be saving by having you lot do the catering was well worth a bit of inconvenience.’ Rupert, apparently deciding he had a bit of spare time, had joined the two women at the table.

‘Darling, it won’t be inconvenient – we’ve made sure of that.’

‘The food is a bit of a risk,’ said Rupert. ‘But it often is at weddings.’

‘Not at Somerby,’ said Fenella primly.

Rupert laughed and Zoe basked in the warmth of the easy banter between them. How wonderful to be secure in the knowledge that you loved and were loved in return.

When Zoe got up to go, Fenella said, ‘Now do help yourself to anything from here you might need. Milk, for example. There is some in your fridge, but if you run out you can come back and get some. And there are packets of biscuits in this box here. Rupert brought in fresh supplies.’

‘I wouldn’t want to take anything you might have plans for.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Rupert. ‘We have specially designated biscuits for clients. I’m not allowed near them.’

Zoe hurried back to the room and brushed her teeth so no one would smell red wine on her breath.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Cher curiously.

‘Oh, just round and about,’ said Zoe through the toothpaste, feeling unaccountably guilty.

‘Well, if you don’t hurry we’ll miss the bus.’



A couple of hours later they were back from the pub, being ushered up the stairs to the committee room at Somerby by a slightly harried Rupert. ‘Here we are!’ he said, opening the door to a big room with a huge table in it. He paused as they all filed in. ‘The judges are still eating I’m afraid but some of the production team are here to talk to you. I must go and serve the pud.’ He left the room as fast as he decently could.

Zoe and the others sat at the chairs arranged round the table.

‘Good evening, everyone!’ A good-looking blonde woman with a very faint American accent, hair like Marilyn Monroe and eyes like sapphires walked into the room. The steel beneath her beauty shone through. ‘My name is Miranda Marlyn. You probably all know I’m the head of the production company that is making this programme. And we are all sure that it will be a huge success – for us and for you.’ She paused. ‘It’s going to be very intense. As you probably know by now you’ll be doing a challenge roughly every two or three days.’ The tension in the room went up a notch as her gaze slid over every contestant, making Zoe, at least, feel she’d already been judged – and she hadn’t won.

‘We would expect you to be preparing on the other days but there will be a break somewhere in the middle. Anyway, Mike will go into more detail. I hope you’ve all had a chance to get to know each other during the meal. The thing to remember is that although you are competing, a lot of the tasks will involve teamwork. There’ll be marks for leading a team and being a team player as well as for excellent cooking.’

Another steely stare. By now almost everyone (except Cher) was looking twitchy. Zoe enjoyed teamwork but always thought of herself as a second in command rather than a leader. Would she have the force of personality required to make a plan and get her team to follow it?

‘Now I’m going to pass you over to Mike.’

Everyone clapped as she sat down.

‘Hi, guys,’ said Mike, who, after their pub meal, seemed like an old friend, helpful and unthreatening. ‘Now, unlike some cookery competitions, you haven’t yet met your judges …’

‘We knew that,’ whispered Cher, emboldened by several glasses of wine over dinner.

‘… because the auditions were done by other people.’

‘For God’s sake! We were there! We know the bloody judges were too “busy”’ – Cher made the movement with her fingers to indicate inverted commas – ‘to turn up!’ Her sotto voce was getting less sotto by the minute.

Mike’s tone was consoling. ‘But you are going to meet them tomorrow, and I’m sure you’re all very excited about that.’

‘I’m wetting myself with joy,’ said Cher, no longer bothering to keep her voice down.

Fortunately for Zoe’s embarrassment threshold, the rest of Mike’s talk gave Cher no excuse to mutter and Zoe listened with half an ear. The rest of her thoughts lingered on the other contestants, some of whom she’d spoken to in the pub, and others just observed from a distance.

There was the wild young man with a shock of hair that stood almost upright. She’d chatted to him and found out his name was Shadrach. He was passionate about food and seemed to suit his name. Then there was motherly Muriel who had escaped her family with glee, describing herself as ‘only a good home cook’ but who looked to Zoe like strong competition.

Previously, Cher had sashayed her way round to where two young men sat, legs apart, feet tapping, the testosterone almost visible as if it were steam coming off sweating horses. They – Zoe knew them to be Dwaine and Daniel – practically had ‘Competition’ tattooed on their foreheads. Cher had done a lot of hair-flicking and lip-moistening and had allowed both of them a peek down her cleavage. That was apparently her version of team-building. And it could work, Zoe thought. But supposing they both fell in love with her? There could be a horribly noisy scrap, with blood on the carpet. Now, in her seat at the front row, Cher sent messages saying ‘look at me’ with her eyes, hands and hair.

