Kitabı oku: «The Happy Home for Ladies (of a certain age)», sayfa 4
Chapter 5
It’s thanks to my lucky stars that June hired me. Otherwise I’d have had to leave our little home town to find work after the bistro closed down.
The bistro was my first job out of catering college. It wasn’t overly fancy, at least not when I first started working there. It teetered somewhere between a builder’s caff and someplace that served food au jus. Set in the old town fishmonger’s shop, its walls were tiled white with a pretty Victorian green border running around the whole room. We only had seating for twenty-eight, with the open kitchen behind the old fish counter. Jen, my boss, kept as many of the original features as she could. Pale green ironwork surrounded the huge plate-glass front windows and door, which rattled awfully in winter, so we had a heavy velvet curtain in front to keep the customers from blowing away whenever someone came in.
There were fishy touches all over the restaurant: some of the original adverts for jellied eels and pilchards in old money, weighing scales with their enamelled dish on the battered sideboard. Fishhooks hung from the ceiling and the old barrel by the door held customers’ wet umbrellas. We even used the display counter – once upon a time piled with ice and seafood – for our desserts.
Jen had upmarket ideas when she hired me. Best of all, she believed in me. But, being fresh from catering college, I had yet to believe in myself.
I don’t mean that I didn’t have the skills. I knew my pâté from my parfait. I just didn’t have the confidence. Yet there I was, the new cook in a newly reopened bistro – Jen had the word ‘café’ prised off the front of the building, and ‘bistro’ just fit, though it always looked squashed together. I got to have complete say over the food we served. Once I got over the shock and stopped panicking, I started to love the job. Every week Jen and I sat down together so I could tell her what I was planning. I didn’t have to ask permission for my menu. My catering school friends were gobsmacked when I told them that. Most of them were prep cooks, waking at 5 a.m. to chop mountains of onions, and there I was, designing my own menus.
Jen was thrilled and so was I. Finally, finally, I was an actual cook, just like I’d always planned. I don’t want to paint it as the perfect job, because the hours were punishing and it was sweaty and nerve-racking. Still, it felt like my dream had come to life.
Within a few months we were gaining a good reputation around the town, and people had to book for dinner on weekends. And sometimes even for lunch. But no matter how packed the bistro got, my parents still weren’t convinced. ‘What do you want to do next?’ Mum asked every single time I visited, like I was working behind a McDonald’s counter instead of running my own restaurant.
‘This is what I want to do,’ I always answered. ‘Why else would I have gone to catering college?’
‘I still have no idea,’ she’d say, ‘when you could have gone to university. Though I suppose this could be a leg up the ladder, if you leverage it. But darling, you’ve got the brains to be on your way to the boardroom, not doing dishes in a kitchen.’
Maybe I shouldn’t be bringing this up now that Mum’s gone. After all, it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. But it was harsh, so there’s no use pretending that she was a saint. You may as well know what she could be like.
Mum always followed up with her main objection to my career plans: I should be challenging myself to do more than even my parents had. They were entrepreneurs with a successful building firm, but Mum always saw corporate jobs as better than what they had. That’s where you could really get a leg up the ladder. She and Dad did what they could without any education or family money. She wanted more for me.
The problem was that every time they told me I could be more, all I heard was that I was less. That’s hard to accept at any age. I was still a teen. Meanwhile, my brother did everything they wanted. Maybe his aspirations really did align with theirs, or maybe he was brown-nosing. Whatever the case, he made them happy while, as long as I worked in a kitchen, I wasn’t going to measure up to Mum and Dad’s dreams for me. No matter what I was doing there, no matter how perfectly it matched what I wanted to do. Even after I’d been head chef for six years and built the bistro into a restaurant with a waiting list for reservations, and won awards for my cooking, they weren’t as convinced about my success as I was.
The more they harped on about all the ways I could be doing better, the more I tried to ignore them. After all, I was happy with my progress. I was doing exactly what I’d set out to do. Their criticism couldn’t hurt me. At least, that’s what I thought.
Now I’m not so sure, because Mum’s not here anymore, and still there’s a nagging little voice in my head. It’s not paying me many compliments.
‘You’re miles away,’ June says, pushing my hand towards the glass of Pinot Noir she’s just poured. ‘Do I dare ask?’
