The Secret Ingredient
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Nina Harrington
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One
Rob Beresford stepped out of the black stretch limo onto the red carpet outside London’s newest and most prestigious art gallery, slowly rolled back his shoulders, and stretched out to his full height.
Rob ran the fingers of his right hand through his mane of collar-length dark wavy hair in a move he had perfected to draw attention to what, according to the Beresford hotel group marketing department, was his best feature.
‘Make sure that your fans see that fantastic head and shoulders shot,’ his agent, Sally, kept telling him. ‘That’s what your millions of lady followers will be looking for. Make the most of it while you can!’
Ah. The joys of self-promotion.
After twenty years in the hotel business Rob knew the drill inside out.
He gave the press what they wanted and they loved him for it. They had seen him on good and bad nights and both sides played the game when it suited them.
It was a pity that the paparazzi made more money when he was playing the bad-boy celebrity chef than on all of the other countless occasions when he was working in the kitchens creating the award-winning recipes for the Beresford hotel restaurants.
They wanted him to misbehave and throw a tantrum and grab a camera. Punch someone out because of a careless remark or lose his temper over an insult to his family or food.
The Rob Beresford they wanted to see was the young chef who had become notorious after he physically lifted the most famous restaurant critic in Chicago out of his chair and threw him out of the Beresford hotel restaurant when he dared to criticise the way his steak had been cooked.
And sometimes he was tired enough or bored enough to let them goad him and provoke him into a stupid response, which he instantly regretted.
Press the red button and watch the fireworks. Oh, yes!
But not tonight.
For once he was not here to celebrate the Beresford name or promote his TV show or best-selling cookery books. Tonight was all about someone else’s success. Not his. And if that meant that he had to act out his part in public yet again, then so be it.
He was wearing the costume; he had rehearsed his script. Now it was time to act out his part until the star of the show arrived.
Tonight he needed the crowd to love him and play up the success of the art gallery. And the artist whose work had been chosen to be exhibited for their prestigious grand opening event. Adele Forrester. Fine Art Painter. And his mother.
But inside his designer clothing? Inside, he was a wreck.
Even the photographers in the front row only a few feet away could not see the prickle of sweat on his brow on this cool June evening and he quickly covered up the tenseness in his mouth with a broad smile so that no one would ever know that, for once, Rob Beresford was more than just nervous.
He was dreading every second of the next few hours and would only be able to relax when he was safe back in the hotel room with his mother, congratulating her on a stunning exhibition that was bound to sell out fast.
The plan had been simple. They would arrive together, his mother would smile and wave a couple of times and Rob would escort her sedately into the exhibition to the sound of applause from her faithful fans and art lovers. Proud son. Star mother. Winner all the way.
So much for that plan.
The past week had been a blur of rushed last-minute arrangements and then a twenty-four-hour cold virus, which had been going the rounds in California, had knocked her out for most of the day. Followed by a serious attack of first-night nerves.
Until an hour ago he’d thought that he had succeeded and his mother was dressed, made up and ready to go, smiling and happy that after eight years of preparation her work was going to be shown in public.
But then she had made the mistake of peeking out of the hotel front entrance, seen the press pack and scurried back into the room, white-faced and breathing hard. Trying to control her panic while pretending that it was about time that she walked down the red carpet on her own. After all, this was her special night. No need to wait. She would make her own grand entrance. Why did she need her handsome son stealing her spotlight?
Right. She was forgetting that he knew her. Only too well.
So the limo had driven around the corner with him inside alone. While she cowered inside her hotel room, going through the relaxation exercises one more time. Afraid to come out and walk a few steps down a carpet and have her photo taken.
And just the thought that his beautiful mother did not think she was ready or good enough for this crowd was enough to make his blood boil.
They had no idea how far she had come over the past few years to get to the point where she could even think about turning up in person to an exhibition of her paintings.
And they never would.
Fifteen years ago he had made his mother a promise.
He had given her his word that he would protect her and take care of her, and keep her secret, no matter what. And he had kept that promise and would go on keeping that promise, no matter how much it had impacted his life and the decisions that he had been forced to take to keep her safe.
He had stayed in Beresford hotels in cities close to the major psychiatric specialist units and turned down gigs in restaurants other chefs would kill to have worked in, just to make sure that his mother had a stable environment when she needed one.
Not that she liked cities. Far from it. He had lost count of the times he had made mad dashes to airports wearing his chef’s clothes so that he could keep her company on a long flight to the latest new creative retreat that she had heard about, that afternoon. And suddenly it was the only thing she needed to complete her work and she had to go that day or the rest of her life would be in ruins.
