Chapter 3
‘The last thing I want to do right now is any bloody cooking, Amy,’ Billie said as she yanked open her door.
Her face was tear-stained and blotchy, neither of which Amy commented on. She also chose to ignore the fact Billie had called her Amy rather than Amelia – something which only happened when Billie’s guard was down.
Amy would play this the way she always did. Obliquely. Maybe, like Malcolm, she was cowardly in not motoring at the issue head-on, but her approach generally worked, and she wasn’t about to change tack now.
‘No worries. That’s OK. Tad said there’s no rush. Oh, by the way, I found some lovely shops – perhaps we should go and take a look together?’ Amy wiggled the bags still in her hand as she tried to defuse Billie’s tension.
‘Maybe,’ Billie said, sniffing as Amy advanced into her space and closed the door. ‘Who the hell is Tad?’
‘Our chef-slash-teacher for the week. He seems nice.’
‘Nice? How insipid.’
‘There are worse things,’ Amy said, unsure if she’d overstepped as she watched Billie’s expression. Holding her ground as a rainbow of emotion flashed across Billie’s fine features, ready in case her comment blew up in her face. Then Billie sighed.
‘You know Kelly loves to bring the drama,’ she said. ‘Why should now be any different?’
‘Want to talk about it?’ Amy offered.
‘He knows all my buttons; it’s nothing new.’ Billie shook her head. ‘I should know what he’s like by now. That’s what you get for really falling for someone, Amelia. Never forget – when you hand over your heart, you might as well hand over your sanity, too.’
Amy resisted the temptation to try to suggest that maybe Kelly hadn’t ever been the right person for Billie, that she might find someone far better if she could only let this toxic relationship go.
But that wasn’t what Billie wanted to hear.
Amy knew – she’d tried that approach once before and Billie had locked herself in her hotel room for three days straight, refusing everything except oysters and single malt whisky.
‘Do you want to see what I got?’ Amy said, deflecting again with the boutique’s bag.
‘Do I want to see your brand-new knickers?’ Billie managed a stifled laugh. ‘My world is caving in again, and you want to cheer me up with a peek at your pristine underpants? No. I’m good, thanks.’
Reaching into a pocket, Amy held out Billie’s Coutts credit card. ‘Take this back, though, would you? Before I manage to lose it. Thanks for the loan – I’ll pay you back.’
Billie shook her head as she took the card. ‘No, you won’t. It’s the least I can do. Thank you for being here, Amelia, for checking up on me.’
‘Malcolm was worried, too.’
Billie sighed. ‘I know. Thank him for me, will you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Listen, I’m not sure I’m going to make dinner this evening, let alone the lesson. Will you hold the fort for me with this Tad bloke? Keep him sweet until tomorrow? I’ll feel better by then, and we can get stuck in.’
‘You know I will. Do you want anything? Can I get them to send a plate up later?’
‘What would I do without you? No. I’m going to take some sleepers and shut out the world, for a while at least.’
‘OK. If you’re sure?’
Billie’s expression sharpened. ‘The chef is called Tad, you say?’
‘Tad Campbell.’
‘Campbell… He’s not Italian, then?’
Amy allowed herself a wry smile, had known it was only a matter of time before Billie cottoned on. ‘Scottish.’
‘Bloody hell. You could have told me. We are on the shores of Lake Garda, aren’t we? In Italy… Does he look Italian at all?’
‘He does have dark hair, I suppose.’ Amy swallowed before she could add anything about how his smile lit up his otherwise intense expression.
Or how she’d found herself gazing up into his bright hazel eyes, set beneath expressive eyebrows all but hidden below the dark hair she’d mentioned, wild abandon in every curl.
Or that she’d noticed the swirl of a tattoo beneath the turn of his cuff and found herself wondering what it depicted.
‘Dark hair. Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ Billie said. ‘We’ll get Malc to put some decent filters on him if necessary.’
‘He doesn’t need any filters.’ The words were out before Amy realised how they sounded.
‘Oh, really? Hmmm. Tasty, is he?’ It never took Billie long to latch on to an unguarded comment.
‘No, I didn’t mean it like that.’ Amy felt her cheeks burn at the lie. ‘I just meant; does it matter about him? The article is about you.’
‘Yes, but I was already imagining some of my copy, and thinking how good it would sound if the tutor was called Lorenzo or Giovanni – or how about Romeo? That would have been such fun. But Tad? Not a lot to work with, is it?’
