Chapter 12
That afternoon Marnie sat at a corner table in the Tea Lady in Skipperstone trying not to believe that she was about to make the biggest tit of herself imaginable. Then again, how much worse could it get? She tried to concentrate on the menu in front of her because if she started thinking about what she was about to do, she would walk out.
A young waitress in a liveried black dress and white apron emerged from a door behind the till counter and waved to her. ‘Mrs Abercrombie will see you now,’ she said. Marnie stood up on shaking legs and picked up the large food container she had brought with her. She followed the waitress down a short corridor and knocked on the door at the end.
‘Come in,’ boomed a deep, smoky voice.
The waitress opened the door for Marnie then left her to it. Marnie walked into the small office balancing the plastic box with one hand, the other extended towards Fiona Abercrombie, a large buxom woman with short, cropped white hair and long dangly earrings.
‘Mrs Abercrombie, Marnie Salt. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’ Marnie’s own voice was a confident act belying a jelly interior.
‘Do sit down.’ Mrs Abercrombie indicated the chair at the other side of her desk.
Marnie sat and rested the box on her knee.
‘Ten out of ten for balls,’ said Mrs Abercrombie. ‘You intrigued me.’
Marnie had rung her that morning with the opening line: ‘Mrs Abercrombie. I have to say that as much as I love your tearoom in Skipperstone, your cheesecakes are appalling.’ She’d expected the phone to be slammed down. It hadn’t been.
‘Are those samples?’ Mrs Abercrombie pointed to the box.
‘Yes.’ Marnie peeled the lid from the large square container and lifted out the contents. Squares of cheesecake sat on foil. Marnie took her through the various flavours as every one was different.
‘Lime and ginger, white chocolate and raspberry, trillionaire’s shortbread, old English trifle, chocolate rum truffle, prosecco and strawberry, honeycomb and caramel.’
‘Goodness. You are inventive,’ said Mrs Abercrombie with a note of surprise in her words.
‘I can also do a gin, tonic and lemon one, pina colada, dark chocolate and coconut . . . well, any flavour you like. Even liquorice.’ Marnie handed her a plastic spork from a packet which she’d also brought.
Mrs Abercrombie dived straight into the trifle cheesecake.
‘The fruit didn’t have a lot of time to sit in the sherry so the flavour will be lacking, but I usually soak it overnight,’ Marnie explained, trying to read from Mrs Abercrombie’s expression what she thought. Was that a slight nod of approval?
Mrs Abercrombie moved on to the trillionaire’s shortbread now. There, a definite ‘mmm’ sound of appreciation.
‘Discretion absolutely guaranteed,’ said Marnie, which was obviously the wrong thing to say as Mrs Abercrombie shot her a look.
‘Erm . . . I mean that I have no idea what your present set-up is,’ Marnie quickly amended, ‘but, if you bought your cheesecakes from me, no one need think anything other than that they are made in the Tea Lady’s own kitchens.’
Crisis averted. Mrs Abercrombie moved on to the next sample.
‘Who else do you supply?’ she asked, after swallowing a mouthful of the chocolate rum truffle.
‘No one. I was taught by the best cheesecake maker in the world, who trained under Gaston Lenôtre in Paris,’ Marnie lied. ‘Family circumstances prevented me from pursuing my chosen career as a patisserie chef, but I have finally decided that I can no longer deny the reason I believe I was put on earth for. I have no interest in opening up a café or a shop, I don’t want to deal with the general public, only business to business.’
Lies came so easily when you half-believed them yourself, thought Marnie. No wonder Justin was so seasoned at them.
‘Interesting,’ said Mrs Abercrombie, studying the taste. ‘I detect something quite unusual. Too subtle to interfere, but a definite presence. What is it?’
Mrs McMaid’s secret ingredient, that’s what it was.
‘Ah, a pinch of something Lenôtre passed down to my mentor, and she to me. I would be breaking a solemn vow if I revealed it.’
‘Intriguing,’ mused Mrs Abercrombie. ‘They are excellent. What are your hygiene standards like?’
Marnie forced an affronted look. ‘Exemplary,’ she said. ‘You could do operations on my kitchen table. I have the highest standards.’
‘I would insist on a contract being drawn up, of absolute discretion. I would insist on a visit to your kitchens and the possibility of spot-checks. All cakes must be boxed at your end in my packaging which vans will collect and distribute. I have fifteen outlets. Have you time to sit down now and discuss full terms and conditions?’
‘Yes,’ Marnie said with a dry throat, so she coughed and repeated the word. ‘Yes.’
Mrs Abercrombie pressed a buzzer down on an old-fashioned intercom system on her desk. A crackly voice answered, ‘Yes, Mrs Abercrombie.’
‘Janet, have two teas sent through, please.’
Mrs Abercrombie drove a ridiculously hard bargain, but the profits would give Marnie a living wage – just. Nothing like what she earned at Café Caramba, but enough so that she didn’t have to survive on Cup-a-Soups and tins of tomatoes as she had for a spell in her first bedsit.
She sat in the car and took lots of calming deep breaths before setting off back home. Her mother’s voice was shouting in her inner ear, even more furious than usual: ‘What are you thinking, you stupid girl?’ She wasn’t thinking, was the honest answer. She was going with the flow, albeit a very strange flow.
That was step one. For step two, she picked up her phone and scrolled to ‘recent contacts’. Lilian Dearman picked up immediately.
‘Marnie, my dear girl. What a lovely surprise, how are you?’
‘Lilian, did you mean what you said about Little Raspberries? Could I rent it from you? Could I—’
Marnie was cut off by an exhilarated Lilian.
‘Of course, of course. I’ll ask Herv to cut the lawn and we will have it ready for you. When are you thinking of coming?’
‘Tomorrow, is that too soon?’
‘It’s not soon enough. I’m delighted. I’m absolutely delighted.’
As soon as Marnie got home, she set up a mail redirection service and informed the estate agent of her new address so they might forward anything that came for her until it kicked in. There was no point in changing all her documentation because she didn’t know how long she was going to be staying in Wychwell: a few weeks at most, she figured. Then – who knows?
She’d sold nearly all of her furniture to move in with Aaron, so she reckoned she could get most of what she owned into her trusty Renault. She called in at the local Quality Road bargain store because they always had a bank of boxes for people to take and then she emptied her kitchen cupboards into them. Books filled another two boxes, her clothes went into her three suitcases and her laptop, printer and stationery went in another. She filtered the items before packing and put plenty of things into black bin liners for the charity shop. For instance, she would never again wear the suit she had on when Suranna Fox was trying to scalp her. She would drop off some surplus bedding at the animal shelter. Amongst them the sheets that she and Justin had rolled around on when he visited that one time. And the towel he’d used when he came out of her shower – when he’d washed off their sex-odour and her perfume to make himself neutral for his wife.
By suppertime, her life was all packed up. She had a few boxes that she couldn’t fit in the car and rang her mother to see if she could store them in her cavernous garage. Her mother sighed and said that she supposed so. Everything Marnie said to her seemed to exasperate her. Marnie said she’d call round in the morning.
For once, she had no trouble at all going to sleep that night. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well or so deeply.