Recipe for Love (35 page)

Someone from the television company came up. ‘Have you got your perishables there, girls?’ he said. ‘I’ll take them out of the way for you.’

Handing them over took a little time but at last elegantly uniformed commissionaires took their cases and they went into the hotel.

Free of baggage apart from a handbag big enough to house a medium-sized poodle, Cher gushed all over again. ‘Darling! Love the hair!’ she said, kissing the air by Zoe’s shoulder. ‘You look like Amélie, sort of French.’

Zoe kissed Cher back and got a face full of extensions.
‘Thank
you! That was the idea. You look fab as usual. Fabber, maybe.’ Cher was one of those irritating women who could really make a fake tan work. She was neither orange nor streaky.

‘Thanks! I’ve been in the Maldives, working on my tan, and my celebration dinner of course.’ Her laugh tinkled merrily, somehow turning this into a lie. ‘But also getting a bit of R. and R. I’ve got loads to tell you,’ she went on. ‘Let’s hope our suites are next door to each other!’

‘Suites? Amazing!’ said Zoe, suddenly yearning for a Travelodge, on her own.

‘Yes, apparently there’s a big deal going on between the hotel chain and the TV company. My uncle told me all about it. It’s what he does.’

‘If you two ladies would like to travel up in the lift together,’ said a bell boy, ‘the luggage will come up separately.’

‘Fine!’ said Cher. And as they travelled up in the mirrored, marble lift together, she mouthed to Zoe: ‘Cute!’ Zoe had to agree the bell boy was cute, but he could also see Cher mouthing so she didn’t comment.

‘Tell you what,’ said Cher as she was taken to her door, ‘let’s get unpacked and then you come to mine and we’ll assault the mini-bar. It’s all paid for!’

‘What time do they want us for the photo shoot? Didn’t they say downstairs in the lobby for six?’ Zoe knew perfectly well they did but wanted Cher to decide for herself that they’d need every second of the intervening time to get ready. She didn’t want to get drunk with Cher first. It was not a hen night.

‘We’ll have time for a quick one. Nice to be relaxed for the photo shoot. We don’t want to look like rabbits caught in the headlights, do we?’ The implication was that only
one
of them was in danger of looking like that and it wasn’t her.

‘OK. I’ll come to your room at quarter to. We’ll be doing our own make-up, won’t we?’ Before Cher could answer, Zoe shot along the corridor as if desperate to get her eyelash curlers out.

Cher had ordered a bottle of champagne from room service, and handed Zoe a glass the moment she got through the door. ‘Here, have this. You and me need to have a talk.’

Although Cher was being just as friendly as before, Zoe felt suddenly chilled. Maybe it was just the air-conditioning that was up a bit high.

Cher opened her laptop. ‘I want you to look at some pictures.’

Zoe sipped her champagne, wondering if there was really time for ‘me looking amazing on a beach’ photographs.

Cher placed an elegant, French-manicured finger on the trackpad and a picture filled the screen. ‘I took these on my mobile, so they’re not great, but I think they’re clear enough, don’t you?’

Zoe peered at the screen. It seemed to be a weird close-up from a Ray Mears programme. Then she recognised her fleece. A second later she saw Gideon. They were kissing.

Several more photos of the same subject followed.

‘There!’ said Cher. ‘What do you think?’

Zoe felt sick. Her knees failed her and she sank on to the sofa. A gulp of champagne didn’t really help. What could she possibly say?

She fell back on trivialities. ‘God! My hair! Did I really go round looking like that?’ She was playing for time and was quite pleased with her effort.

‘Never thought I’d say this, but it’s not your hair you should be worrying about, sweetie.’

‘You think I have a bit of a muffin top going on?’

Cher shook her head, pretending to be sad. ‘It’s who you’re kissing. Gideon. A judge. What you’re looking at is a major scandal. And not just your hair.’

Zoe clutched her glass as if it could somehow save her. She had a feeling Cher knew exactly what she was going to say next.

‘So?’ Cher looked at her with her head on one side.

Zoe shrugged. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

‘Simple. Don’t win the competition.’

‘Cher! I’m not likely to! There are people better than me in it. You might win!’

‘I might and I want to increase my chances. You’re the one they’re saying is tipped for the top. Not because of your cooking,’ she sneered as if Zoe’s cooking was beneath contempt, ‘but because of your “general ability to cope in a crisis.” I told you, I know all about it. So I want you out. These pictures are going to help.’

‘Supposing I say I don’t care? Supposing I say “publish and be damned”?’

Cher might not have got the Duke of Wellington quote but it didn’t seem to matter. ‘Listen, you can say to hell with it, and not care if you don’t win. But if the show is tarnished with this sodding great scandal, it won’t only affect you, it’ll affect everyone and Gideon won’t work in television again. His career?’ She made a gesture with her hand nosediving towards the floor. ‘Like that. You have to screw your chances of winning.’

‘I could just pull out?’ Somehow the thought of not giving it her best shot was far worse than not competing, although that was fairly dreadful. She’d worked so hard.

Cher shook her head. ‘No. The reasons will get out and
the
results will be the same. You just have to cook badly so you don’t win. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’ Cher giggled. ‘You might even do it without trying!’

This seemed like a lifeline. ‘I may not win—’

Cher shook her head. ‘No. You have to make absolutely certain you don’t win. You’ve got to ruin a dish. I want your reputation as a cook shattered, on television, in public. It’s only what you deserve.’

Zoe drew breath to protest but Cher held up a hand.

‘No! You slept with a judge! That is wrong on so many levels. You have to make sure you don’t gain from it.’

