The English weather lived up to its reputation. All the way into London from Heathrow airport, Charlie watched the drizzle slide down the taxi windows.
They’d said goodbye to Amelia and Rupert at Gabe’s sister’s house. She’d liked Emma immediately. Emma had hugged her for the longest time. She’d said she’d never be able to thank her enough for saving Amelia’s life. People seemed to really love Charlie Brown.
As the taxi slowed in front of an enormous Victorian terrace house in the fashionable area of Notting Hill, Charlie’s eyes widened. When Gabe opened the front door for her, she stood and stared.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
Their little apartment in Genoa had been cute and practical. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Gabe might be rich, but the instant she entered his home, she was surrounded by the trappings of a very successful man.
‘I guess,’ he said dismissively.
He led her through to the living room. A smattering of gorgeous antiques highlighted the room. Two classic Chesterfield sofas in deep burgundy rested on a gold thread Persian carpet. A huge, gilt-framed mirror dominated one wall and reflected back the luxury. The muted lamp lighting was complemented by the soft glow from a crystal chandelier set in the ornate ceiling that rose high above them. The room epitomised old England and serious affluence.
Gabe set the bags down.
‘We need a drink,’ he said and disappeared from the room.
Charlie walked slowly around admiring the various ornaments and the photographs. Some of the people in the photos looked vaguely familiar.
On the mantelpiece a gold mask caught her eye. She leaned forward and read the plaque.
‘Gabe Grenville, Director of Fiction, Celebrity Shipwreck, Grenville Productions,’ she read aloud. ‘British Academy of Film and Television Art.’
Her eyes bulged. So Gabe wasn’t just some television executive. He owned the company.
Gabe returned holding two glasses. He held one out to her.
‘Gin and tonic,’ he said.
Charlie put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t think you’ve been completely honest with me, Mr Grenville.’
Did I just say that? What a hypocrite.
‘Hmm,’ Gabe said, popping both glasses on the coffee table.
‘You said you were a TV executive,’ she said.
‘I am.’
She pointed to the statuette.
‘Okay.’ Gabe took a seat on the fine leather. ‘Yes, I own a production company.’
‘What sort of shows do you make?’ she asked, taking the seat opposite.
‘Just reality television.’
‘Doesn’t look like there is anything “just” about it.’
He shrugged.
‘Would I know any of your shows?’
He considered for a moment. ‘At the moment Australia is showing Garden Rescue and My Life After Lotto.’
‘I love Garden Rescue,’ she exclaimed.
Gabe grinned. ‘Produced and directed.’
She put her glass down and walked back to the mantelpiece. Picking up the statue, she admired it more closely.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were some hot-shot TV director?’
He took a slow sip of his drink as if he were considering the question carefully.
‘I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to escape the whole scene for a while. It can be pretty intense.’
‘Did you think I’d want you to make me a star?’ she teased, giving a little sway of her hips.
The expression that flared across his face made her wish she could snatch back the words and crumple them in her hands. She quickly sat down on the sofa opposite him.
Gabe peered at his glass and clinked the ice against the sides.
‘It’s been a problem in the past,’ he said with ill-disguised bitterness.
‘Oh.’ She snatched up her glass and glanced around the room, desperate for something tospark a change of conversation.
‘You have a beautiful house.’
‘Thanks.’
Silence.
Gabe’s usually sparkling eyes grew dark and brooding. She suddenly felt like an unwelcome visitor.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘I’ve obviously put my foot in it.’
‘No, it’s not you.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘Before I left on holiday I’d just wrapped up an ugly court case that had dragged on for years. The woman suing me had been a cast member on one of my shows.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He drained his drink. ‘I won.’
The ferocity of his voice surprised her. She sipped her drink as she didn’t know what else to do or say.
Placing his empty glass on the coffee table, Gabe stood up.
‘I’ll show you your room. Then I have to work.’ He walked briskly into the hall.
Charlie followed with a heavy heart. Had Gabe only invited her to stay to repay what he considered his debt for saving Amelia’s life? All the fun of their Italian adventure seemed a distant memory.
Gabe left Charlie to settle in and unpack. He couldn’t concentrate until he’d fleshed out the concept for First-Class Chef. He took a seat in front of his computer in his office and began to type. After a few sentences, he stopped and leaned back in his chair.
Make me a star. He hated that those words had tumbled from Charlie’s mouth. Of course, she’d only meant it as a joke, but still, things had changed now she knew who he was.
