The Secret Cooking Club (9 page)

THE NEW SECRET COOKING CLUB

‘
W
elcome to The Secret Cooking Club.' My voice comes out less steady than when I practised it. I force a smile as Violet comes into Mrs Simpson's kitchen followed by Gretchen and Alison.

Gretchen eyes me warily. ‘Hello, Scarlett.'

‘This is such a killer kitchen,' Alison says. ‘It must be nice to have a super-blogger for a mum.'

I glance over at Violet. She's obviously not told them whose kitchen this really is. She shrugs awkwardly.

‘We need to get a few ground rules straight.' I gesture to the table where I've set out some mugs
and glasses. The kettle is boiled, and I've also made a jug of squash. Alison and Violet sit down, but Gretchen leans back against the shelves of cookbooks, her arms crossed.

I'm not quite sure what to do next: sit or stand; pour drinks or not. There's a strong current of tension in the room. I continue standing at the head of the table and just keep talking.

‘First of all,' I say, ‘secret means secret.' I look squarely at Gretchen.

She lifts her chin like I've insulted her, staring right back. ‘We won't tell anyone at school,' she says. ‘If that's what you're worried about.'

‘Or my mum?' I realize that I've given away my entire hand in three words, but what else can I do?

She pauses long enough to make me sweat. ‘Or your mum.'

Our eyes lock for a long second. I decide that enough is enough. I sit down at the table. I'm not sure which one of us has ‘won', but the tension begins to ebb away. Gretchen makes herself a cup of tea and I pour squash into glasses for the rest of us.

‘OK,' I say. ‘That's the main thing. But there are still some other things you should know.' I look at Alison. ‘Like . . . this isn't my house.'

Violet gets the cupcakes we left here out of the fridge while I explain about Mrs Simpson.
Gretchen tries not to act surprised, but I'm sure I see a new respect dawning in her eyes. I tell them about my breaking and entering to feed the cat, and how Violet and I visited Mrs Simpson in hospital.

When I'm finished, I expect some kind of reaction – questions, or something. But by then, we're all biting into the delicious pink cakes with buttercream swirls, and no one says much of anything at all. Finally, Alison wipes her mouth. ‘You can trust us, Scarlett. I mean, the whole thing is cool because it's a secret.'

‘And since we're a club,' Gretchen says, ‘we should have some kind of secret handshake or password.'

‘OK,' I acknowledge.

‘How about “Banoffee”?' Violet suggests.

Gretchen makes a face.

‘Maybe not.' Alison laughs.

‘What about “Marzipan”?' Violet tries again.

‘Too complicated,' Gretchen says.

‘“Buttercream”,' I say quietly.

‘What's that?'

‘“Buttercream”.'

Gretchen looks at Violet, who nods. ‘Yeah,' Gretchen says. ‘That sounds good.'

‘Fine,' Alison says. ‘Now that we've got that over with, are we going to cook something, or
what? Those free samples aren't going to make themselves.'

I get up from the table and get the little marble-covered notebook from the bookstand. ‘This is the recipe book we've been using,' I say. ‘It's really special – at least, I think so.'

Violet nods.

I hand it to Gretchen like a flag of truce. ‘What do you guys fancy making?'

Gretchen and Alison flip through the book. ‘I can't believe someone took so much time to write all of this,' Alison says. ‘And the pictures – they're so cute! Let's try “The Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts”.'

‘I'd rather do “Hansel and Gretel's Gingerbread”,' Gretchen says. She lowers her voice like someone might leak her preference to the PTA. ‘Gingerbread is my favourite.'

Leaving them to it, I check what's in the cupboards and the fridge. To my surprise – why am I surprised by anything that happens in Rosemary's Kitchen? – there's loads of fresh fruit in the fridge, including cartons of strawberries and blueberries, kiwis, and even a punnet of cherries.

‘I think we should start with fruit tarts,' I say. ‘We can do gingerbread next time.' I glance at Gretchen to make sure she's OK with that.

‘Fine,' she shrugs. ‘Whatever.'

I take the fruit out of the fridge. Violet looks surprised too – but like me, she just goes with it.

‘OK,' I say, ‘now, first, everyone wash their hands. Then, someone needs to wash and cut the fruit, someone needs to make the custard, and someone needs to make the pastry for the tarts – and oh yeah, before I forget, we need to preheat the oven.'

The tasks get easily assigned. I team up with Gretchen to make the pastry dough. Together we find the ingredients and weigh them out into a bowl.

‘Did your mum teach you to cook?' Gretchen asks me.

‘No,' I say. ‘She doesn't cook at all really. She doesn't have time.'

Gretchen stiffens and I wonder what I've said.

‘I mean, she's too busy slagging me off,' I add.

She stops measuring. ‘I never really got why you were so angry. Your mum made you into a star.' She frowns. ‘And then, you completely changed. It was like you didn't have time for any of your friends, or anything at school any more.'

