The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!

‘Yes, of course,’ she says.

I finish the call and phone Julie who, as ever, is delighted to take on my shifts.

‘So did Stevie come up with something after all?’ she asks.

‘Sorry?’

Julie laughs. ‘For your birthday. I assume he’s taking you away?’

‘No,’ I say, with a dry chuckle, ‘but I am going away – by myself. I’ll explain when I see you, okay?’ Then I call Shirley again, trying to sound level and calm, as if visiting luxury hotels to learn to make tarte au citron is a pretty regular occurrence for me. ‘I can start the course tomorrow,’ I say firmly.

‘Really? Well, that’s great!’ She sounds genuinely happy for me. ‘I know the cash prize was tempting but this is an unforgettable experience, isn’t it? Possibly even life-changing.’

Chapter Seven

Guilt Cakes

Of course I plan to tell Morgan. I’ll do it when I’ve calmed down and feel more kindly disposed towards him. In the meantime, I pull out my wheeled suitcase from beneath my bed, wondering how it’ll feel to be there, on my own – with no Morgan or Stevie or Mrs B making any demands upon me whatsoever. Freedom! That’s what Wilton Grange represents. I’m not even that fussed about the cookery aspect. What is classic French cookery anyway? Steak and frites? Or things slathered in rich sauces? I have no idea. I have never even been to France. We weren’t the going-abroad kind of family but then, hardly anyone was in 1970s Yorkshire.

Plus, I’m not the fancy cooking type. Before having Morgan I pretty much survived on things on toast, and as a mother I’ve been a distinctly workaday cook, intent on providing the kind of meals my ever-ravenous child would approve of. This has tended to involve an awful lot of crumb-coated things to shove in the oven.

I glance at the hotel’s website again. My mild panic about grappling with unfamiliar ingredients is offset by visions of me lying in a huge, claw-footed bath. As for Morgan, it’ll be good for him to fend for himself for a week: a sort of intensive training week in preparation for independent adult life. So in some ways, I’m doing him a favour.

I haven’t told Stevie yet either. As I try to play down the dinner lady aspect of my life, he doesn’t even know about my award; anyway, we haven’t spoken since we said goodbye in the Charnock Richard car park. ‘Crazy busy the next few days,’ was his parting shot. Perhaps, I muse, a little break will do us good. Absence, heart fonder and all that.

As per their custom, Morgan and Jenna spend all morning in his room and, when lunchtime rolls around, they amble downstairs and head out without giving any clue as to where they might be going. I’ll tell him as soon as they come back. I wonder how best to put it? I know you had high hopes for that money, darling, but I’m going to learn to do clever things with mussels instead. Christ, better just get it over with, as soon as he comes home.

I fetch my suitcase and carry it through to my former bedroom, where most of my clothes are stored. So, what to pack for Wilton Grange? Shirley has sent me an email:

Casual, comfy clothes are required in the kitchen (aprons provided)

Flat shoes only

No jewellery please

Long hair must be tied back

Mine needs a cut urgently but unless I hack at it myself there’s no time for that. I dig out trousers and tops, plus a couple of dresses, all found in the PDSA shop: so much more satisfying than shopping in a regular high street chain and just selecting your size off the rail. I mean, where’s the challenge in that?

Not bad, I decide, dropping in my utilitarian navy swimsuit for the spa and surveying my neatly folded clothes. I add underwear and pyjamas and gather together my toiletries. Silly, I know, as the hotel will provide them, but just in case …

And that’s me, all ready and raring to go. It’s been eerily simple, and unhurried, compared to the last-minute packing I tend to do when Stevie calls. I plan to leave at 6.30 tomorrow morning at the latest, allowing extra time so I’m not the one rushing late into the welcome reception, whatever that is. Now I just want Morgan to come home so I can break the news.

Feeling more kindly disposed now, I drive to our nearest, rather uninspiring supermarket and stock up on enough provisions to nourish my son for an entire month, including Rolos and Fondant Fancies and fruit, which I’m bound to find withered on my return, plus industrial quantities of minced beef. Back home, I make an enormous pot of chilli (Morgan complained that my last batch was ‘too oniony’, perhaps food critic could be another career option?) and another of bolognaise, all to keep him going throughout the week. It feels as if I am preparing for impending war. I know it’s ridiculous but it’s making me feel marginally better about abandoning my child. In the same vein I also shape four burgers, wrapping them individually in greaseproof paper, writing ‘1 burger! Enjoy! xx’ in felt tip across the top. I realise my catering has involved an awful lot of minced beef but at least he’s unlikely to become anaemic.

