A Taste for Love Read online

  ‘Dad should give you more money,’ Sean said angrily.

  Alice hadn’t the heart to tell him that his beloved father wasn’t making the slightest contribution towards either of their living expenses.

  ‘Trish said something to me last night about cooking,’ Alice said.

  ‘Are you going to start making those buns again?’

  ‘No, Sean, not buns. I’ve had enough of them. No, what Trish was saying was: why didn’t I give cookery lessons?’

  ‘Cookery lessons? Where?’

  ‘Here in the house so I don’t have to go renting anywhere … maybe just one night a week to a small group of people.’

  She could see by his expression that he was mulling it over.

  ‘You should teach them how to make those great burgers you taught Conor and me to make. I made them for Becky the other night and she was blown away … I did the homemade barbecue sauce and everything to go with them and those big chips.’

  ‘She liked them?’

  Sean cooking for a girl! That was certainly a bit unexpected.

  ‘And do that Indian buttered chicken that Jenny and I like, and your carrot cake with the icing.’

  ‘So you don’t think it is a kind of crazy idea?’

  ‘Nope,’ he assured her. ‘Not at all. Lots of my friends’ mums have no idea how to cook. Colm’s mum, every time I go over, only makes sausages and chips or this yucky mince thing with pasta. I don’t know how he sticks it.’

  ‘Do you think people would come to classes?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum, but you’re a great cook and you were always showing us how to make things. Colm should get his mum to come along.’

  ‘Sean!’

  Making herself a mug of coffee, she couldn’t believe that Sean actually thought it was something she could do.

  She spent the rest of the week checking out cookery schools and seeing what they covered and how much they charged. She had sent off for some brochures and course itineraries. There were courses all over the country, the most famous being at the renowned Ballymaloe School in Shanagarry in Cork, but there were also ones in Ennis and Dublin and scattered across the country. Otherwise those with an interest in the culinary arts could head to one of the prestigious London or French cookery schools. Locally there were a few that ran all year round, and she couldn’t believe how expensive they were. Courses covered everything from basic first-step cooking to entertaining, Italian food, bread-making, vegetarian food and even barbecuing, which seemed very popular with men. Perhaps her course could be quite broad and cover a bit of everything, with the aim of putting good healthy food on the table for family and guests. She worked away on the computer, doing figures and trying to draw up a very rough guide to what she would hope to achieve if she set up her own cookery school here in Martello Avenue – The Martello Cookery School. Alice liked the sound of it.

  The weather was awful, and she dragged Lexy out for a quick walk even though it was so cold the wind burned her cheeks. She was back just in time to get ready to drive to the golf club to meet her dad for Sunday lunch.

  Sean had disappeared back upstairs to his room and was snoring under the blankets.

  ‘Aren’t you going to come to lunch with Granddad?’

  ‘No.’ He groaned. ‘Tell him I’ll call over to him after college on Thursday.’

  Conor and Lisa were joining them, but she knew her dad would be disappointed that Sean hadn’t made the effort to come to lunch, too.

  Barry O’Connor had his usual table in the dining room at the window, overlooking the eighteenth hole which, given today’s weather, was deserted.

  ‘It’s bitter out there today,’ he warned, as she hugged him and sat down.

  ‘I know. I had Lexy out earlier and it was even too cold for her!’

  ‘That dog’s got sense,’ Barry O’Connor joked. Alice was glad to see her father looking so well. He had been plagued with arthritis over the past two years or more, and often lately appeared stiff and sore. Today he looked relaxed in his tweed jacket and the new pale-blue winter shirt she’d bought him.

  They ordered quickly, all opting for the traditional Sunday roast beef with trimmings.

  ‘Lisa and I are going to Lanzarote next weekend for a break.’ Conor smiled.

  ‘It’ll be great to get away from this cold weather,’ added Lisa.

  Conor and Lisa had been going out since college and they’d moved in together last year. Alice hoped that in time they would get married, as they were a lovely couple.