Billie might consider Tad wasn’t a lot to work with, but as Amy dumped her shopping bags in her own room, and finally got to freshen up, to her surprise she had to admit the man had given her plenty to think about. And none of it was to do with work.
* * *
Tad drummed impatient fingers against the stainless steel of his workbench. He might have said there was no rush on the start of the lesson, but it had been organised as a learning opportunity specifically at the request of these guests.
Flicking the cuff on his chef’s jacket revealed only minutes had passed, the time sloping past with less enthusiasm than a hiker with blisters.
It wasn’t as though Tad was a stranger to the foibles of the rich and famous – he’d managed a whole season in a privately owned ski lodge high in the French Alps, cheffing for an A-list actor’s family and friends.
And the actor’s wife had been one of the most difficult people he’d ever had to cook for.
Nothing had been right for her, or her gaggle of equally challenging friends: Wagyu steak had been binned barely tasted; desserts were too sweet or too sharp; there were too many carbs, not enough spinach; why weren’t they having beetroot rice pudding?
To this day Tad remained unconvinced that beetroot rice pudding should even exist.
In contrast, perhaps being kept waiting a bit by the diva of the moment wasn’t a big deal.
And if he ended up handling a similar experience to the one in the Alps, he was confident he could cope.
He’d been in a far more fragile state of mind then.
Nowadays a difficult A-lister was nothing more than a walk in the park. Minus any blisters.
He knew he was good at what he did. The interview process for his role at Casa had been almost as demanding as the A-lister’s wife. It would all be fine. Although, having said all that, if they didn’t get on with the pastry soon, it wouldn’t have enough time to chill down properly.
Tad sighed, re-strumming his unidentified rhythm on the countertop as he wondered how much longer he would have to wait.
‘Hi – Tad?’ The voice startled him into turning to see Amy in the doorway, a grin spreading across her features as she apologised for creeping up on him.
Her long blonde hair hung loose down her back, still damp from the shower; she wore the same jeans as before, but a different T-shirt – from one of the many tourist trap places down by the lake, covered in a repeating pattern of whole and halved lemons.
He’d seen the motif on multiple occasions, although it was fair to say Amy was doing it far more justice than most of the people he’d seen wearing it.
‘No worries, I was just…’ What had he been doing? Nothing much except trying to keep his burgeoning irritation under control.
‘Listen, I’m so sorry, but Billie isn’t feeling very well. She’s going to have an early night, and I know how much effort you went to for us to have an extra lesson today, but…’
‘Oh. OK. No problem.’ His words sounded calm, while his brain whizzed through the repercussions for the rest of the evening and the week to come. ‘Will you still want the lesson? And what about your photographer guy?’
Amy scrunched up her nose. ‘I know you’ve planned on teaching us how to make lemon tart this evening, because it’s one of Billie’s favourites, and she’ll be devastated if she misses out. Is there any way we could make the tart later in the week, swap it for something else tonight?’
‘That’s absolutely fine. No bother at all.’ He reassessed her open features, the lightness to her expression as her smile lost its tension, became easy again.
‘And Malcolm is outside, scouting for photo opportunities for Billie, so I wouldn’t plan on waiting for him, either.’ She shrugged, then grinned. ‘I’m so sorry. We’re already a rubbish group.’
‘We could change it up if you like. I could show you how to make something else. How about a white peach tart made with a pastry that doesn’t need to be rested? We’ve got enough time to make that one.’
Amy checked her watch and Tad adjusted his statement.
‘Or I could make it, if you need to be doing something else. Unpacking, or whatever?’
She laughed, then shook her head. ‘My luggage never made it to Verona airport, so unpacking isn’t an issue at present.’
‘Really? What a nightmare.’ It went some way to explaining why she’d been so keen to head for the shops, and her enthusiasm for the lemon-infused T-shirt.
‘Yes. It is.’ She pulled in a deep breath. ‘Hopefully it’ll turn up soon.’
‘I’m sure it will.’
Amy glanced around, her gentle expression taking on a professional edge. ‘Right, where should I wash my hands?’
With her hair fixed back into a loose ponytail, Amy pulled on a cookery-school-logo-embossed apron. Tad led her into the smaller professional kitchen situated behind the teaching kitchen.
‘If it’s the two of us, we might as well be in here,’ he said, flicking dials on the cooker to allow it time to warm up.
‘What do you want me to do first?’ Amy said.
‘How much cooking have you done?’ he asked, lifting a large white board and a sharp knife, placing both in front of her.
‘A bit.’