By teatime – still no reappearance of Morgan – the chilli and bolognaise have cooled sufficiently to be ladled into individual cartons and labelled MON/TUE/WED/THUR/FRI: saves him having to make any tricky decisions over what to eat. We also have chicken nuggets which he’s perfectly capable of putting in the oven … and then forgetting they’re there. Plus there’s the Chinese and chippy if he gets really desperate.

Vince would say I’ve lost my mind. He’d point out that my extensive preparations are a small step from cutting up his fish fingers and tucking in his bib. However, as I plan to make the very most of every moment at Wilton Grange, I don’t want to worry for one second that Morgan is suffering from malnutrition. And now – perhaps I really am losing it – I make a batch of fairy cakes, scooping out their centres when they’re done and making them into little wings as if Morgan were seven years old. Sorry for buggering off like this, my butterfly cakes say. Sorry for not getting you the unicycle tyre and for being a mad middle-aged woman who’s probably having some kind of hormonal collapse.

I while away the evening rechecking my suitcase and willing Morgan to show up so I can tell him. I ping him a message: when u coming home? No reply, unsurprisingly. We’ve passed the stage where he felt obliged to keep me informed of his movements.

I text Vince: I’ve won a prize! A week at a cook school in Buckinghamshire. Leaving tomorrow. M will be home alone all week.

Wow amazing! Very proud of you, comes his swift reply.

Thanks, I type, but M will be ALL ALONE. Am I wrong to be terrified?

His reply takes longer this time: He’s a fully grown man, remember?

Easy for him to say, being spared the daily discussions – ‘naggings’, Morgan calls them – about what our son might do next with his life. Rifling through my purse, I dump a bundle of notes on the table, weighted down with the pepper grinder, for emergencies. Guilt money. The one thing I don’t do is gather up all the stray pants. In fact, and perhaps I really am losing it now, I drag out the plastic box of Morgan’s old toys from the cupboard under the stairs. It’s full of ratty old teddies, plus the Action Man I got for a quid on eBay, which he made into a spy – demanding that I made him a tiny Fedora hat, like the dented one here that was pretty much welded to his head during his entire spy phase, and which I found him sleeping in once. There are dog-eared books on codes and cyphers that I’ve been keeping for … what exactly? And here it is, precisely what I’m looking for: the tub of jumbo chalks he’d used to draw mysterious symbols on the pavement outside our house (only other spies would understand their significance).

Selecting the white one, I creep around the living room and carefully draw an outline around each pair of dropped pants. It’s just a joke, I tell myself. He’ll notice when I’m gone and he and Jenna will have a good laugh about his nutty mum. Only … I’m not quite sure it is funny. In fact, I fear that I am overly obsessing about pants, and that simply picking them up and depositing them into the wash might be an altogether more sensible solution.

I put the chalks back into the box and shove it back under the stairs, and get on with the task of clearing up the kitchen. That’s when I spot it, dumped in the bin: the Christmas present from me, carefully chosen as I thought he liked checked shirts, seeing as he wears one slung over a T-shirt nearly every day of his life. It’s red, blue and white, in soft brushed cotton, and is lying there with a couple of wet teabags sitting on it. He has thrown it away. I blink down at it, wondering why it didn’t occur to him that this might be hurtful to me. I mean, okay, get rid of it – discreetly. Stuff it in a litter bin in the park, hand it to a homeless person or drop it off at the charity shop. But don’t dump it on top of the tuna cans and takeaway cartons and – I notice now – the application form for part-time work at the leisure centre that I picked up for him.

The front door flies open, and I hear Morgan and Jenna tottering in. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he calls out tipsily from the hallway. ‘You there?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ I mutter, fury bubbling inside me.

‘Been at the pub. Just gonna go up to bed, okay?’