Sitting just behind Zoe and Cher there was a rather serious girl whom Zoe hadn’t spoken to yet. She could be a potential winner. She was shy, with mousy hair held back by an unbecoming slide but she had a determination that was evident even from a distance. She was Becca. Next to her were two older-looking men, one of whom was called Bill, and Shona, who’d informed Zoe over dinner that she was a ‘bag of nerves’.

‘OK, people,’ said Miranda Marlyn, standing up again, ‘that’s all you’ll hear from me until the end of the competition. As Mike says, tomorrow you’ll meet the judges and find out what your first task is. I should warn you all, though, that our judges will make Lord Sugar look like a teddy bear. It’s a very tough business and you need to be equally tough to succeed.’ She swept out, a young man with a clipboard, who was obviously her right-hand-man, in tow.

Everyone was now milling round, chatting, sizing up the opposition, as if they finally realised the competition was about to start. There were an awful lot of people to take in, thought Zoe, but with ten contestants and several people from the television company, there was bound to be.

Someone came up behind Zoe. ‘Well, that was all pretty much as expected, don’t you think? I’m Alan, by the way. We didn’t get a chance to speak over dinner.’

Alan was medium height with thick greying hair with a hint of a tan. He seemed faintly familiar and she wondered if they’d actually met or if he was an actor or something.

‘Zoe.’ She put her hand into his outstretched one. ‘Do I know you from somewhere? Television, perhaps?’

He inclined his head. ‘It’s possible. I was a jobbing actor for years, but not recently. Cooking is what I’m into now. Hence the competition.’

‘So what do you hope to get from it?’ Zoe was always curious about people but having asked her question wondered if she’d been a bit abrupt and so confessed her own motives. ‘I’m in it for the money myself but my room-mate, Cher – over there? The beautiful blonde wowing those young men? – she’s looking for fame.’ She paused. ‘What about you?’

Alan didn’t seem to mind her asking. ‘I suppose I want them both: fame and fortune. I fancy a riverside pub, with food. You know the sort of thing: boats moored up outside, summer food, chilled white wine, beautiful young people with platinum credit cards, who come because it’s the new hot place to go.’ He laughed. ‘But I also want families. Somewhere granny and all the kids have a good meal in relaxed surroundings.’

Zoe smiled back at him. ‘It sounds as if you’ve written the brochure already.’

‘I admit I am being a little bit previous, but that’s what I’ll do if I win the competition. You?’

‘I fancy a little deli with pre-cooked meals so people have the convenience of a takeaway but with really good food.’

‘Oh! Lovely idea. You should get to know Gideon Irving. He’s a big importer of olive oil, olives, stuff like that. You’d need that if you had a deli.’

‘Oh? I thought he was a food writer.’

‘He is, but he’s also part of a big co-operative that sources delicatessen-type foods from all over the world. The food writing is a sort of hobby – although it is his passion.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Zoe was gripped.

‘A cousin of mine was on some committee or other with him. Apparently he had to be bullied into being a judge.’

‘Really?’

Alan nodded. ‘Yes! According to my cousin he said he didn’t want to eat a lot of grim recipes handed down from grannies who’d learned to cook during rationing in the War.’

‘Goodness! Was your cousin actually present when he said this?’ It could easily be just a rumour.

‘Yup. He told the committee about how he’d been forced to say yes.’ He frowned slightly. ‘He does sound appallingly arrogant.’

‘He does,’ Zoe agreed. She knew this much herself.

‘And he can be a bit bad-tempered. Doesn’t suffer fools.’

She’d picked up this much too. ‘Oh.’

Alan nodded wisely. ‘So better go carefully with him. Your friend Cher might find she’s up against a man she can’t charm.’

Zoe laughed. ‘Yes, but you know what men are like – always susceptible to a leggy blonde.’

‘Not all men.’ Alan was giving her a look that could have just been friendly but might be significant.

Zoe thought about him. He was nice but a little old for her. Then her mind flicked to Gideon Irving. He wasn’t much younger than Alan and yet she’d definitely found him attractive. Just as well she’d been warned. Although had she been told anything she didn’t know? Not really, apart from about the food empire.

Gradually everyone dispersed, some to local B and Bs, and the rest to converted outbuildings.