‘I’m just thinking about Mum.’ We’re sitting at a corner table in our local pub. We’ve been coming here ever since we got each other dodgy fake IDs for our sixteenth birthdays. We’d never have got away with that in such a small town if the man who took over the business hadn’t been from outside the area. And short-sighted and desperate for business.
Even without the early memories, this is still my kind of pub: full of old wood panelling and mismatched tables and chairs, with soft lighting and no fruit machines or TVs showing football. Just lots of familiar faces and the happy buzz of conversations going on all around us.
I’m in my chef whites as usual, but June looks nice. She always wears smart trousers that suit her slender figure, and trendy tops – sometimes floaty and sometimes, like tonight, with cutaway shoulders, depending on what’s hot in Glamour – and she wouldn’t be caught dead in my clogs or with her hair scraped back in a ponytail. I probably embarrass her with my checked trousers and overuse of dry shampoo.
When June pulls her mouth into the sympathetic I’m-listening pout that she uses whenever one of the residents has a whinge, the guilt sweeps over me. She’s mistaking my words for nice, normal, missing-Mum-now-that-she’s-gone thoughts.
‘It will get better,’ June says. ‘It has only been a few months.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I wish it was that easy.’ But when she reaches for my arm, I say, ‘No, it’s not what you think. I’m really pissed off with her.’
‘For dying? That’s normal. It’s one of the stages of grief, remember the notes?’
She gave me a packet of papers after Mum died. June likes to be prepared for everything. With handouts. ‘Yeah, but that’s not why I’m angry. Which means it’s not normal and I’m some kind of freak of a daughter.’ Even though I hate admitting that, in a way it feels good to get it out. It feels so good that, once I start, I can’t stop myself. Even though June knows all this, she’s happy to listen.
I knew I wasn’t cut out for uni years before I breathed a word to my parents. I’m not like my brother, Will. By which I mean I’m not academically-minded or completely afraid to go against our parents. He was making plans for uni while he was still in primary school. But I’d discovered cooking by the time I was that age, and I loved every bit of it. Even the tedious prep work and the cleaning up. The idea of turning a bunch of ingredients into something completely different seemed like magic. It still does.
‘Everyone’s parents drive them bonkers, right, even though we love them?’ June nods at my question. ‘I mean, sometimes I couldn’t stand Mum when she was being so judgmental. Especially after the bistro burned down.’
One minute I was running my own kitchen, feeling like all the hot and sweaty work, awful early hours and miserly pay cheques were worth it. More than worth it. I was on top of the world.
And the next minute it was all gone. I was no longer a chef.
The worst part was that it wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t poisoned any critics or passed off horsemeat burgers or even taken our success for granted. Every single dish that came out of the kitchen was made with the same love and commitment. Then one stupid wiring fault put half a dozen people out of work, ruined a business and my career for a while.
That’s when I really needed the support, but Mum acted like the fire was the best thing that could have happened to me. She thought her daughter might finally make her proud. Now I could get a proper job, she’d said. That place was holding me back, she’d said.
We argued, Mum and I. A lot. That place was where I’d built my chef career. That place was where I was happiest. So, when Jen decided that she wasn’t going to bother to rebuild it, or find another building to reopen… well, you can imagine.
It was all well and good that she and her boyfriend were going to move to France. Hurrah for amour and all that. She’d been less interested in the restaurant since they’d started going out anyway, but what was I supposed to do now?
Mum and Dad thought they had the answer. I could buy out Jen and own the bistro myself. It might not be as good as being a banker like my brother, but it was a start. At least I’d be a businessperson instead of just a cook.
They wouldn’t accept that I love being a cook. This is what I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve got no interest whatsoever in being a businessperson, even when that business is a restaurant. I’d watched Jen struggle with all the paperwork and worry about hiring and firing. The taxes and business rates and marketing. No, thank you. I just want to cook food that people love to eat. That’s why I went to school, not to end up a business owner who also cooks.
I think that was the last straw for my parents.
‘You never got a break,’ June agrees. ‘And it was unfair because of the way they treated Will, like he was the golden boy who could do no wrong. That would have pissed anyone off.’
‘It still does,’ I say. ‘But what am I supposed to do about it now? I can’t yell at her, can I? Or make her realise she was wrong, that I love what I do. I’m perfectly happy. I missed my chance to make her understand, and now I’m stuck with all this… stuff. Where’s it all supposed to go?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ June says. ‘Would it make you feel better to yell at her grave? I’d go with you, so at least we’d both look deranged.’