I glance at my cakes sitting all smugly under their glass dome. ‘Fine,’ I growl, scrunching up the empty flour packet and dropping it on top of the shirt.

‘Don’t know what’s up with her,’ Morgan remarks as, giggling, he and Jenna make their way up to his room.

I don’t follow them up, and nor do I inform him of my plans when my alarm goes off with a ping at 5.50 a.m., because a hungover teenager – any teenager in fact – is incapable of conversation at this kind of hour. Anyway, what does he care whether I’m here or not? Instead, I shower quickly and slip into a favourite floral print dress, plus a pair of ballet flats. Then, as quietly as possible, I creep downstairs with my suitcase.

Morgan’s wish list is still lying on the kitchen table. The damn cheek of it, and on my birthday as well. On its blank side I write:

Chapter Eight

Motorway Muffins

I should feel euphoric as I drive south. After all, I deserve this. I should be zipping along, music blaring and a huge smile on my face, like a woman in a movie about to embark on a life-changing adventure. The fact that I’m not is due to one horrible dark thought, currently flooding my senses: I didn’t leave defrosting/reheating instructions. Yes, I’m still angry – but more at myself now for being unable to switch off my maternal concern. Surely Morgan is savvy enough to cope with a Tupperware carton of frozen bolognaise? He’s a bright boy, when he chooses to engage his brain. He’s hardly going to hack away at it with an ice pick. Even so, I keep picturing his crestfallen face as he reads my note, and another alarming thought engulfs me: what the hell am I playing at?

I pull off at a service station – one we haven’t stayed at, I must alert Stevie to this – and buy an Americano and three muffins, one for now and two for later, in case the hotel restaurant’s portions really are as tiddly as they looked on the website. From a small, greasy table by the window I fish out my phone and try Morgan’s mobile. It’s only 9 a.m., of course he’ll still be asleep, I remind myself as it goes to voicemail. ‘Could you call me?’ I say, aware that there’s little chance of him even playing the message. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I add before ringing off.

Next I try Stevie, who doesn’t answer either. ‘It’s me, love,’ I inform his voicemail. ‘Look, er, I’m …’ I tail off. It’s not the kind of thing I want to explain via a message, especially with my voice sounding terribly loud in the almost deserted café. ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ I explain quickly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when we speak.’

Feeling marginally better, I pick at one of the muffins and call Kim. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this!’ she exclaims.

‘I know, I really should have told him last night …’

‘No, not that part.’ She chuckles. ‘I mean being spontaneous like this. It’s so unlike you!’

‘Thanks,’ I say with a dry laugh, although she’s right.

‘Well, good for you, Aud. It sounds amazing. It’ll be good for Morgan too, force him to stand on his own two feet …’

I bite my lip. ‘Um … if you’re passing the house, would you mind popping in to check he’s okay?’

Small pause. ‘What on earth for?’

‘Oh, you know, just to make sure everything’s all right. I mean, it’s your place, I don’t want it burnt to the ground …’ I am only half-joking.

She laughs loudly. ‘Aud, he’s not a baby. Just go away and enjoy yourself, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I say, dabbing at the muffin crumbs on the plate with a wet finger. ‘I will, promise.’

‘Good. So repeat after me: “Nothing’s going to happen. Everything is going to be fine.”’

She’s right: my boy is old enough to get married, to fight for his country or be sent to a proper adult jail. ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ I repeat, crossing my fingers firmly under the table, ‘and everything is going to be fine.’

*

It’s terribly picturesque, this part of the world. I see no litter or graffiti as I pass through pretty villages, the kind that still have a proper village store, with a tray of penny sweets, I’d imagine, and a kindly lady serving behind the counter. Then the villages fall behind and it’s just winding country lanes for miles until, finally, I round a bend and spot the elegant sign on a high, moss-covered wall:

Wilton Grange Hotel

Luxury accommodation * Michelin-starred restaurant * World-renowned cookery school

My heartbeat quickens as I turn in through the gate. The gravelled drive curves between gnarled ancient trees, and a few moments later the hotel comes into view. Peaceful is the word that springs to mind. Sunlight quivers on the lake. The hotel is swathed in some kind of dense, climbing shrub and the undulating grounds are dotted with summerhouses and those dinky little shelter things, where a refined lady might enjoy some shade while sipping her gin.