He rubbed his hand across his brow. The days they’d spent in Italy together had been magic. Charlie’s charming company; Charlie’s fabulous dinners; no talk of work except for a brilliant new concept; no starlets clamouring for his attention. No-one wanting anything from him.
His body reacted instantly as the image of Charlie in her black bikini burst into his mind. Slowly his eyes focused back on the screen. He shrugged his shoulders. Oh well, he had to succumb to reality sometime. Soon she’d be on the other side of the world and his life would be consumed by castings and production schedules once more.
He ran his hand through his hair as he waited for inspiration to strike. His eyes settled on the glass-fronted cabinet. Although it was stuffed full of various statuettes and awards, the big one still eluded him. Not an Oscar in sight. His movie script had been bouncing around LA for years. Not one bite.
He turned back to his computer and tapped out an introduction, striking the keys just a little too hard.
Charlie wandered back down the stairs. Gabe wasn’t in the living room so she went looking for him.
At the back of the house she found the kitchen. Although it was huge, it wasn’t a cook’s kitchen. She walked around the vast room and peeked in some of the cupboards. No mortar and pestle, no wooden chopping boards and clearly the stove had rarely been used. She ran her finger over the highly polished surface. If ever.
The pantry stood empty of cooking essentials. No oils. No vinegars. No spices.
She vowed one day she’d come back and fit out Gabe’s kitchen with some decent utensils. A thank you for all his help. Of course, she might also have to teach him to cook.
Back in the hall, she admired the art work on the walls. Further down the corridor, she could hear Gabe tapping at a keyboard. She hesitated. Surely it was only polite to let him know she was going out. She crept down the corridor and peered into his study.
Gabe was hunched over his computer. He didn’t look up.
She bit her lip. As she retreated, she bumped into the wall.
He glanced up, but immediately returned to his work. ‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, but I’m just going out to buy some milk and other things.’
‘Okay.’ Gabe stopped typing and read over the words on his screen, completely engrossed. The change in his demeanour unnerved her. In Italy, he’d been so attentive.
She stepped from the room and closed the door. Accepting his invitation to stay had been a mistake. She was clearly intruding. London had changed everything.
She walked down the hall and opened the front door. She drew her cardigan further across her chest; more drizzle and the temperature was dropping, but it wasn’t the weather that made her shiver. Gabe didn’t want her in his house. The holiday friendship wasn’t the same in London.
Finding an umbrella in a stand, she braved the English rain. As she walked down the wet footpath, she wondered what London had to recommend it. So far it was wet, grey, dull and cold.
An icy wind blew straight through her thin, light clothes. She shivered. It was the first day of autumn. She’d need a coat. But coats cost money.
Cash. She needed cash.
She turned the corner into a street packed with market stalls. She stared around in amazement. Glancing up, the street sign announced Portobello Road. At least this place had some colour.
She made her way along the street between the stalls. The pungent bouquet of cheese enticed her taste buds. A few paces further on, a stall stacked high with cheeses, meats and antipasto captivated her. A hundred ideas for dinner whizzed through her mind. At least Gabe loved her food. Perhaps during dinner he might not regret his decision to invite her to stay.
A few hours later, Charlie was back in Gabe’s kitchen frying up onions, mushrooms and pancetta for a quick spaghetti carbonara. The rich aroma slowly warmed her after her walk in the dismal London afternoon.
‘I’ve got First-Class Chefs all mapped out.’
She jumped. It was as if a tornado had spun into the room. Gabe grinned as he flourished a sheaf of typed pages in the air.
‘What?’ Charlie said, dropping the spoon into the pasta sauce.
‘I’ve nailed the concept. The judges, the format, right down to the live grand final.’
He thrust the papers into her hand. She held them aloft while she fished the spoon from the sauce, but he just kept talking.
‘Each week, regional finalists compete against each other. They’re given all sorts of challenges. The show is designed so the audience learns about the contestants from the meals they prepare. Sort of gastronomic profiling.’
‘Wait, wait,’ she said, trying to listen and read at the same time.
‘I’ve developed the whole concept based on you!’
‘Me?’
‘Absolutely. Your obsession with food. It’s so important to you.’ He began walking around the room. His infectious energy bubbled through the room. The gloom of the afternoon evaporated.
