The Secret Cooking Club (12 page)

AN IDEA

A
t school the next day I daydream about the evening at Mrs Simpson's house. For the first time ever, I ate like I was in a five-star restaurant. There was French onion soup with home-grown herbs; spicy crab cakes with a dill mayonnaise; perfectly marinated rib-eye steaks with tender vegetables; and for pudding, my own special creation – a mint and strawberry chocolate soufflé.

Mrs Simpson didn't even lift a spoon during the cooking process, but she hovered over each step; approving the measuring and mixing of ingredients like she was four people at once. She also set
the table with fine gold-rimmed china, snow-white linen placemats and napkins, and gold and silver candles. We didn't talk about the fire, or her worries, or any of our own.

Once, as we were cooking, I'd tried to ask her about the little recipe book hoping she'd tell us more about the dedication – ‘To my Little Cook – may you find the secret ingredient.' ‘It's a really lovely little book,' I'd said. ‘It must have taken you ages to make.'

But Mrs Simpson didn't answer right away. Her breathing seemed to grow shallow and I could tell that I'd upset her. But a moment later, she'd recovered. ‘It was a long time ago,' she'd said, her hand trembling as she raised a teacup to her lips. I'd taken the hint – and Violet had helpfully asked a question about how long to cook the vegetables in order to change the subject.

When dinner was served, Mrs Simpson got us each talking about the good bits about ourselves: our happiest times, our best memories, what we want to be when we grow up – stuff that might seem lame, but actually was nice to talk about.

Gretchen talked a lot about her family and how close they are. I already knew her dad is a barrister, but I didn't know that her mum is the head of HR for some bank. Or that she has an older brother who works for a clean water charity in Africa. No
wonder Gretchen tries hard to be Ms Perfect. And succeeds – most of the time, at least. ‘I want to study law like my dad,' she said proudly. ‘So I can help people with their problems. But I'll need to know how to cook for when I'm at university. And, you know, after.'

Alison acted unusually shy when Mrs Simpson asked her about her future ambitions. Before answering, she looked at Gretchen as if seeking permission. ‘I wanted to go to ballet school,' she told us, ‘but I had to have an operation on my knee. So that's not going to be possible now.'

I saw her through new eyes, feeling surprised and sympathetic. Alison has turned out to be nicer than I expected, but I didn't know that she'd had that happen to her.

‘But I'm kind of OK with it,' she continued. ‘I was thinking that I could start a dance studio someday. I like working with kids. But who knows . . .' She smiled in my direction. ‘Maybe I'll teach cooking too so that girls who want to be dancers can still eat healthily. It's really fun – I never would have guessed.'

Mrs Simpson nodded thoughtfully. ‘The best way to eat healthily is to use healthy ingredients – vegetables, nuts, fruits, fish – all as fresh as possible. I've got some special recipes I can show you.'

‘Great,' Alison said. ‘I'd like that.'

When Mrs Simpson turned to Violet and asked her what she wanted to be, Violet surprised everyone except me by saying that she wants to be a doctor. ‘I want to save lives,' she said. Her eyes flicked over to me, but she didn't tell the rest of them what she had told me. ‘But until I can do that, I'm happy enough baking things. I was really scared to come to a new school,' she admitted. ‘But now that we've got The Secret Cooking Club, I'm glad I did.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘The Secret Cooking Club has been good for all of us.'

‘And what about you, Scarlett?' Mrs Simpson asked.

I'd been waiting for the question, and made up all kinds of answers in my mind: like winning
Bake Off
, writing my own cookbook, or helping end hunger in Africa. But instead, I decided to answer truthfully.

‘I don't know, really,' I said. ‘I'm kind of just trying to enjoy what I've got now – like you guys.'

‘Let's toast the Secret Cooking Club,' Violet replied raising her glass.

‘To Mrs Simpson,' I said.

‘To mixing friends and flour,' Gretchen added.

‘To buttercream,' Alison laughed.

Mrs Simpson leant forwards. ‘To friendship,'
she said.

‘Hear, hear.'

The kitchen echoed with the tinkling of crystal as we all clinked our glasses together. And even though it took a long time to wash and put away all that fine china, it was a really good night.

But now . . .

‘Hey Scarlett, wait up!'

I turn round and see that the person trying to get my attention is Nick Farr. I feel like everything I ate for breakfast might come up again. Alison and Gretchen are good friends with Nick, so why does talking to a boy make me so nervous?

‘Oh, hi.' I stop walking and turn, feeling myself blush.

‘Alison said you needed some help – with an online profile or something?'

‘Um, I do—?'

‘That's what she said.' His cute-as-a-boy-band-member face slips into a frown.

Get a grip, Scarlett!
‘I mean – yes, I do.'

He raises an eyebrow. ‘I've got my laptop in my bag. I can meet you in the library after school. But I don't have long. I'm helping coach a junior rugby team later tonight.'

‘Oh.'

‘OK, well . . .' He gives me a look like he's sorry he bothered to speak to me in the first place. ‘I'll
see you later then?'

‘Yeah. Thanks.'

I make a dash for the girls' loos. My insides feel liquid and gushy.
Nick Farr spoke to me. Nick Farr is going to meet me after school. OMG! I am going to die/be sick/fall down on my knees and thank Alison/kill Alison/run screaming from the building/go home and change my clothes/wash my hair/take a cold shower/crawl under the duvet and never come out.

‘So did Nick talk to you?' Violet emerges from the far cubicle, smiling mischievously.

‘You're in on it too! I thought I was going to die.'

‘Come on, Scarlett,' she laughs. ‘This is your big chance.'

‘For what!'