That’s a true friend. We both laugh at the idea. It feels good.
She glances at her phone as it vibrates on the table. ‘Please tell me you’re seeing Callum soon,’ I say. I can tell by her smile that it’s his text. ‘When are you going to stop torturing the poor bloke?’
She giggles. ‘Believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts him. I’d jump on him every second of every day if I could.’
‘You can,’ I remind her. ‘Speaking as someone who hasn’t done any jumping in ages, why wouldn’t you?’
It’s a rhetorical question. We’ve been over June’s entire strategy a million times, but I let her tell me anyway. ‘Because the more I keep him at arm’s-length, the keener he seems to be. I can’t suddenly throw myself at him now. He’d run a mile.’
‘But June, don’t you want someone who throws himself back at you when you do that? If he’s only interested because you’re acting like you don’t care, then that’s not an honest relationship. Don’t look at me like that,’ I say at her hurt expression. ‘I’m not saying that’s why he likes you. I’m saying he’d probably be insanely nuts about you anyway so you don’t have to pretend. Then again, I’m the last person who should be giving you relationship advice.’
‘It does no good to keep beating yourself up, you know,’ she says. ‘You made one error in judgment. Nick’s not holding a grudge, so you shouldn’t, either.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I mean a grudge against yourself, and you are. Let it go. You’re just as close as you ever were and I’m sure he doesn’t even think about it now.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sure he does still think about it and it wasn’t an error in judgment. It was a massive foul-up.’
Chapter 6
‘What about dinner, two courses only, in a public place,’ Davey says. ‘And since you’re one of those feminists, I’ll even let you pay.’
Anyone who objects to sexual harassment is ‘one of those feminists’, in Davey’s mind. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. ‘Sorry, no.’
‘Okay, I’ll pay, and we’ll skip starters. Main course only and you can pick the restaurant.’ He punctuates his proposal with a head-shimmy chest-rub combo.
His Morrison’s green uniform doesn’t look horrible on him, but he must know it’s not his best look. I’ve got to give him credit for persevering with his seduction attempts every time he makes a delivery.
‘No.’
Especially when he always gets the same answer.
‘Drinks? One drink?’
‘Davey, don’t you have other deliveries to get on with?’ I don’t feel like humouring him today. I forgot to defrost the lamb last night and now I’ve got to come up with something else for lunch. We had quiche yesterday. The women went for second helpings, but I can’t do it two days in a row.
‘You’re a tough one, Phoebes, but I love a challenge.’
That must be why he never gives up. June is right. The more a woman plays hard to get, the more the bloke tries hard to get.
And I hate when he calls me Phoebes. ‘Davey, really. You’re wasting energy on something you don’t even really want.’ I tuck a lock of hair back into my ponytail, catching a whiff of minty shampoo as I do. It makes a nice change from the usual pina colada scent of my dry shampoo. ‘You should aim higher,’ I tell him. ‘There must be better options around.’ Davey deserves someone who’s actually interested in him.
‘Not in my delivery area,’ Davey says. ‘Besides, I don’t mind a fuller-figured woman,’ he says. ‘And you’re not bad-looking, Phoebes. You might look hot if you made any effort.’
‘Thanks, I think, but I’m happy with the effort I make.’ I might not look like I’ve stepped from the pages of a magazine, unless that magazine is Foodservice Equipment Monthly. But I’m generally tidy and mostly clean. It’s not my fault that beauty standards are over the top. Perhaps expectations should tone down instead of expecting us to step up. Not everyone wants false lashes and statement lipstick, or to be filled, plucked, tucked, straightened, glossed or buffed.
He stacks his plastic boxes to carry back to the truck. ‘Same time on Thursday?’
‘Yeah, thanks, Davey. See you later.’
I know. I’ll do pizza. I was going to use the basil for a pesto pasta, but I can roast some vegetables and use it with the goat’s cheese. Maybe toast some pine nuts. Though Sophie won’t like the carbs in the base and she’s already told me off twice this week. The butter in my home-made granola offended her and she hasn’t had enough purple in her diet.
The aubergines take just a minute to slice and throw into a roasting tray filled with cold salty water. She’ll probably kick off about that too, but it’s what makes them taste so good when they’re roasted. There’s your damn purple food, Sophie.