No time to pack or organise anything. Then she was on her way, usually without the things she needed, but it had to be done now.
So he had to drop everything and go with her to keep her safe. Because when she was manic she was amazing, but there was one universal truth: whatever soared high had to come back down to earth. Fast. And hard. Sometimes very hard.
Walking down a red carpet and smiling was a small price to pay for being able to support his mother financially and emotionally.
Rob scanned the rows of photographers lined up behind the mesh barriers on either side of the narrow entrance and acknowledged some of the familiar paparazzi that followed him from event to event whenever he was in London with a quick nod and a wave.
The rest of the pack jostled for position at the barricade, calling out his name, demanding pose after pose.
Fans held up signs with his name on them. Cameras flashed wildly. All desperate to capture a rare evening appearance from the chef who had just been shortlisted for Chef of the Year. Again.
Spotlights hit him from every angle.
He turned slowly from side to side in front of the floor-to-ceiling poster for the gala exhibition of new work from Adele Forrester, making sure that her official photograph and the poster would always be the background to any of his photos.
One hand plunged into his left trouser pocket. One hand raised towards the crowd. Wearing his trademark pristine white shirt and dark designer suit. No tie. That would be too conventional. A call to look this way then that was answered with a swagger. He rolled back his shoulders, lifted his chin and went to work the crowd.
It had taken him every day of the past ten years to create an image and a brand that served him and the Beresford family well and now was his chance to use it to help his mum.
A pretty brunette in her twenties held out one of his recipe books, stretching towards him, her stomach pressed against the metal barrier and shoulders so low that he had a perfect view down her deep V-necked top into a very generous cleavage.
Rob quickly stepped forwards, grin locked in place, his pen already in his hand, and signed a flourish of his name on the cover page while the crowd went mad behind her, screaming and calling out his name at ear-damaging volume.
He walked slowly down the line, signing yet another recipe book—one of his early ones—then a poster from his restaurant-makeover show.
And then the questions started. One male voice and then another.
‘Is Adele turning up in person tonight for the show or has she done a runner like last time?’
‘Where have you hidden your mum, Rob?’
‘Have you left her behind in that treatment centre? Is that the only kind of artist retreat she knows these days?’
‘Are the rumours true about her retiring after this show?’
Louder and louder, closer and closer, the questions came from every direction, more pointed and all demanding to know where his mother was.
They were goading him. Pushing him harder and harder, desperate for a reaction.
They wanted him to explode. To push the camera down someone’s throat or, even better, give one of them a black eye.
A few years ago? He would have done it and taken the consequences. But tonight was not about him and he refused to let the press win, so he pretended to have developed sudden hearing loss and politely ignored them. This of course made them goad him even more.
Nine minutes later he had walked the whole of the line, smiling and laughing towards the waiting crowd, leaning in for the compulsory mobile phone shots.
Then just like that the press turned away as the next limo pulled up and, without waiting for permission or a good-behaviour pass, Rob turned his back on the crowd and photographers and strode purposefully down the last few feet of red carpet, through the open door of the art gallery and into the relative calm of the marble atrium where the other specially invited guests were already assembled.
This preview show was the one exclusive opportunity for the art critics to admire and study his mother’s work without having to share the gallery with the general public. That was the good news. The less-good news was that it had been the art critics who had descended on his mother like a pack of rabid wolves when she had imploded at her last exhibition in Toronto.
Having a screaming and crying nervous breakdown in public was bad enough, but for her tormented and terrified face to be captured for ever by the press had made it worse.
Instead of defending her for her fragile creativity, they had condemned her for being a bad example to young artists for her excessive lifestyle.
But that was eight years ago.
Different world. Different faces. Different approach to mental illness. Surely?
Rob paused long enough to take a flute of chilled champagne from a passing waiter and was just about to launch into the media crew clustered around the gallery owner when he caught sight of his reflection in the installation light feature.
A sombre dark male face glared back at him, his heavy eyebrows low above narrowed eyes and a jaw that would be a better fit on a prizefighter rather than a patron of the arts.
Yikes! Maybe not.
He didn’t want to terrify the critics before they had even had a chance to see the artwork. And most of them seemed to be enjoying the refreshments.
A quick scan of the room confirmed that unless there was a back door through the kitchen, he was trapped. Unless... Yes! There was one person who was taking time to actually see the paintings instead of networking over the catalogues and free booze before the food was served.
A pretty blonde woman. Correction. Make that a very pretty blonde. She was sitting completely alone at the far end of the gallery, away from the hustle and noise from the street. Her gaze appeared to be completely engrossed in the artwork in front of her.