I pull up in the car park, nosing my way in between a Bentley and a Merc. A terribly chic woman in a grey trouser suit gives my car a surprised look before climbing into the Merc and driving away. I wipe my sweaty hands on the front of my crumpled dress. Another car arrives to take the Merc’s place: a Saab I think, possibly vintage, although its cream paintwork is so gleamingly perfect it could have purred out of the factory just moments ago. I slide my gaze towards the driver. He is flicking through some papers, making no move to get out.

My phone bleeps in my bag, and I snatch it from the passenger seat. A text from Morgan: when u back?? I glance at the man again and he smiles briefly. He has a kind face, I decide. He’s not looking at me as if thinking, What’s she doing here? Maybe he thinks I’m staff. I smile back, hoping to convey the message that, despite the state of my vehicle, I actually come to places like this all the time. I belong here, I hope my smile says, just like you do. Message transmitted, I reply to Morgan’s text: Saturday.

His reply pings back instantly: WHAT?? Oh, so he misses me after all. In fact, this is the longest period we’ll have ever spent apart. While Morgan’s had numerous long weekends with his dad, in recent times the livestock aspect of Vince’s smallholding has put him off (‘There’s so much crap everywhere, Mum! It bloody stinks!’) and he always seems pretty relieved to come home. I’ve never managed to fund school trips to France or Austria, and his main summer holidays were usually camping trips to Cornwall with me, then with a friend and me, because the idea of being trapped alone in a tent with his mother was clearly appalling.

Another text: Need grey T shirt washing wanna wear tonight!!

Ahh … right. So it’s the interruption in laundry services he’s concerned about. No, ‘Where are you, Mum? Is everything okay?’ I mean, if I were him – and I frequently do try to see things from his point of view – I’d be thinking, ‘It’s not like her to just bugger off. Maybe I should be concerned about her mental health?’ But then, Morgan isn’t the type to worry about anything. I could be lying dead on the kitchen floor and he’d step over my corpse to fetch a can of Coke from the fridge.

I stab out my reply – use washing machine – and climb out of my car, trying to quell the anxiety that’s rising inside me. The man from the Saab gets out too. He is tall, well-groomed and handsome; dapper, you’d call him, with his neatly clipped short dark hair and a light tan. His navy blue linen jacket and casual dark grey trousers look expensive. ‘Hi,’ he says with a smile.

‘Hi,’ I reply.

‘Lovely day.’

‘Yes, it is …’

He stands for a moment, taking in the surroundings: the sweeping lawns, the well-tended borders filled with pale pink roses, the beautiful building itself. Then he checks his watch and, with a breezy confidence that suggests he is unintimidated by poshness – because to people like him this place isn’t posh, it’s just normal – he opens the boot of his car and lifts out a brown leather bag.

I start making my way towards the hotel, dragging my wheeled case along the gravel and trying not to churn it up too much. When I glance back, the man is strolling a few metres behind. He flashes another broad smile. I smile back, briefly, and snatch my phone from my shoulder bag as it rings. ‘Hi, Morgan,’ I say distractedly.

‘What d’you mean, you’re back next Saturday? What’re you doing?’

I clear my throat, aware of the crunch of the man’s footsteps behind me. ‘I explained in my note, I’ve gone away for a bit.’

‘A bit? That’s not a bit. It’s a week! For fuck’s sake, Mum!’

‘Don’t swear at me, Morgan.’

‘All right, sorry, it’s just … I thought you’d just gone to the Spar or something …’

‘I go there,’ I correct him. ‘I don’t go away there, Morgan. It’s not a holiday destination …’

‘You’ve gone on holiday without telling me?’ he gasps. ‘Like, where?’

‘Well, it’s a sort of holiday. I’m in Buckinghamshire …’ A peacock struts haughtily across the path, its breast shimmering sapphire blue in the sunshine.

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s in the south of England.’

‘I mean, what’s there? Why’re you there?’

‘I’m doing the cookery course,’ I explain, keeping my voice low.

Morgan makes a choking noise. ‘You mean that dinner lady thing?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But I thought you were taking the money! The cash prize. That’s what you said …’

‘Well, I changed my mind.’ I’ve slowed my pace in the hope that the man will understand that I want him to march ahead so I can conduct this conversation in private.