  Conor, her eldest, reminded her at times of her dad. They both had the same eyes and dark hair and round faces, though Conor was as tall as Liam, but a totally different build. Conor was a big softy … he had always been like that, and bent over backwards to help people. He had studied pharmacy and now worked in the big chemist shop near Ballsbridge. He was ambitious and she knew that it was only a matter of time before her twenty-eight-year-old son eventually had his own business. Lisa was a radiographer and worked in Crumlin Children’s Hospital. She was a gorgeous girl with dark eyes and dark hair, and had a great sense of humour. It was no wonder that her young patients loved her.

  ‘While the three of you are here I wanted to sound something out with you … see what you think of it?’ Alice said nervously.

  They all looked at her expectantly, and she managed to steel herself to tell them.

  ‘I am thinking of opening a small cookery school in the house.’

  ‘A school?’ her father repeated, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, a cookery school … for people to learn how to cook! I’d give classes, show them how to make a dish, and get them to try to make it, too. All kinds of things: fancy dishes for dinner parties, and simple basic good food. Teach them about ingredients and loving food.’

  ‘Sounds great!’ encouraged Lisa. ‘You’re an amazing cook, and I keep telling Conor that I’m so lucky to have a boyfriend who can cook.’

  ‘Mum, you taught me how to cook!’ Conor joked. ‘So I think it sounds a good idea. How much are you going to charge, and how long will the courses go on for?’

  ‘Those are all things that I have to work out,’ Alice explained. ‘I’m going to meet Hugh and have a chat and get some good financial advice. I’m not a money-grabber, but this new venture of mine has to make a bit of cash as I’m pretty skint and only living on my savings. I will start off small and see how things go … maybe one night a week. And then if there is enough interest I can add more classes.’

  ‘That’s wise,’ said her eldest son. ‘Any kind of business set-up needs proper planning and organization. But, you know, Lisa and I are a hundred per cent behind you, whatever you do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alice said, leaning across and giving him a big hug.

  ‘Mary would have been proud of you,’ declared her dad. ‘She’d love to see you setting up a business of your own and making a go of it.’

  ‘I know,’ Alice said, trying to control her emotions.

  ‘You’ve had a very rough time the past two years with that husband of yours. Near broke my heart to see what he did to you and his family,’ her dad said slowly, fiddling with his napkin. ‘But now you are coming into your own … like the little Alice your mother and I sent off to Paris long ago … your head filled with ideas and new ways of doing things. All I want is to see you happy again. And if you need any help from your dear old dad, let me know!’

  ‘Dad, thanks,’ she said, giving him a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘To Alice,’ announced her dad, toasting her with some wine. ‘And this new venture of hers – her cookery school!’

  ‘The Martello Cookery School.’ She smiled, testing it out and getting used to the sound of the name. ‘The Martello Cookery School, that’s what I’m calling it.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Alice had run over everything with Hugh, the two of them hidden away in his den. Hugh got out his calculator and did all kinds of estimates and projections on the proposed cookery school.
/>   ‘I actually think it could be quite a nice little business,’ he concluded. ‘As long as you keep your overheads low and you are the main person giving the lessons. Fortunately, for the moment you don’t have to rent premises or hire staff or equipment, so your overhead costs are being kept to the minimum. So even though the class size is restricted you should still be able to earn a wage from it and also make a bit of profit.’

  ‘So you think it can work?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, fiddling with his glasses. ‘Obviously if it became more successful and you were giving additional cookery classes things would improve even more. The main thing is to be meticulous about purchases of foodstuffs, necessary kitchenware, electricity or gas. Remember to keep a record of everything, too.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised, suddenly beginning to feel excited about starting up a business of her own.

  ‘Alice, you’re sure that there is nothing that you have overlooked? Ovens, hobs, sinks, fans? Properly equipped kitchens cost a fortune, you know, and there is all that expensive cook-ware that Sally keeps buying!’