Rob turned away from the other guests, nodding to people as he passed, and started strolling down the gallery space, taking the time to scan some of the twenty-two paintings that he knew inside out.
He could give the critics a full history of each and every brush stroke. Where and when and what mood his mother had been in when she painted them. The hours spent debating locations and the quality of the light. Desperate for each work to be perfect. Flawless. Ideal.
The despair that came when they did not match up to her exacting standards.
The joy and delight and laughter of walking along beaches day after day, which only seemed to make the darker ones blacker. Like the time he was called out of a business meeting when she set six of his favourite canvases on fire on the hotel patio in a barbecue pit. That depression had lasted weeks.
These paintings truly were the survivors.
Especially the canvas that the blonde was looking at that very minute.
Rob exhaled long and slow. He should have known that a critic would be drawn to such a totally over-the-top sentimental and emotional piece.
It was good—no doubt about that.
But it was so obvious that his mother might as well be standing there waving a banner telling the world that she had painted it in a dark time when the depression had almost become too much and she’d had to go back on the much-hated medication again.
It was probably the only piece that he had suggested to his mother to leave behind in her villa in Carmel, California. It was just too personal and way too deep to show to the world.
Too late. Because there it was. Not the biggest painting but the most intimate and revealing in the whole collection.
But just who was this woman who had obviously spotted the best picture in the room?
Rob stood to one side, sipping his champagne, and watched her for a few minutes in silence, his gaze scanning her pose, her body, her clothing, taking it all in and trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
She certainly didn’t look like one of his mother’s art critic pals or the hyenas back in Toronto. Failed artists every one of them. Far from it.
Straight blonde hair falling to her shoulders, she was wearing a sleeveless aqua dress and he could just make out a line of collarbone above a long, slender, elegant neck, surprisingly overlaid with muscle as opposed to starved thin like most fine artists he had met.
And she really was stunningly pretty. A break in the clouds outside the window shone a beam of sunlight onto the cream-coloured gallery wall, which reflected back from her skin. It became luminescent and pale. No artificial tan for this girl. She truly was all white peaches and cream.
But what were her hands like? At the moment they were pushed flat against the bench on either side of her body, palm down, but as he watched she lifted her shoulders and her hands clasped around her arms as though she was cold. The air conditioning was certainly chilly but it was more than that. She was holding on to herself.
Totally wrapped up in her thoughts. Contained. Calm. Her gaze locked on to the painting as though it was the most important thing in the world. She was transfixed. Oblivious to the world. Totally caught up in the painting.
Because she got it. It was so obvious.
And for the first time that day—no, make that the first time this month—he felt that little bubble of a real smile pop in his chest.
Perhaps there was at least one art critic in the room tonight that was going to make him change his mind about their species?
Now all he had to do was find out her name and...
‘Rob. So pleased that you could make it.’ Rob blinked away his anxiety as the gallery owner came forward to shake his hand and, with one pat on his shoulder, guide him back towards the entrance to introduce him to several of the press who were clustered around the media table.
He glanced quickly over one shoulder back to the blonde, but she had turned slightly away from him to take a call on her mobile.
Later. He would find out a lot more about this woman...later.
* * *
Lottie Rosemount chuckled into the mouthpiece of her mobile phone. ‘You really are shameless, Dee Flynn! But are you quite sure that Sean does not mind me using his hotel for the fundraiser? He is doing me a seriously big favour here.’
‘No need to panic, oh, great organiser lady.’ Dee’s familiar laughing voice crackled down the phone. ‘Let’s call it one of the many perks to having a boyfriend who just happens to run his own hotel chain. Sean expects you to invite the great and good of London town and fill his hotel to bursting. And once they see how fabulous his new hotel is? Job done.’
‘Oh, is that what it is. A perk? Nothing to do with the fact that the lovely Sean would jog to the moon and back if you asked him. Oh, no. But I am grateful. You are a total star! Thanks, Dee. And have a great time in the tea gardens.’
‘I will, but only if you stop worrying, missy. Yes, I can hear it in your voice. Just because a few hundred people will be turning up on Saturday night doesn’t mean that you have to be nervous. They will hardly notice that Valencia has not turned up. You wait and see.’ Then Dee’s voice changed to a breathless gasp. ‘Sorry, Lottie. They’re calling my flight. Miss you, too. But we need the tea! Bye, Lottie. Bye.’
Lottie held the phone in her hand for a few seconds before clicking it closed and exhaling. Very slowly.