Zoe didn’t feel she could protest that the pictures of them kissing didn’t mean she had slept with him. It was irrelevant and, anyway, she
had
slept with him. ‘Just tell me, you seem to know everything, did you ever get the impression that Gideon favoured me over the rest of you?’

Cher’s little shrug told Zoe what she wanted to know. ‘I’m not saying that, but he might have done. And sleeping with him is still wrong. You must see that.’

Zoe was silent. She’d always known that sleeping with Gideon was wrong, and yet the reality was that, even now, there was nothing she would have done differently.

‘So you agree?’ Cher might have been getting Zoe to agree which nightclub they should go to first.

Zoe nodded. She didn’t know what else to do.

‘Then cheers!’ Cher refilled both glasses. ‘It’s going to be a great night!’

CHER WAS PARTICULARLY
WAG-like and charming in the limo that picked up the three female contestants and took them to the hotel where the photo shoot was to be held. The press conference and party were going to be there too. She patronised Becca in a way that made Zoe squirm but as she had her own internal maelstrom she couldn’t do much to help, apart from the occasional sympathetic smile. Her feelings were so mixed up. She was going to be seeing Gideon, which was at once tremendously exciting and completely terrifying. Would she get a chance to speak to him? And, most importantly, how would he take the news that she was being blackmailed by Cher? She wished now that she’d taken the bottle of Rescue Remedy her mother had tried to press on her. What she really felt like was a tranquilliser. Maybe someone would offer her some brandy. Gideon would be furious. But he had a lot to lose too. Why oh why hadn’t they been more careful?

‘I’m going to get used to this lifestyle!’ said Cher, stretching her long, perfect legs in front of her. ‘After this competition, some of us are going to be stars!’ She said the word with an ecstasy that made Zoe squirm. A glance across at Becca told her she felt the same.

‘You might not win, Cher,’ said Becca boldly. ‘And we’re chefs, not models.’

‘I
might
not win,’ she agreed, ‘but it’s unlikely. The thing is, your nerves will get the better of you and Zoe – well,
she’s
not really up there, is she? And as for not being a model, I think I could quite easily step sideways into that role.’

‘That’s not fair!’ said Becca. ‘Zoe’s done brilliantly!’

‘But not as a cook. She’s just a jolly coper, the helper in times of trouble, making cupcakes, being a little star, doing good deeds wherever she can. What this competition wants is a Michelin-standard chef, not a glorified Girl Guide.’

Zoe cringed in her seat. Cher’s cruel statements were usually easy to dismiss but that hit home. She had been the helper – she
liked
to help! She also liked the challenge, the problem-solving. Maybe she’d been wrong to give in to this instinct. Maybe it marked her out as unprofessional. But, really, that wasn’t the point. Her biggest, hugest, life-changing error had been to get into bed with one of the judges. She could be worthy of three Michelin stars right now but she still couldn’t cook herself out of this particular hole.

‘Becca is that standard,’ Zoe said, forcing herself to say something to hide how ghastly she was feeling. She may be out of the competition but she could still root for Becca. She deserved to win it anyway.

Cher shook her head sadly. ‘Nerves,’ she repeated. ‘They will get to you, won’t they? Think of cooking for all those top chefs, under the lights, the eyes of the world on you. Your hands will sweat; they’ll slip on the knife. You might actually cut yourself.’

‘We’ve been cooking like that ever since the start of the competition,’ said Becca, ‘it’s no different now. The best chef will win. And don’t forget Shadrach. He’s always cutting himself but it doesn’t stop him cooking amazing food.’

‘But messy. He won’t win when his station is such a muddle.’

As Cher’s station was always immaculate Zoe really hoped this wasn’t true.

‘You can’t know that,’ said Becca. ‘It’s the food that counts. He could easily win.’

To Cher’s delight and the others’ consternation they were made up before the photo shoot. But in spite of her inner turmoil, Zoe did find it rather fun and strangely relaxing.

All three girls were seated in front of a mirror and each one had a make-up artist hovering over them. Mentally awarding herself a saucer of cream, Zoe couldn’t help thinking that Cher’s Botox looked stiff and fake now she could see her reflected in the mirror.

‘Tell me, Cher,’ she said, deciding she liked cream. ‘Why did you decide to have Botox? Were some little worry lines, possibly about the competition, creeping in?’

Cher wasn’t remotely embarrassed. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I just wanted to look my absolute best. Because my appearance is important to me.’

‘But you’re only in your early twenties!’

‘And your point is?’

Zoe gave up. Cher obviously thought there was nothing strange about injecting toxins into your skin even if the flaws it corrected weren’t visible to anyone else. ‘And do you feel it helped?’

Cher was indignant. ‘Of course it helped! Duh! Look!’ She pointed to her forehead. ‘No lines!’

‘No expression!’ put in Becca, who’d gained a lot of confidence during the competition.

‘Frowning’s very over-rated,’ said Cher, with a little moue of temper. ‘Can we have false eyelashes if we want them?’

‘Anything you like,’ said her artist. ‘You’re the client.’

‘I’m Susy,’ said the girl assigned to Zoe. ‘What sort of look would you like?’

‘Hello. I usually go for quite a natural look.’ Zoe was feeling that her make-up application skills were hopelessly amateur.

‘You have really great hair! Are those curls natural? Amazing. So many girls iron their hair these days. Such a shame.’

Zoe might have imagined it but she thought Susy glanced at Cher in a disapproving way.

‘Maybe, as it is all a bit special, I should have a more dramatic look than normal?’ Zoe looked at Susy appealingly, hoping she’d tell her what was best.