Cooking Up a Storm by Cathy Bramley

Author:Cathy Bramley
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473541030
Publisher: Transworld

Chapter 7

By dawn the next morning the wet weather had found me again. Not as heavy as the rain I’d left behind in Yorkshire, but nonetheless as I packed my car with enough clothes to cope with every possible climate, water was running down the neck of my sweatshirt and soaking into the toes of my Converses.

I hastily kissed Rosie, whispered my goodbyes to the mound of duvet next to her (which she assured me was Joe) and made an early start back to Plumberry.

We hadn’t had too late a night last night after all, nor drunk too much wine; Joe had come back from the gym with fish and chips (rather counter-productively, I thought), which Rosie forced him to share with us. Then the two of us had retired to her room to style me for my TV debut, with me wishing I’d not eaten quite so many of Joe’s chips and her berating me for agreeing to help Liam out.

Joe was a sweetie. At twenty-three he was several years Rosie’s junior and had a baby face to match. He’d finished his degree in computing and was working in the IT department at Rosie’s place temporarily, storing up experience ready for his gap year of travelling, which he planned to fund by mending computers on his way round the world from September.

Both of them were realistic about the longevity of their relationship, but were happy to enjoy it while it lasted if the bumps in the night were anything to go by.

So I was somewhat bleary-eyed as I made the journey northwards and had to stop off halfway for coffee at the motorway services. I sat down with a double espresso and called Mags.

‘Plumberry house for retired sex-goddesses?’ she panted as she answered the phone.

‘Retired?’ I said with a chuckle. ‘Since when?’

‘Verity! It’s the crack of dawn!’ she cried. ‘I’m still in my birthday suit. Hold on, you’ve woken the dogs. I’ll have to let them out.’

I heard her feet slap on the tiles on her way through to the kitchen and the dogs squeak excitedly as she opened the back door.

‘Wee wees! Good boys. No, don’t dig there, Sage; stop! Oh no,’ she groaned.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Stick-mad that dog, trying to pull my bamboo wigwam up again. My poor petit pois don’t stand a chance. If it isn’t the torrential rain, it’s him stealing the canes. I’ll have to go out there.’

‘But aren’t you . . . ?’

‘Hold on a minute, love.’

I heard rustling noises and muffled grunts and more excited barking.

‘Jeepers, this rain is wet. And cold. Avert your gaze, Len,’ I heard her yell. ‘It’s an emergency.’ Len Banbury was Mags’s other next-door neighbour and must be pushing eighty.

‘Len? What is he doing outside at this time of day?’ I asked. ‘In the rain?’

‘Putting his nuts out on the bird table. Put those binoculars down,’ I heard her shout.

The mind boggled. I sipped my espresso and waited dutifully.

‘Sage Ramsbottom, come back here with that cane.’

I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the image of Mags chasing the dog round the garden in all her morning glory.

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