‘The way you have such an affinity with ingredients,’ he continued, coming close and turning the full power of those dazzling blue eyes upon her. ‘How you find that extra something that makes food taste amazing, different, special. As if . . .’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘As though it were an extension of you – your personality, your soul.’
She blinked in amazement. Did he know her better than she knew herself?
‘I had no idea I did any of that,’ she said slightly breathlessly. Warmth flushed her cheeks and she quickly dropped her eyes to the sheets of paper. His proximity made it hard to concentrate, but once she’d found the flow of the words, she raced through the pages. Charlie didn’t know what made successful television, but Gabe’s concept had to be a winner. As she read, ideas multiplied in her mind.
‘How about one week each contestant brings one special ingredient and the rest must be selected from a pre-prepared list?’
Gabe snatched the pages from her hands and sat down at the table. He scribbled notes in the margin. He looked up expectantly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Um, you could ask the contestant to make a dish from their childhood. You know, one that really makes them feel at home.’
She thought of the chocolate brownies she’d cooked when her parents were out. She’d take them into the garden and eat them in secret.
He wrote that down too and threw the pen onto the table.
‘You’re a genius.’ He leaped up from his seat, caught her about the waist and twirled her around. ‘You know, it was fate meeting you.’ He kissed her on the forehead and let her go.
‘ITV is already interested and I have a call into BBC One. I’m starting pre-production in the morning,’ he said, striding to the kitchen door. ‘Just got to make a couple of calls.’
He left the room, muttering to himself.
Although heavy rain was hammering on the roof, Charlie glowed as if she’d been hugged by the sun.
Maybe London’s not so bad after all.
Charlie filled the Italian percolator with fresh ground coffee and set it to simmer on the stove. She gazed out the kitchen window. The feeble morning sun peeped through the clouds – not a patch on home: the sun in Australia was bold and bright like a showgirl; here it seemed to apologise for existing.
She’d woken early and pottered around the kitchen, wondering what time Gabe would be down for breakfast. She dropped a teaspoon of pancake batter into the frypan to test it. The batter sizzled satisfyingly.
She flipped the test batter from the pan. She’d barely seen Gabe for the past four weeks. He’d leave early for work and didn’t arrive back until late. When they did cross paths, he chatted excitedly about the planning for the new series. He’d sold the concept to a major TV station, so the series was in full production. He’d shown her an artist’s impression of the set design. They’d started building it already at Pinewood Studios.
Her wedding date had come and gone. She read online that the wedding had been cancelled due to her ill health. She smiled. I’m sure they considered me insane. She didn’t want to imagine the arguments between Paul and her father.
She dropped spoonfuls of batter into the pan as she flipped the pancakes. Another day of job hunting faced her after breakfast. She had secured a job at a sandwich shop down the road, but the wage wasn’t enough to live on long term. Not if she was going to afford somewhere to rent. She wasn’t going home until she’d achieved something on her own terms. Shown her family that she didn’t need them to survive, to flourish. She shook with rage every time she thought about Paul clearing out her bank accounts. Had she been so starved of love she hadn’t seen Paul for the bastard he was or was he just a master of deceit? Probably lashings of both.
She turned another pancake but splattered half of it onto the side of the pan, ruining it.
‘Damn.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Gabe’s voice cut through her malaise. She tried to wipe up the mess quickly.
‘Nothing.’
He walked to the stove to view the damage.
‘Ah, no need to cry over spilt pancakes,’ he said, his eyes sparkling. He poured himself a coffee, leaned against the kitchen counter and scooped up the newspaper.
As she cleaned, Charlie stole a glance at his body. He looked as though he’d stepped from a billboard. His designer jeans hung perfectly on his slim hips and his cool urban shirt highlighted his broad shoulders. She busied herself with the pancakes, easing a couple onto a plate.
‘Focus on this instead.’ He flung the paper down on the counter and pointed to an ad.
Wanted. Amateur cooks for new reality TV show.
‘You’re advertising for contestants already?’ she asked as she skimmed the ad.
‘Yes and we’ll be conducting regional finals for the next few weeks to find the top ten contestants for the show.’
She handed him a plate of pancakes and he took a seat at the table.
‘It’ll be great,’ he continued. ‘We’re running regional competitions across the country. The ten finalists will compete each week in a televised knockout. The winner receives the opportunity to attend the top British cooking school and do an apprenticeship at Alexander’s under the direction of Jasper Donovan.’
‘Sounds amazing.’ She looked down at the ad again.
