The Summer Job by Lizzy Dent

Author:Lizzy Dent [Dent, Lizzy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241990537
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2021-04-14T18:30:00+00:00

21.

Irene’s cottage is everything I expected: eccentric, with its jewel-toned soft furnishings and odd little Art Nouveau pieces; welcoming, with its lambskins and cashmere throws; and practical, with heavy, hardwood furniture and floors. It was an easy drive in James’s car – a mere eight minutes to get to it – but I know that Irene stays at the hotel for much of the week, and I find it a bit sad the place must be left empty so often.

James is in jeans and a black T-shirt, with a blue-and-white striped apron tied round his waist.

‘You’re very brave, wearing white,’ he says.

‘I’m hoping it shows up the blood,’ I say, pulling a large butcher’s knife out of the wooden block next to me. Thankfully, he laughs. And then I feel my cheeks burn red and look quickly away.

‘So, all joking aside, where are you at, with cooking?’

‘I know how to burn toast,’ I reply, and he shakes his head.

‘I just don’t believe it. You work in restaurants! What do you do when you’re at home, back in London?’

‘Ready meals. And my friend … ah, flatmate, she likes to cook.’

‘Seriously? What about your boyfriend?’

‘Oh.’ I feel my cheeks redden. ‘Well, he’s more of your kebab-on-the-way-home type of foodie.’

Which is frankly being generous. The last time we ate together was at our regular greasy spoon in Bermondsey. Tim had, as always, menu number one: two eggs, two bacon, two sausages, tomato, mushrooms, fried toast and black pudding, which he never touched. I had baked beans on toast with a cup of sweet tea. The mood was hangover-grim, and Tim was smelly, sweaty and snappy.

‘Okay, okay, okay,’ I say, pushing Tim’s grey complexion out of my mind. ‘I can put a roast chicken in the oven, and follow instructions on how to roast it. I can peel potatoes and carrots. But, like, the chicken skin never crisps, and the breasts are dry. I can’t seem to whisk egg whites properly. And I’m not sure what all the settings on an oven are. Like what’s the fan with the circle versus the fan without? And honestly, with ready meals, I know it’s not too fattening and I get a nice variety. Curry one day, bangers-and-mash the next.’

‘God, that’s depressing,’ James says, shaking his head. ‘I can’t make you love cooking, Heather, but I am going to fucking try.’

Then he announces that he is dropping me right into the hot fat and teaching me how to make a soufflé.

‘Did you hear my monologue before? I can’t make a soufflé,’ I remind him.

‘You can make a soufflé,’ he says, tossing me an apron.

‘Ah, I don’t even know what a soufflé is exactly, except that it’s fancy. And literally no human in this day and age whips up a soufflé for dinner.’

‘Can you crack an egg?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you stir something over the heat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you read the time, and listen for an alarm?’

‘Um, yes?’

‘Then you can make a soufflé. Put that butter in a small saucepan.’

He’s suddenly turned very bossy, and I like it.

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