‘You chose a baking course,’ Morgan laments, ‘over five thousand quid? What use is that gonna be?’

‘Probably none,’ I reply tersely, ‘and it’s not a baking course. It’s classic French cookery—’

‘You’ve gone mad,’ he mutters.

‘Yes, I probably have.’

He pauses. ‘So anyway, what about my T-shirt?’

‘Sorry, but I can’t operate the washing machine from here. It’s not remote controlled. Much as I’d love to keep on top of all our domestic concerns from 200 miles away, it’s not actually possible to …’ I break off as the man catches up with me and we fall into step.

‘Mum?’

‘Just a minute,’ I hiss.

‘But I don’t know how …’

‘For God’s sake, Morgan. There’s a door at the front. You know the round bit you can see through? Open it and put your T-shirt in. Then open the little drawer at the top and put in some powder …’

‘Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear—’

‘I’m not whispering …’

‘Speak up!’

‘Put-powder-in-the-little-drawer,’ I bark, at which the man raises a brow in amusement.

‘Where is it?’

‘For goodness’ sake! It’s the big white appliance, the one that’s not the freezer, the one that doesn’t have peas in it …’

‘I mean the powder—’

‘Cupboard under the sink,’ I growl. There’s some urgent rummaging, then the machine door is slammed shut. Hope he hasn’t broken it.

‘Now what?’ Morgan huffs.

‘Select the programme,’ I instruct him as, mercifully, the man seems to understand that I require privacy and strides ahead. ‘That’s the round dial with numbers on at the top,’ I add. ‘30 degrees is probably best. Nothing bad ever happens at that temperature. Okay now?’

I hear clicking noises. ‘Nothing’s happening.’

‘Have you turned it on?’

‘God, Mum, why does it have to be so complicated …’

‘There’s an on button,’ I snap. ‘It’s not complicated. Just press the damn thing …’

‘How am I s’posed to know …’

‘You should know,’ I retort, far too loudly for the tranquil surroundings, ‘because I gave you that washing machine tutorial, remember? I showed you the dial and the little drawer but you wouldn’t pay attention. You wandered off to get ice cream …’

‘It really wasn’t that interesting,’ Morgan mutters.

‘No, I suppose it wasn’t, but what if I’d been teaching you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and you’d wandered off then, more interested in stuffing your face full of Ben & Jerry’s than saving a life?’

He splutters. ‘All right, all right! No need to go off on one. I was only asking …’ Now he sounds genuinely upset. I stop on the path, breathing slowly, and watch a squirrel scampering up a tree.

‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to sound so snappy.’

‘Yeah, well, I was only asking for a bit of help.’

Guilt niggles in my stomach. ‘Yes, I know. Look, I suppose I’m just a bit nervous about this whole hotel thing, okay? And I know I shouldn’t have just left like that, without saying goodbye …’ I trot up the wide stone steps and enter the hotel’s revolving doors. In the enormous foyer, the posh car man is waiting to be attended to at reception.

‘S’all right,’ Morgan mumbles.

‘I love you, darling.’

‘Love you too,’ he says grudgingly.

‘Did you enjoy the cakes?’

‘Haven’t tried them yet, had other stuff on my mind …’

I smile. ‘Like your T-shirt.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you managed to start the washing machine yet?’

‘Nah. Think something’s wrong with it …’

I inhale deeply and murmur, ‘Just hand-wash it, darling,’ and finish the call.

An elderly couple drift away from the desk, and the receptionist beams expectantly. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Erm, I think this man was first …’ I indicate the stranger, noting his soft grey eyes and the dark lashes around them. He has that bone structure thing going on: strong nose, defined jawline and chin. Bet he’s the sort who knows about wine and whirls it around and sniffs it instead of tipping it straight down his neck.

‘No, no, after you,’ he says graciously.

‘Oh, thank you.’ I pull my case towards the desk.

‘Do you have a reservation?’ The receptionist’s glossy black hair is tucked behind her dainty ears, and she has the kind of bright, white teeth that make ordinary un-veneered ones – the kind everyone used to have, perfectly serviceable teeth – look like trowels in comparison.