‘That's totally not it.' How could Gretchen, of all people, get things so wrong?

‘Well, what then?'

I tip the flour into the bowl. ‘You know, before she started, I thought I was pretty normal. I sometimes
did stuff I wasn't proud of . . . you know . . . embarrassing stuff. But it didn't seem like a big deal. But then, Mum started broadcasting everything. It was front page news that I passed wind at Christmas dinner and scratched my eczema in my sleep. And she'd go on about what knickers I wore, and what my gym kit smelt like. Suddenly, all that stuff seemed huge – it was all I could think about. I felt like everyone was looking at me and laughing.' I shove the bowl towards Gretchen. ‘I mean, do you really think that makes me a star? Do you think I didn't have time for any of my friends so I could get more of that?'

Gretchen shrugs. ‘To be honest, I didn't know what to think. I mean, you totally helped out on my campaign, and then you disappeared as soon as I won. I thought maybe you were jealous – but then, why didn't you just run yourself? You totally could have won.'

‘Me?'

‘I mean, you were cool – smart and talkative and stuff. Everybody thought so.'

‘I thought I was “the most boring girl in the world” – your words, not mine.'

‘Come on, Scarlett, I didn't really mean that. I was fed up, that's all. You never even said “congratulations” when I won. I had no idea what I'd done wrong.'

‘Well, emailing my mum didn't help.'

Gretchen puts her hands on her hips. ‘I thought your mum was totally cool when she started that blog. And for the record, she emailed me, not the other way around. I am the PTA rep after all. She asked me stuff about you because you stopped talking to her. I assumed she was just worried. I said maybe you weren't feeling well because it was your time of the month or something. I had no idea she was going to start writing about it.'

‘So it was all a misunderstanding?'

‘Maybe.'

I add the cubed butter and stir it in. I stop waiting for an apology that isn't going to come, and wonder if maybe I should be the one to say sorry. Maybe I was a little quick to drop her as a friend – just the way Stacie did to me. Maybe I should have tried to tell her how I felt six months ago. Maybe, maybe. But
maybe
it isn't too late.

I stand back and let Gretchen rub the butter into the flour. ‘I'm glad you won the election,' I say. ‘And I'm glad you're here now.'

‘Yeah,' she says.

‘It's just – the mum stuff has been awful for me. Before the blog, I guess Mum and I did get on – or at least, we were kind of normal. But now, it's
Help! My daughter this
; and
Psst! My daughter that
. All I know is – she can't find out about this.'

‘She won't find out from me.' Gretchen pauses for a long second. ‘I promise.'

‘OK.' I hope I'm not crazy to believe her.

I close my eyes and take a bite of fruit tart. My tongue tingles at the different tastes: the pastry light and crumbly, the custard rich and wobbly, and the fruit shiny and fresh (arranged neatly by Violet) on top and covered in a sticky apricot glaze. By the time we finish up for the evening, the four of us just seem kind of normal together. I have to admit that four people seem like more of a real club than just Violet and me. I'm relieved when Gretchen volunteers to put the fruit tarts in the canteen at lunchtime. (‘Well, no one will think
I'm
involved, will they?')

Once the fruit tarts have been put away, Violet, Gretchen and I clean up the kitchen (Alison manages to spend most of the clean-up time answering texts on her mobile). We double-check that we've left no trace that we were ever here, and when it's time to leave I lock the door and replace the key under the mat. Then we all repeat the secret password: ‘Buttercream'.

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

T
hings just can't be going this well. I mean, this is my life after all. The next day, everything proceeds without a hitch. Gretchen and Alison say ‘hi' to me in the hallway, but that's it – acting friendly but not too friendly. Violet smiles at me from across the room as usual. Gretchen volunteers to help the teacher photocopy something, so she doesn't even need the loo pass. And in the canteen at lunchtime, there are no fights or vomiting. Everyone queues up and gets their piece of fruit tart, and makes ‘mmm-ing' noises and whispers how awesome it is, and how cool The Secret Cooking Club is. Best of all, Nick Farr still seems to
be a fan. I join the queue for a slice of fruit tart, and overhear him saying something to Gretchen. ‘You know, I wish I knew how to cook stuff like this.'

For a split second, I have a little fantasy – that all the noise in the room hushes up and everything goes into slow motion. All of a sudden, the universe is just me and him. I walk up boldly, tap him on the shoulder, and say, ‘Why don't you join us?'

But of course, I don't.

Instead, I just try to be happy that Nick Farr and everyone else seems to like the fruit tarts and respect the club that Violet and I started, even if they'll never know I'm involved. Or so I hope, anyway.

Because when lunch is over and things are back to normal, I'm aware of a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that won't go away. To quote one of my mum's favourite sayings in her blog: ‘Things that seem too good to be true usually are.'