I quickly knock up a dough and set it in the old boiler cabinet to prove.
I love it when I get a few minutes like this to relax and think about what I want to cook next. That used to be my favourite part of my job at the bistro. I usually designed my menus on Monday, when we were closed. Sitting at the table in the window with my notebooks and all the old menus, I got to let my imagination run loose. What was in season? Was the brown crab in yet at the fishmonger, or the pheasant at the butcher? Did the apricots look good at Peter Pepper’s or were there English strawberries at the fruit stall? Sometimes I foraged in the countryside for wild herbs like sorrel for a sauce to use over mackerel, or mint or bay for home-made ice creams. There were always elderflowers in summer to make cordial, and velvety oyster mushrooms for my stir-fries.
I still forage when I’ve got time, but I’m a little more restricted now with the other ingredients. Everything has to come through Davey’s supermarket deliveries and the budget is a lot tighter. Max would lose his mind if I blew the week’s shopping budget on beautiful Brixham crabs in summer or the Gower salt marsh lamb in the autumn.
But I like that challenge too, to make the best dishes I can with what I’ve got.
June pops her head around the corner. ‘Max wants to see us.’
‘What, now?’ It’s 10 a.m. in the middle of the week. He’s supposed to be at work.
The home is a side business for Max. He followed his father into accountancy, for some firm down in Ipswich. That’s why he usually leaves us alone, except on Saturdays, when he likes to play Lord of the Manor in front of the residents’ families. ‘Did he ring first?’
June shakes her head.
That’s never a good sign.
Nick and Max are already in the office when we get there. It has only two desks – one pushed up against the wall and heaving with three-ring binders – and two chairs, but none of us sits down. Nick leans beside me against the spare desk, careful not to knock over any piles. When he crosses his long legs at the ankle, I can see the muscles flex in his thighs beneath his jeans. Which just sends my imagination soaring, though I manage to stop myself before I get too carried away.
I really do need to accept that we’re only friends. I say ‘only’, but that’s pretty good, right? Friends can last a lifetime. It’s proving harder than I thought, but I can get over Nick. Really, I can. I would have already if it weren’t for his perfect smile. And the way it plays on those kissable lips, and his faintly tanned complexion and deep brown eyes that I could gaze into for hours.
Shite. I’ve been staring at him again.
I have had a strong word with myself about all this, but obviously I’ve not been persuasive enough.
June pulls down the hem on her top and smooths the front of her trousers. That’s her I-mean-business adjustment. ‘What’s going on, Max?’
Max doesn’t adjust anything. He always means business. He’s wearing his usual suit trousers, shiny black shoes and a rumpled white shirt, with the buttons straining over his tummy. ‘First, I’ve got some good news.’ He flashes us a smile. He’s got bad teeth. They all slant in, except for his canines, which stick out. That gives him a vampirish vibe, though he’s much more of a Muppet Count von Count than he is the hot bloke from Twilight.
June and I glance at each other. If Max has a ‘first’ bit of good news, that means there’s a ‘second’ bit that’s bad.
‘I’ve found a new waitress and she can start as soon as tomorrow. I told you we’d sort something out to replace Mary.’
And not a moment too soon, either. Nick has been helping with the lunch service and I’m handling dinner, slowly, but it’s not really fair for us to work harder just because Max’s father can’t keep his hands to himself.
The worst part is that it was Mary who always brought Maggie – the madam – her meals upstairs. Maggie holds a grudge against Amber, the other waitress, for once being on the phone while she brought up the tray. She’s banned Amber from the room ever since.
Now that I’ve got to do it, I dread climbing those stairs to the top of the house. I’d love to just drop her tray off and leave, but she makes me sit there while she tastes everything and gives me a full critique.
At least I won’t have to deal with her now that there’ll be a replacement for Mary. ‘That’s good,’ I say to Max.
‘No, it’s not,’ June objects. ‘Max, all hiring is supposed to go through me. We agreed that, remember? Either I’m running your business or I’m not. Who is this person, anyway?’
‘You’re going to love her,’ Max says. ‘It’s my daughter, Tamsyn. She’s just come back from her year abroad and she’s looking for work.’
Even Nick thinks that’s preposterous, judging by the snort next to me.
‘Max,’ June says in her talking-someone-down-off-a-ledge voice, ‘you can’t just give jobs out to your family.’
Ooh, she’s really pissed off now. She’s practically whispering.