Back in their room, Cher took so long in the bathroom that Zoe had to resort to brushing her teeth by her bed and spitting down a handy drain outside. But in the morning, after Zoe had silently condemned her as a selfish cow, Cher had chatted in a friendly way and lent Zoe a hair product that definitely helped her curls look more meant and less randomly natural. She was a tricky one, Zoe decided, as Cher stood behind her, looking into the mirror at Zoe and adjusting a last curl so every hair was perfect.



The meeting with the judges was to be held in the large marquee in the field just by the house. They found the others inside swapping notes about accommodation and wondering what the judges would be like. Almost everyone was nervous. The night before had been like a party. Now, in the marquee, slightly chilly in the early morning, it felt like a competition.

‘It’s like when the school hall turned into an exam room, isn’t it?’ Zoe whispered to Cher as they found their name badges.

Cher regarded her questioningly. ‘Is it? I didn’t take exams much.’

Zoe, who considered herself a fairly calm person, couldn’t help being impressed by Cher’s coolness. She could have been going to the movies, judging by how she behaved.

‘Come on,’ said Cher. ‘Let’s go to the front row. We won’t get noticed if we sit at the back.’

Zoe, feeling there was plenty of time to be noticed, meekly followed her.

As they sat, waiting for the judges, Zoe’s stomach churned with nerves and excitement. She’d already met one of them but of course she couldn’t admit this to anyone. She wondered if he’d acknowledge her at all. Cher, poised and beautiful, seemingly oblivious to the tension around her, checked her French manicure for flaws, but didn’t find any.

Mike came out to address them. He stood in front of a table that was obviously designed for the judges. Zoe’s nerves increased. This was it; it was all about to begin in earnest. Cher was still unmoved. She also had French-manicured toenails, Zoe noticed. Zoe, whose sang-froid had long deserted her, found her hand creeping up to fiddle with her hair. Cher, obviously spotting this from the corner of her eye, shot out her own hand and held Zoe’s down. No one was messing with her creation, even if she wasn’t wearing it.

‘OK, guys. This next bit isn’t going to be televised but just a few words about that part of it.’ He went on about sound and lighting guys as well as camera operators. ‘You’ll get used to the cameras very soon, which is good, but do please be careful not to swear. You’re going to meet the judges now, and then we’ll film the whole thing.’

Zoe glanced at the camera crew milling about with their equipment and clipboards. They were like a team of ants. She’d almost forgotten the television part of it all, she’d been focusing so hard on the competition, on cooking as well as she could.

‘Big hand for the judges, guys …’ finished Mike.

Everyone clapped obediently.

The first to step forward was the kindly television chef, Fred Acaster, who talked people through basic recipes with a gentleness which made the world love him. He was a little older than he’d appeared on the box but still looked friendly.

Cher, Zoe noticed, sat up a little straighter and paid him her full attention. It could have been some sort of magic ray that she projected towards him. He noticed her and smiled. Zoe couldn’t quite work out what she’d done but suddenly she was shining at him without really moving. It was impressive!

The second judge was a woman, Anna Fortune. She ran a cookery school and was known to be terrifying. She’d been on a television show when a team of professional chefs had a ‘back to school’ experience with her and she’d been savage. Definitely the one to impress. But Cher didn’t bother to connect with her.

And then came Gideon Irving. Her memory of him was when he was muddy, dishevelled and sweaty. Now his hair was still untidy but it was clean as was the T-shirt under his linen jacket. Armed with her inside information that he had not wanted to be a judge, Zoe felt his sultry grumpiness was in some way explained.

Beside her, Cher positively glowed. Zoe saw Gideon glance at her but what he thought she couldn’t tell.

She had felt at once that it was the woman, Anna Fortune, who would cut through the contestants in swathes, but Cher was focused on the men. It made sense in a way. There were two men to only one woman and if you could get both of those on side, you were bound to go through. Zoe felt uncharacteristically daunted. It was one thing to cook well at home, or in the small café where she’d had her Saturday job. To do it in such an (albeit modest) public space was hard enough; to do it with a camera pointing at you was worse again.

After introducing themselves Anna Fortune dived straight in. ‘Right, the first task. It’s been arranged for you to take over two restaurants. You’ll be put into teams and run one each. We’ll appoint roles for each of you. Listen out for your names …’

‘You can tell she runs a school, can’t you?’ said Cher, once again slightly too loudly for Zoe’s peace of mind.

Zoe sighed. It was going to be a long meeting.