After school, the four of us meet up at Mrs Simpson's house. We all say the password ‘Buttercream' on our way in, giggling a little at how silly it is to have a password. Everything is the same as when we left it the previous night. Gretchen and Violet are chatting about how much everyone
liked the tarts. Alison gets the little recipe book off its stand and starts flipping through it to see what we can cook today.

I go out of the kitchen to lock the front door – I'd forgotten to do it when we came in. A van is idling outside. I can't see anything through the stained-glass panel in the door, but I have the same strange feeling that I had earlier – this can't last. My heart thuds in my chest.

The others are laughing and talking loudly in the kitchen. I'm about to go and re-join them when I hear a voice outside the door. ‘You sure you can manage until the nurse comes tomorrow? I'm happy to help you inside.'

And then the shrill reply of a woman's voice. ‘Nonsense. I don't need anyone to help me do anything now I'm home. You can send your nurse if you like, but I won't let her in!' A key turns in the lock.

I stand there, paralysed. The door opens and I'm face to face with an old woman: Rosemary Simpson.

She takes one look at me and lets out a strangled cry of surprise.

‘Mrs Simpson, please – it's OK!' I rush forward and try to help her inside. Her hair is like wire escaping from a bun at her neck and she's leaning heavily on a cane.

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?' She holds up the cane with a gnarled hand and waves it at me. ‘Shoo . . .'

I step back to avoid the random swing and hold up my hands. I'm aware of the others just behind me, peeking out of the kitchen door. ‘I'm Scarlett,' I blurt out. ‘Your neighbour. I uh . . . I've been feeding your cat.'

Her eyes are bloodshot and wild. ‘Treacle? Where's Treacle? What have you done with him?'

‘Nothing,' I say. ‘The cat – Treacle? – hasn't been here the last few days. But I came over to check if it – he – is back.'

‘Treacle?' she calls out, craning her neck to look for him.

‘He isn't here.'

She whirls back on me. I cower another few steps backwards.

Violet comes up to my side. ‘Hi, Mrs Simpson,' she says, ‘would you like a cup of tea? We've got cupcakes left over from my birthday too. With buttercream icing and sparkles. They're really nice.'

The old lady blinks and leans forward. Her wrinkled face goes white almost like she's seen a ghost. ‘Cupcakes?' she says. ‘Buttercream?' She stares at the room around her like she's trying to place where she is. Her eyes settle on Violet. ‘Yes,
I'll try one.' She hobbles towards the kitchen. ‘And tea with two sugars and a dollop of milk.'

Gretchen and Alison make a quick retreat and start setting out cups and the last of the cupcakes on a plate. Violet sticks close to Mrs Simpson's side, pulling up a chair for her.

Alison puts the plate of cupcakes in front of the old lady, and Gretchen makes her a cup of tea. I stand well back out of the way. It's like the four of us are all holding our breath. Mrs Simpson lifts the cupcake in her trembling fingers, holds it to her nose and sniffs it. She peers closely at the icing swirls, the pink glitter, and the flower made of crystallized violets and rose petals in the centre. For a moment, she frowns. Then she takes a bite.

It seems to take for ever as she chews the cake with a clack of false teeth, and then swallows. I feel like I'm on national television awaiting the all-important verdict of the judges on
Bake Off
. Using her cane as a pivot, she swivels around in her chair and looks straight at me.

‘You,' she says, pointing a wizened finger. ‘You did this?'

My mouth goes dry as I try to speak. ‘You're right, Mrs Simpson, I started this. We shouldn't be here – I know that. And I'm sorry. We'll leave now and never come back. Or – you can call my mum if
you want. Please don't get my friends in trouble. It's all my fault, not theirs.'

‘No,' Violet says, ‘that's not true. We all did it. It's all of our faults.'

‘Hush!' Mrs Simpson doesn't turn around, but keeps staring at me. ‘This tastes like it has two teaspoons of baking powder in it. It should only have one. Don't they teach you girls any maths these days?'

‘Um . . . I thought I put in one,' Gretchen says. ‘I must have made a mistake.'

‘And the buttercream is too solid.' She turns to Violet. ‘You should have used a dash more milk. And a hint of vanilla, I think.' She licks her wrinkled lips. ‘Other than that . . . it's passable.'

‘Passable?'

She turns away from me back to the others. ‘You've shown that you can follow a recipe.' Her voice takes on a lecturing tone. ‘You can stir things together, put it in a tin and stick it in the oven.' She tsks. ‘And by the way, the flapjacks you brought me were under-baked in the middle. You should have cooked them longer at a lower heat.' Her hawk-like gaze turns to Violet. ‘And the crystallized violets were an interesting twist, but they made the whole thing too sweet. The bottom line is – you've found my kitchen and had your fun experimenting with your puddings and sweets.
But now . . .' She crosses her arms.

The word seems to echo around the room.

I bite my lip. She's going to tell us to leave—

‘. . . now, you need to learn how to cook.'