Max draws himself up to his full height, which is over six feet, though I sometimes forget because he seems like a much smaller man. ‘June, I own this home, so I assure you, I can hire whomever I like. You need a waitress and I have someone who’ll do the job for minimum wage. You didn’t even have to interview her. That saved you time and effort. You don’t need to put her on the payroll. That saves paperwork.’
That also saves Max having to pay her National Insurance. Now I see. Our new waitress will be working under the table.
June knows it’s no use arguing with our boss. He only digs his heels in harder. ‘What’s your other news?’ she asks.
I dread to think, if he calls foisting his daughter off on us good news.
Max looks happy to be moving on. ‘You know my father isn’t well.’
We all nod. It had come to our attention.
‘We didn’t want it to come to this,’ Max says, ‘but he can’t keep living on his own in that house. It’s not safe, and too much time alone is making him difficult.’
Nick snorts again. I dig him in the ribs. If Max wants to believe that his father is, deep down, a normal functioning human being, then we should let him.
‘So, we’ve decided to move him for his own good.’
Max’s pale eyes are glistening and red. Is he getting emotional? I didn’t think he cared that much, but I suppose he must love his father, even if he doesn’t like him.
I make a sympathetic face at his news, only because that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone tells you they’re putting a parent in a home. Everyone here will be glad to get rid of Terence.
‘I’m sorry,’ June says. ‘Have you told your dad?’ When Max nods, she says, ‘Did he take it well?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s looking forward to it.’
Well, that must be a relief for them. Nobody wants to see Terence, as unpleasant as he is, being dragged away.
Max fishes a Kleenex out of his trouser pocket to blow his nose. ‘Damn allergies. It’s the tree pollen. I need another tablet. Anyway,’ he continues, ‘he’d like his old room. My parents’ room, the front corner one on the first floor. It shouldn’t be too much hassle to move whoever’s in there, with all the spare bedrooms.’
It takes a second for that to sink in.
‘He’s moving in here?!’ June blurts out as my mouth falls open. Max is moving Terence into our home? Not some nice, faraway place where we’ll never have to set eyes on his miserable face again? ‘He can’t move in here,’ June goes on. ‘You cannot move him here. Max, this is the Happy Home for Ladies. That’s how your mother set it up. Men aren’t allowed. It’s for ladies.’
Terence is definitely no lady. ‘Why can’t you put him somewhere else?’ I ask.
‘Do you have any idea how expensive residential care is?’ Max snaps. ‘I mean somewhere normal. The rates are twice as high anywhere else as they are here. This place is barely staying afloat. I can’t afford to pay fees for him. And why should I, when there are perfectly good bedrooms upstairs? I’m only being practical.’ He holds his hands up in front of him, like that will protect him against June once she gets going. ‘I don’t expect an argument about this, June. It’s my business, not yours. The incorporation papers say that it’s set up for women, you’re right. But there’s nothing legally prohibiting men from living here too. I checked with a solicitor, so you don’t need to worry about breaking any rules.’
That is so not what’s worrying any of us.
‘You’re going to get an argument from the residents when you tell them, Max,’ June says calmly.
‘I’m not telling them,’ he says. ‘That’s your job. You’re the manager. Besides, you’re all so friendly with them that I’m sure you’ll find a way to tell them so they understand. The other option is that we increase their fees so I can afford to put Dad somewhere else.’
He knows most of the women couldn’t pay more fees. There is no other option.
He looks at his phone. ‘Now, I’ve got to go back to work. I’d like Dad moved in as soon as possible, please, and we can get that cottage up for sale.’
‘He can’t do this,’ June says as soon as Max leaves.
Nick shrugs. ‘He is doing it.’
‘And it sounds like he can,’ I add. ‘Let’s not tell anyone just yet. We’ll think of the best way to do it.’
‘We’ll do it together,’ Nick tells June. ‘There’s safety in numbers.’
Not that I won’t pounce on any old excuse, but I could kiss him for being in this together with us when he doesn’t have to be. He’s too nice to leave June to break the news alone.
‘June, try not to worry too much,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll figure something out. If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll quarantine him.’
‘We could brick him into his room,’ she says.
‘Or make him wear a bell,’ answers Nick. ‘Our cat had one to warn the birds.’