‘And you’re going to try out,’ he said, his eyes bright with mischief.
‘What?’
‘I want you to audition.’
She smiled indulgently. ‘There’s no way I am going on national TV.’ It didn’t really fit with keeping a low profile.
‘Perhaps not, but you are going to give it a go.’
‘No way.’
‘If you make the finals, you receive a seven hundred and fifty pound stipend per episode. That’s more than twice what you’re earning now.’
She stared at him.
With that much, she could stay in London for longer. That would show the men in her life she wasn’t so easy to control. She read the ad again. Why not? There was nothing in Australia to go back to and everything in London to stay for – she flicked a glance at Gabe. This could be the difference between success or returning home with her tail between her legs.
‘Aren’t there rules about friends of the director being involved?’ she asked, moving back to the stove.
‘As far as I know, you are not an employee of my company, or any associated companies, or a relative. So, according to the rules, you’re eligible.’ He cut off a slice of pancake. ‘Unless of course we front up to the altar in the next few months.’
Another pancake died on the side of the pan.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, thankfully not noticing her loss of composure, ‘I have nothing to do with the judging. I might be good at developing reality TV shows, but I wouldn’t know a ramekin from a rissole. I’ve lined up three of the best foodies in the country – Terry Fletcher, the London Times food critic; Susan Watson, the director of Olivio’s cooking school; and Jasper Donovan.’
‘Wow.’ Their names alone sounded intimidating.
‘And VIP passengers and the audience also vote. Their votes count for fifty percent of the overall weekly score,” Gabe forked some pancake into his mouth.
Why not give it a go? It wasn’t as if she were going to reach the finals and be on TV. She’d have some fun and Gabe would still be in her life. It would be fun to see the concept come to life.
‘So, I exert no undue influence,’ he said. ‘Trials start next week at the London Exhibition Centre and you’re going to be there.’
She’d nearly convinced herself when reality pounced. What was she thinking? There were so many reasons not to do it, most pressing being her lack of money.
‘I can’t do it. I have to get home. There’s that little problem of my lack of funds and I really don’t think it would look good to have a contestant living with the director.’
Gabe rubbed his chin and sat back in his chair. ‘You know what, I have never been so well looked after in my life.’ He pointed to the plate in front of him. ‘Cooked breakfast each morning, house immaculate and gourmet dinner each night. I have friends who pay a fortune for housekeepers who don’t do half the work you’ve been doing around here.’
‘It’s the least I can do considering I’ve been staying in your house for over a month.’ She picked up his coffee cup and refilled it.
‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘how about I pay you to be my housekeeper and then you’d be free to stay here and try out for the competition.’
‘Wouldn’t that make me your employee? I’d be ineligible? And there’s still that little issue of me living here.’
‘Mmm. Excellent point.’
His fingers drummed the table. His face screwed up in concentration.
‘All right,’ he said looking up suddenly, his eyes bright. ‘How about this? Emma’s been struggling since the chemo. It’s totally wiped her out. We were thinking of looking for someone to live in the cottage out the back rent-free and give her a hand. She’s been reluctant as she doesn’t want a stranger around the kids, especially as they are all feeling a little vulnerable, but the kids love you.’
She should resist. She should go home and sort out the mess that was her life. But this! This might just be the big break she was looking for. Show all the doubters back at home that she could make something of herself. And if it all came to nothing, well, she would have spent more time with Gabe and that was not a hardship. It was a long shot but she’d vowed to take more risks, live life . . .
‘It’s a deal.’
Gabe pulled into the morning peak-hour traffic and drove towards his production office in Hammersmith. What was he doing inviting Charlie to be potentially part of the show? He’d barely managed to keep his hands off her and now he’d invited her into his work life.
He was breaking his own rules. Since the Sophie episode, he’d become expert at keeping contestants at a distance. Now he’d invited the gorgeous, bewitching, sweet Charlie onto the set.
He shifted in his seat and hit the accelerator a little too hard, forcing him to brake immediately. A horn blasted behind him. He looked in the rear-view mirror and waved his apology.
At least he’d quashed the temptation of having her at home. But Charlie had insisted on keeping a key and planned to still manage his housekeeping. Then it struck him.
He’d solved his problem without even realising it. Charlie was auditioning for First-Class Chef, which meant she was now ‘business’.
So Charlie was off limits. Completely and absolutely. Never mix business and pleasure.
He relaxed back into the leather seat, but the relief felt strangely hollow.