Worried? Of course she was worried. Or should that be terrified?
She would be a fool if she wasn’t.
What if the fundraiser was a flop? There were so many creative people bursting with talent who needed a helping hand to get started living their dream. Scholarships to help gifted chefs find training was only the start. But a big start in more ways than one.
Pity that Dee had to be in China this week. She could have used some moral support.
Especially when the celebrity chef she had booked as the main attraction for the fundraiser had just cancelled that morning. It had taken months of pleading and cajoling before multi-award-winning chef Valencia Cagoni had finally agreed to turn up for the night.
Yes, of course Lottie understood that Valencia was still with her family in Turin because both of the four-year-old twins had chickenpox and were grounded as infectious tyrants. And no, Valencia was way too busy with the calamine lotion to think of another chef who could step in at such short notice and take her place.
Thank you, Valencia, my old boss and mentor. Thanks a lot.
Panic gripped her for a few seconds but Lottie willed it back down to a place where she kept all of the suppressed fear and suffocating anxiety that came with taking on such a huge responsibility.
This fundraiser had been her idea from the start, but if there was one good thing that her father had taught her it was that she always had options. All she had to do was think of one. Fast.
Lottie shuffled from side to side on the hard seat and tried to get a comfier position. She was going to have to give the gallery owner some feedback before his paying customers started complaining about having frozen bottoms.
On the other hand, this was not a museum and she had been sitting in one place a lot longer than she had planned. Wealthy clients looking for artwork to adorn their walls would not be perched on the end of a leather bench for more than a few minutes while she had been sitting there for—Lottie checked her watch and snorted deep in the back of her throat in disbelief—twenty minutes.
Amazing.
This was the first time in weeks that she had been able to steal a few minutes to enjoy herself in between running her bakery and organising the fundraiser and she was quite determined to enjoy every second of it. Because she probably would not find another slot before the event.
But she had always been the same. Every time her mother bought a new piece of art for one of her interior design clients, it was Lottie who had the first look before the piece was shipped off to some luxury second or third or, in one case, eighth home around the world. That was all part of her mum’s high-end design business.
If Lottie saw something she liked she took the opportunity to appreciate it while she could. It was as simple as that.
Having the time to enjoy works of art was probably the only thing she really missed in her new life.
Of course she had known that running a cake shop and tea rooms would not be a nine-to-five job, but, sheesh, the hours she was working now were even longer than when she worked in banking.
She loved most of it. The bakery was her dream come true. But when her photographer friend Ian had casually mentioned that he was looking for a caterer to serve canapés and mini desserts for the opening of a new gallery specialising in contemporary art she had jumped at the chance.
Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms needed a photographer to take images for the bakery website and Ian needed food for the gallery tonight. Now that was the kind of trade she liked and it had nothing to do with her old job working the stock market.
Lottie glanced back at the main reception area.
She could hear the visitors start to arrive and gather in the bar area that had been opened up onto the stunning patio overlooking the south bank of the Thames on this cloudy June evening. The weather was warm with only a slight breeze. Perfect. Just the way she liked it.
Her skin did not do well in hot sunshine. Too fair. Too freckly.
Much better to stay here for a few minutes and enjoy this painting all to herself while she had the chance before the evening really got started.
The food was all ready to be served in the small kitchen behind the bar, the waiting staff would not be here for another ten minutes, and even the artist had not made an appearance yet.
So she could steal another few minutes of glorious self-indulgence before she had to go back to work.
This was her special time. To be alone with the art.
Lottie waggled some of the tension out of her shoulders and rolled her neck from side to side before lifting her chin and sighing in pleasure.
Most of the exhibition was high-art portraits and landscapes in oils and multimedia in a startling bright and vibrant colour palette, but for some reason she had been drawn to this far corner of the room. It was away from the entrance and the drinks table but was bright with natural light flooding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
And the one picture in the whole collection that was muted and subtle.
It was a small canvas in a wide red glass frame just like all of the others.
But this one was special. Different. She had seen it in the catalogue for the exhibition that her friend Ian had created and had been immediately drawn to it.
It was hard to explain but there was just something about the image that had taken hold of her and refused to let her go.
Lottie’s gaze scanned the picture.
A middle-aged woman in a knee-length sleeveless red dress was standing on a sandy shore edged with pine trees and luxuriant Mediterranean plants. She was slender and holding out her arms towards the sea.
Lottie could almost feel the breeze in the chiffon layers that made up the skirt as they lifted out behind her.
The woman’s head was held high and tall and there was a faint smile on her lips as she stared out to sea, reaching for it with both hands while her pale feet seemed totally encased in the sand.
