Page 101 of A Class Act

‘So, there were ten of us there, all at our own worktables just like onMasterChef.’

‘And?’

‘And we all had our white Yorkshire Christmas TopChef aprons on.’

‘Yes? And?’

‘With our names on the apron. Beautifully embroidered in red and green so they’d look Christmassy…’

‘And? The embroidery wasn’t up to standard? They spelled your name wrong?’

‘And it just never occurred to me, even when I eventually saw his name. The thing was, Robyn, I was so nervous, so desperate to get on with the actual cooking, that I didn’t really look at the other competitors.’

‘Name? Whose name, for heaven’s sake?’ I asked irritably.

Jess glanced across at Matt, who nodded slightly in my direction. ‘Look, Robyn, I think… possibly… maybe… yousaidhe could cook…’

‘He?Well, it can’t be Mason because he’s as terrible a cook as me; it can’t be Jayden because he’s still touring and it can’t be Fabian because he’s not from Yorkshire…’ I trailed off. ‘Fabian?’ I stared. ‘Fabian Carrington? Fabian was there?’

‘Well, it said Fabian on his pinny,’ Jess said, slightly huffily. ‘I mean, how many good-looking… all right, sorry, Matt… absolutelygorgeous-looking blokes called Fabian are there who can cook? Anyway, this Fabian bloke, me and another girl called Bea are through.’

‘Fabian’s not from Yorkshire, Jess,’ I interrupted crossly. ‘Just because there’s some bloke there calledFabiandoesn’t mean he’s suddenlymyFabian. For heaven’ssake, Jess!’ I felt my pulse, which had revved uncomfortably at his name and the possibility of his being just thirty miles or so away, now race out of control as I lost my rag with Jess. ‘And, if you remember, he’snotmy Fabian,’ I corrected myself. ‘Look,’ I went on, trying to speak calmly, ‘even if he lied and said he lived in Yorkshire, he’s far too involved in preparations for the Henderson-Smith trial to be having time off from London.Andto have entered himself into a provincial cookery competition.Andhe was nowhere near as good a cook as you, Jess.’

‘Notthatprovincial, Robyn.’ Matt was straight in there, defending the status of Yorkshire Christmas TopChef as well as his new love. ‘Focus Northwere there.’

‘They get around,’ I said irritably. ‘Look, Jess, just concentrate on the fact that you’re through to the final round next week. That’s fantastic. Well done. Let’s open a bottle to celebrate.’

‘Absolutely,’ Matt said, going to the fridge, where he’d placed a bottle of fizz earlier. ‘You’re through to the final, Jess. It may bejust a“provincial competition”…’ here he glared in my direction ‘…but you got there. You and the other two, whoever they are.’

‘So, what happens now?’ Sorrel asked.

‘Mum and the other two have to cook again next week.’ Lola, who’d just joined us in the kitchen, was totally overexcited. ‘Mum’s in the final three. And it’s on a Saturday, so can I come with you?’

‘Who was he with?’ I asked Jess idly.

‘Who was who with?’

‘This Fabian bloke?’

‘Why? Why does it matter?’ Jess said spikily, still upset that I’d had a go at her.

‘Just interested.’

‘Well, he came out of there really excited.’ Matt laughed. ‘And this absolutely ravishing blonde ran over to him and nearly knocked him over as she hugged him and showered him with kisses.’

‘Yes, absolutely ravishing,’ Jess agreed. ‘Although a bit over the top, to be honest.’

‘Hey, I kissed you.’ Matt smiled. ‘And she was nowhere near as gorgeous as you, Jessica.’

‘Keep on,’ Jess encouraged. ‘This is just what I want to hear.’

She leaned in, kissing Matt until both Lola and Sorrel chorused, ‘Yuck,’ and I was on the point of suggesting pouring a bucket of water over the canoodling pair.

While I was utterly thrilled that Jess was not only in the throes of a wonderful new relationship with the lovely Matt Spencer but also showing the world – well, OK, Yorkshire – what a great cook she was, and Sorrel was spending every available moment in StMede’s drama studio going through her audition moves, I was envious of both of them. I had to continually berate myself for feeling this way.

Mason had given me permission – and the key – to use the drama studio out of school hours, much to the chagrin of Jobsworth Ken, who refused to put the heat on while we were there and constantly stood at the door tutting while looking at his watch and asking how much longer before he could lock up and put the alarm back on. What he thought was going to be nicked from the place was anyone’s guess. Determined that Sorrel should win one of the coveted scholarship places at the Susan Yates Theatre School at the end of January, I was a hard taskmaster and on more than one occasion she flounced out and began walking home. But, on the whole, she worked her socks off before going round to Jess’s for help with her maths, while Jess simultaneously experimented with new recipes for the upcoming Yorkshire Christmas TopChef final.

The following Monday morning I was standing in for the PSHE teacher who’d gone home with – allegedly – excruciating period pain. I’d never got on with Sonya Harrington, whom I considered both unfriendly and arrogant, and, convinced her period pain was really a chance to get over to Meadowhall for Christmas shopping while it was relatively quiet, I wasn’t in the best mood for teaching her Year 8 class the planned lesson of ‘Learning to learn and the acquisition of thinking tools’.

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