  ‘Honestly Hugh, I don’t think so. As you know I have my Aga and the fancy professional cooker I put in when we extended the kitchen, and my old electric one is still in the old part of the kitchen where the utility room is. It was very handy having all those ovens when I was baking cupcakes!’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, if I manage to get ten students, with the exception of having to buy a few small things for them to use – like some extra plastic mixing bowls and sieves and perhaps a few oven trays and colanders or knives – I think I’m pretty well set up. Despite Liam’s protests at the time, I treated myself to a proper cook’s kitchen with Betty’s money when she died.’

  ‘I know it’s an awful time to be starting up something,’ Hugh admitted, ‘but this is so simple, and the kind of thing people want to do! You are lucky that you don’t need to go to the bank, cap in hand, to borrow money, because at the moment they have clamped down on lending to small firms and on small projects like this.’

  ‘I want to do something for myself, Hugh. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure. I know how hard it’s been for you since you and Liam broke up,’ he said gently. ‘But I admire you for having the guts to go and do something for yourself. The country could do with a few more people like you who are willing to at least try something new … give it a go.’

  ‘The only thing I have to lose is my time and patience, and, if it all turns out to be a disaster, I suppose my pride!’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen, Alice. You’re a trained professional – a chef – and you are passing on your knowledge and skill to those willing to learn.’

  ‘Thanks for the confidence boost.’ She grinned, jumping up and giving him a hug. ‘And as my accountant I promise you I won’t go mad.’

  At home, Alice looked around her kitchen and made an inventory of every item she would definitely need. People didn’t mind sharing and taking turns, but there were some things a cook just couldn’t do without! She was still working out a week-by-week plan of the dishes she would cook, ranging from the simplest to the more complex, all things that she hoped her students would be able to cook themselves successfully.

  She had put an advertisement for ‘The Martello Cookery School’ in the local Dun Laoghaire Gazette, and also put some printed flyers up in some of the local shops and a laminated one on her gate. Already she had interest, with lots of people phoning and calling. Six were signed up to start in January.

  Chatham Kitchens was one of the best suppliers of kitchen utensils and kitchenware in the country and Alice went with her list in hand to choose the things she needed. It was a glory hole of fabulous kitchenware and Alice had to steel herself not to give into temptation and pile all the wonderful range of dishes and plates, and expensive saucepans and casseroles, into her trolley. There was stunning glassware, table linen, and gadgets to help a chef do everything from crush garlic and peel apples to mix the lightest, frothiest foams.

  She loved this shop. Loved the smells from its large spice section, and loved its display of kitchen fittings with smooth pull-out drawers and presses – it had a storage range that was utterly fabulous.

  She spent a glorious few hours picking exactly what she needed, determined not to stray too far from her budget. She checked and rechecked her list to make sure that she had forgotten nothing. In the linen section she added more tea towels and some extra sets of black and white striped oven gloves, and couldn’t resist the gorgeous black and white and lime green striped cook’s aprons which matched them. The aprons were reduced in price, and when she asked about them she was offered a hefty discount if she ordered a dozen.

  ‘Do you want your restaurant or company name on them?’ asked the assistant.

  ‘It’s not really a company,’ she tried to explain.

  ‘It only takes two days, and we’ll keep your details on file in case you need to reorder.’

  Before she knew it Alice found herself writing ‘The Martello Cookery School’ on the order form for the aprons. It would look so inviting, and, also professional she hoped.

  She had covered everything on her list, and she was about to pay when, in the safety section, she spotted kitchen fire-blankets and extinguishers. Hopefully these would not be put to good use, but they were an utter necessity in the kitchen, she decided, as she purchased two of each.

  As she drove home she couldn’t believe that she was actually one step nearer to opening her cookery school. If anyone had told her two or three years ago that she would be considering such a venture she would have said they were mad, but everything in her life was so different now, and she was no longer the complacent good wife who had mostly agreed to whatever Liam wanted. She had to stand on her own feet, try to pay her own way, and develop the capacity to earn over the coming years.