It was dusk and on the horizon there were the characteristic red and gold and apricot streaks in the misty shadows that stretched out to the horizon. Soon darkness would fall but Lottie knew that this woman would stay there, entranced, until the last possible moment, yearning for the sea, until the very last of the day was gone.
While she still had a chance for happiness.
A single tear ran down Lottie’s cheek and she sniffed several times before diving into her bag for a tissue, but then remembered that she had left them back at the cake shop, so made do with a spare paper napkin she had popped into her bag for spillages.
Last chances. Oh, yes. She knew all about those.
Until three years ago she had been a business clone in a suit, trapped in cubicle nation in the investment bank where her father had worked for thirty-five years. All she’d had to do was keep her head down, say the right things and do what she was told and she’d had a clear career path that would take her to the top. She’d even had the ideal boyfriend with the right credentials on paper just one step higher than her on the ladder.
How could her life have been more perfect?
The fact that she hated her job so much that she threw up most mornings was one of the reasons she was earning the big bucks. Wasn’t it?
Until that one fateful day when all of the pretence and lies had been whipped away, leaving her bereft and alone. Standing on a beach like the one in the painting. Holding out her arms towards the sea, looking for a new direction and a new identity.
She wasn’t balls-of-steel Charlie any longer, the girl who had walked away from her six-figure salary and the career track to the top of her father’s investment bank to train as a pastry chef. Oh, no.
That girl was gone.
The girl sitting with tears in her eyes was Lottie the baker. The real girl with the real pain that she had thought she had worked through over these past three years but was still there. Catching her unawares at moments like this when the overwhelming emotion swallowed her down and drowned her.
For the first time in a long time she had allowed her public face to slip and reveal that she was hurting.
Foolish woman! Exhaustion and unspoken loneliness made her vulnerable. That was all.
The paper napkin was starting to disintegrate so she stuffed it back into her bag.
Maybe at the end of the night when everyone was heading home she could steal a few minutes with the artist and ask her about ‘Last Chances’.
Who knew? Maybe Adele Forrester might be able to answer a few of her questions about how making the most of last chances could change your life so very much. And what to do when all of the people and friends that you thought would stick by you decided that you had nothing in common with them once you jumped ship and stopped answering your calls.
Starting with that, oh-so-perfect-on-paper boyfriend.
Yes, maybe Adele had a few answers of her own.
With one final sniff, Lottie blinked and wiped her cheek with the back of her finger. Time to repair the damage to this make-up and get ready to rock and roll. She had two hundred portions of canapés to plate out.
Busy, busy.
Yes, she should really make a move now. Oops. Too late.
Lottie sensed rather than heard someone stroll closer and stand next to her, so that they were both looking at the canvas in silence for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds.
‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ Lottie sniffed as yet another tear ran down her cheek, preventing her from turning around and embarrassing herself in front of a complete stranger.
‘Absolutely perfect. How does she do it?’ Lottie asked. ‘How does Adele capture so much feeling in a flat image? It’s incredible.’
‘Talent. And a deep feeling for the place. Adele knows that beach at all times of day and season. Look at the way she blends the ocean and the sky. That can only come from seeing it happen over and over again.’
Lottie blinked again, but this time in surprise.
He understood. This man, because it was a man’s voice and definitely a manly pair of designer trousers, was echoing the exact same thoughts that were going through her head.
How did he do that? The tremor in his voice was instantly calming and restorative. Someone else saw the same things in this work that she had. How was that possible?
It was unnerving that he knew what this painting was all about and could talk about it with such passion.
And then the harsh reality of where she was struck home and she felt like a fool. Ian had told her that this was a preview show for art critics and media people. This man was probably a friend of Adele Forrester who knew perfectly well the history behind the picture.
Maybe he could answer her question?
Lottie lifted her chin and shuffled sideways on the bench so that she could look up into the face of the man standing by her side.
The room froze.
It was as though everything around her slowed down to treacle speed like a DVD or video being played in slow motion.
The laughter and gossip from the clusters of elegantly dressed people gathered around the gallery owner became a blur of distant sounds. Even the air between them felt colder and thicker as Lottie sucked in a low, calming breath.
Was this really happening?
‘Rob Beresford,’ she said out loud, and instantly clenched her teeth tight shut.
Thinking out loud had always been her worst habit and she’d thought she had it beaten. Apparently not. Her mouth gaped open in confusion.
And why not?
Rob Beresford. Her least-favourite chef in the world. And the man who had single-handedly tried to destroy her career.