She cocks her head like I'm stupid or something. ‘We agreed it, I thought. If we're online we might be able to raise money to help Mrs Simpson.'

‘But I'm still not sure how.' I stare at her without seeing. ‘Besides, I don't have a clue how to go about it.'

‘Maybe not, but that's where Nick comes in. We all think you'll be a natural – with your mum and stuff—'

‘My mum!'

She winks at me and heads to the door. ‘Let me know how it goes.'

The door swooshes shut behind her.

My big chance.
I sit in class giving myself a pep talk. Part of me feels betrayed and ganged up on by my friends, but another part feels all giddy and stupidly excited. When lessons are over for the day, I mostly feel self-conscious and scared. But the main thing I need to focus on is helping Mrs Simpson stay in her own home.

I put on lip gloss, brush my hair, and go to the school library. I'm half expecting the other members of The Secret Cooking Club to be sitting at a nearby table, giggling and laughing. But other than a couple of older kids studying for their GCSEs, the library's empty.

I grab a random book from a random shelf and flip halfway through it before I realize that it's about the history of train travel in Britain. I slam it shut and put it back on the shelf. Then I have an idea. I ask the librarian if there's a cooking section. She raises an eyebrow like I've asked for something strange, and points me to a shelf at the back.

There are a couple of books for little kids – teddy bears' picnics and cooking around the world; plus a few of the usual Jamie Olivers and Delia Smiths. At the end of the shelf there's a tattered old book bound in blue leather that's turned around back to front. I take it off the shelf. It's a copy of
Recipes passed down from Mother to Daughter
that Mrs
Simpson has in her kitchen. I flip through the recipes, realizing that – because of Mrs Simpson's handmade, handwritten recipe book – I could cook any of them. Best of all, I'd no longer be scared to try. In fact, I
want
to try them all, and share Mrs Simpson's recipes with even more kids.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do.

THE PLAN IN ACTION

I
'm going to start my own website. It's going to be called ‘The Secret Cooking Club'. I'll put on lots of recipes and photos and inspire other kids to make things secretly for their school. There will be a page called ‘Scrummy Cakes and Bakes', one called ‘Home-cooked Dinners' and one called ‘Recipes for Sharing'. And then I'll write about this really cool old lady who's helping us and about her special handwritten recipe book. I'll post photos of the book, the recipes, and all the little drawings and rhymes.

And when it's all up and running, I'll send the website link to Mr Kruffs. He'll see that we're
online and if he tries to put Mrs Simpson in a home, he'll have no end of bad publicity.

‘Hi, Scarlett.'

The dream dissolves like sugar in water.

‘Oh – um – hi, Nick.'

‘Sorry I'm late.' He plonks his bag down at the table. ‘I've got to leave in thirty, so let's get started.'

‘Great.' I walk over to the table and sit down beside him, trying to remember how to breathe. I let a curtain of hair fall over my eyes so that I can watch his every move. His hands are slender, his fingers graceful as he takes his laptop out of his bag and turns it on.

‘So, were you thinking of a blog, or what?' he asks me.

‘Yeah – a blog, plus a website where I can post some photos and people can leave comments,' I brainstorm aloud. ‘Maybe a place for guest posts too.'

‘So, kind of like your mum's?'

I shudder. I can't believe I'm doing this. ‘Well, it won't
really
be like hers.'

‘No, I guess not.'

My mind races to think of something to say as the computer boots up.

‘My mum won't let me use the internet at home,' I ramble. ‘So I don't really know much about it. But I thought I might like to learn.'

He turns to me. ‘Are you trying to get back at her?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Your mum,' he says. ‘To be honest, I was kind of surprised when Ali told me you wanted to set up a website. I've always thought that you had it pretty rough, with your mum writing about you and everything.'

‘You did?' My awkwardness begins to melt away.

‘I remember a few years back – you used to always speak up in class. You knew all the answers and you had lots of ideas – you were really clever.'

I give him a wobbly smile. ‘Really?'

‘But then you stopped. After people found out about the blog.'

‘Well . . . I guess . . .' I sigh. ‘Yeah, that's probably true.'

He types in his password. ‘I'm sure your mum is cool and all, but I know I'd hate it if anyone wrote like that about me on the internet.'

‘She isn't cool. I hate that she does it. Most people don't understand.'

His smile makes me feel warm and tingly. ‘Maybe more people understand than you think.'

I mull this over as he opens up a web page.

‘So there are some pretty good blogging sites
out there. I think this one's the best.' He types something into the browser. ‘It's called Bloggerific. It's pretty easy to post photos, text and video. And you can search by hashtags – so you can follow people, and people can find you.'

‘Um . . . OK.'

‘Here, I'll show you.'

For the next twenty minutes, I half watch what Nick does, and half understand it. The rest of the time I'm watching him, and enjoying sitting next to the scrummiest boy in our year who thinks I must be clever, and who ‘understands' that I haven't had things exactly easy. I ask a few questions, but I can't bring myself to ask the BIG question – he and Alison hang out at school and she talks about him all the time – do they have a thing going? Or is there hope for someone like me?

‘Scarlett?' I realize that Nick is waiting for a response from me.

‘Oh, sorry. I was just trying to concentrate – it's a lot to take in.'

‘Well, I'm sorry that I have to rush off. But let me know how you get on and if you need any more help.' He shuts down his computer. The electricity fizzles out of my body.

‘Thank you so much,' I say. The words can't express my muddled-up feelings. ‘I know you're busy, but I really appreciate your help.'

He hesitates for a second. ‘Well, if you really want to thank me, there's something you can do for me too.'

‘Oh, what's that?'

‘Would you consider taking on a new member?'