  Chapter Twelve

  Kerrie O’Neill looked at the congealed mess stuck to the bottom of her expensive Le Creuset casserole dish. Beef, tomatoes, onions, garlic and peppers had all lost any reasonable shape and were fused together into a sludge of brown misery which was like some sort of glue. Ugh. She poked it with her wooden spoon. Nasty, nasty, nasty and nothing like the glossy picture in her Jamie Oliver cookbook. The people who wrote those books and sold them should be locked up. What did they mean by saying this load of tripe was easy and simple to prepare? Jamie and his friends, off quaffing a glass of wine in the photograph, while Armageddon happened in her oven! She’d spent a fortune on the sirloin steak and organic onions and peppers, and now all she had was a pot of rice boiling on the hob and a great big lettuce salad. What was she going to give Matt for dinner?

  He was working late and she’d promised to have dinner ready when he got home. Usually he did the honours and was cooking for her when she got in … he was the best boyfriend ever, and living with him was perfect, but he had a right to expect her to turn out the odd meal that was edible. It was so frustrating! Everything she touched seemed just to go absolutely wrong … nothing she cooked or tried to make ever turned out right. She read the books. She studied the recipes, measured the ingredients exactly with the expensive kitchen scales she had invested in, and followed the method step by step, every time expecting some kind of decent result!

  Nigella, Rachel Allen, Jamie, Neven Maguire, Sophie Dahl, Gordon Ramsay, Domini Kemp … she wasn’t an idiot, but how did it happen that, despite slaving over their recipes, no meal she produced even vaguely resembled the glossy photos of their luscious dishes in the cookbooks? It wasn’t fair. Matt’s mum was a cordon bleu trained cook, and his girlfriend a useless one!

  She tested the sludge. It tasted burnt, and on closer inspection some of the meat was tough and blackened. Maybe it was their fan oven that did it. Was it too hot and burning the bejesus out of everything? God, what a mess! Better destroy the evidence before Matt got home, she thought, and getting the wooden spoon she began to scrape it all into the bin. She’d soak the pot, even thou
gh it looked like it could take days before the stain from the brown mess would wash off. Then she’d pop it into a bucket and throw a tea towel or two on top of it to hide the incriminating evidence. Maybe she should have phoned her mam and got her recipe for the beef stew she always made. The big pot of her mam’s concoction of meat and vegetables was a constant feature on the stove in the small red-bricked house on Riverfield Grove where she had grown up. The stew tasted even better by day two or three than when it was first served. It was almost like a soup by the time they all polished it off and got her mam to make a new pot. How did her mam do it? Turn out edible meal after meal? Kerrie certainly hadn’t inherited her mother’s talent for cooking.

  She gave a quick tidy around and retrieved the packet of beef bourguignon from the freezer. Polly’s Pantry, their local delicatessen, provided a huge array of their own chilled and frozen meals that could be easily reheated.

  Kerrie pulled the beef dish from its wrapper and packaging and reheated it in the microwave, turning it into one of her beautiful blue oven dishes. Then she poured in a drop of red wine from the open bottle on the counter before giving it a final touch by sprinkling on a few bits of red onion and some chopped parsley. It really looked homemade, she thought proudly, before popping it into her oven and hiding all the packaging in the bin.

  She loved Matt; loved to hear the sound of his key in the door, his heavy footsteps on the floor, the smell of his aftershave, the steady rhythm of his breath as he pulled her close to him. Matt was the man she truly loved, her other half, her better half, her fiancé. He was so kind and good and intelligent, and she still couldn’t believe that in only a few months’ time she would be married to tall dark handsome Matt, and would be Mrs Kerrie Hennessy!

  She was busy on the internet when Matt returned home.

  ‘Hey, that smells good!’ he said, smiling and kissing her.

  ‘It’ll be ready in a few mins,’ she warned, ‘so why don’t you get out of your suit and change?’