Unfortunately, our birds can’t fly away when they hear it. ‘I’ve got to get back to the kitchen or lunch will be late. I’ll come straight back after.’
The pizza dough will need knocking back soon. I can pound all my frustrations into it.
It doesn’t take long for us to decide that the residents need to know about Terence sooner rather than later. It’s only fair to let them have as much time as possible to get used to the idea. As if one could ever get used to an idea like Terence.
There’s no good time to pull people away from the TV, though. Between Loose Women, Judge Rinder, Escape to the Country, Antiques Road Trip and Come Dine With Me, plus all the evening programming, someone is going to whinge. As it is, there’s a running battle over whether to watch Countdown or Judge Rinder.
But this is important, so everyone is rounded up into the huge lounge. If a stranger were to look at our residents, they’d probably see a relatively homogeneous group of seventy- and eighty-somethings – mostly grey and mostly wrinkled. So far, so mundane. But they couldn’t be more wrong. These women are anything but boring.
You might mistake Dot, with her apple-green reading glasses on a delicate gold chain around her neck and her habit of wearing forties-style day dresses with sturdy shoes, for just a mild-mannered English literature teacher. They’d never think that she’d been with the protesters flour-bombing the Miss World contest in Royal Albert Hall or had chained herself to Downing Street’s railings during the Vietnam protests. Beneath that genteel veneer of old lady sweetness beats the heart of a revolutionary.
Every single woman here has a story. Some are personal triumphs and battles. Others touch history. From Christine, who’s been through about half a dozen different kinds of cancer and beat them all, to Judy, our reigning Scrabble champion, who took her driving test seventeen times. Not seven. Seventeen. She never did pass, but you’ve got to admire that kind of determination, and wonder why someone who can come up with seven-letter triple-word scores isn’t able to reverse park.
There’s Maureen, who’s been to circus school, and sisters Ruth and Shirley, who married brothers and spent most of their lives in Uganda. Sue was a hospice nurse during the worst of the AIDS crisis in the eighties, and Ann-Marie is a qualified plumber, which comes in handy because our pipes aren’t what they should be. And Rosemary had nine children. Nine! That should qualify her for some kind of medal for valour.
Most of these women aren’t a big part of this story, but make no mistake: in real life, they’re far from invisible old people. They’re the people that surround me every day, and because of them, I can’t imagine a better job.
I’ve even convinced Maggie to come downstairs. She’s sulking off to the side in one of the wing-backed reading chairs. It’s one of the grey ones, so aside from her aqua and black long silk cardigan, she blends almost perfectly into the furniture.
We keep all the chairs and love seats clustered in little groups around the antique coffee tables. That way, nobody has to sit on their own. But Maggie took one look at our thoughtful configuration and dragged her chair to the wall. She’s sitting ramrod-straight in it, coolly appraising the other women.
Naturally, they’re curious about her. Aside from these sporadic enforced meetings, sightings are as rare as those of Bigfoot. Clearly that’s the way Maggie likes it.
But I’m not afraid of her.
All right, I’m a bit afraid of her, but June needs everyone to be as amenable as possible when we break the news, so I pull a chair up close to Maggie’s. Her look of disdain nearly makes me back up. ‘Isn’t the sun lovely in here?’ She can’t object to a weather chat. It has been greasing the wheels of awkward social interaction since the dawn of time.
‘I don’t know how anyone can watch the TV with all that light,’ she says, shooting a dirty look at the French doors that run all along one wall. ‘Those curtains need to be drawn to see anything.’
‘Well, the TV’s not on now.’
‘Yes, thank you, that’s obvious.’
I will not run away. I will not. ‘Do you have any programmes you like to watch?’
‘No.’
‘I like those mystery dramas, especially the foreign ones. Did you watch The Killing? No, no, you said you don’t… I like Jamie Oliver’s shows. And Bake Off, and I used to like MasterChef, but I’ve gone off it recently. The professional one is okay, I guess, if there’s nothing else on.’
She’s just looking at me. Possibly praying to make me stop rambling.
‘I didn’t know that you’re a doctor,’ I say. Now I’m grasping at straws.
‘I’m not.’
‘Oh. But I thought June said you were.’
Maggie narrows her eyes. Anxiously, I wonder if June has broken some patient confidentiality rule. ‘I am not anymore.’
I can’t control my gasp. ‘Were you struck off?’ This is way more interesting than talking about the weather or what’s on TV.
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