Too Many Cooks by Dana Bate Read Free Book Online Page B

entry area. To the left lies a small living room, with parquet flooring, a black vinyl couch, a red armchair, a wooden coffee table, and a small wooden dining table surrounded by four chairs. The entryway to the kitchen sits just beyond the dining table, the door propped open with a wooden wedge.
    Tom wheels my case into the living room and deposits it next to the couch.
    â€œRight. Living room here. Kitchen there. Washing machine in the kitchen. And if you’ll follow me this way . . .” He heads back toward the front door and continues along the carpeting down a small hallway. “Bedroom here. Bathroom there. Water heater can be a bit dodgy, so it’s best to keep showers brief. I don’t recommend using the bath.”
    I inch along the carpet and peek into the bathroom, which features black-and-white tile floors, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub-and-shower combination.
    â€œWhat’s that cord hanging from the ceiling?” I ask, pointing above the toilet.
    â€œThe loo flush.” He yanks on the cord, and there’s a loud whoosh .
    â€œAh. Got it.”
    Tom turns back toward the front door, and I follow him into the entryway. “The flat is serviced on Thursdays between nine and eleven, unless you say otherwise. If you require any more cleaning, please let me know, and I can arrange it for an additional fee. Oh, and Miss Tricklebank sent over a hamper, which I’ve left in the kitchen.”
    â€œA hamper? Like for laundry?”
    Tom looks at me quizzically. “No. For eating.”
    I quickly realize this is yet another linguistic Britishism with which I am unfamiliar, and so instead of pressing the issue further, I simply nod and say, “Right. Of course.”
    Tom takes one last look around the apartment and claps his hands together. “Sorted. If you need anything, I’ll be in my office until five.”
    â€œThanks so much,” I say.
    â€œCheers.”
    He leaves and closes the door behind him, and I head for the kitchen, where I find a large wicker basket wrapped in cellophane sitting on the counter. “Oh, a gift basket, ” I say out loud.
    I quickly untie the silky ribbon at the top and peel back the cellophane. Beneath it, I find a pile of teas and snacks, along with a note:

    Kelly,
    Welcome! Here are a few essentials to get you started. The mobile has already been topped up.
    Please turn it on as soon as you arrive.
    Best,
    Natasha

    I rummage through the basket and find a shiny black smartphone, which I power on, as per Natasha’s (or, if I had to guess, Poppy’s) instructions. Five minutes later, the phone rings, its jingle filling the kitchen as I study the various boxes of organic herbal teas.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œAh, brilliant, you’ve found the phone.” Poppy’s voice trills in my ear. “How was your flight?”
    â€œLong,” I say. “But otherwise fine. Thank you so much for the gi . . .” I clear my throat. “The hamper. It’s lovely.”
    â€œYes, well, we figured you wouldn’t have anything in the house, so these are things at the very minimum we thought you would need.”
    I scan the basket, which, among other things, contains a pot of wild boar paté, a jar of organic Manuka honey, a package each of wild Scottish smoked salmon and venison salami, a tube of geranium and neroli hand lotion, and a lamb’s wool hot water bottle cover.
    â€œYeah, it looks like you covered the basics. . . .”
    â€œI assume you have seen the ATM card Natasha has taken out in your name.” I spot a Barclay’s card sitting beside the salami. “The pin is attached. The cash from that account is meant for cookbook-related purchases only. Groceries, equipment, things like that. It is not for personal use.”
    â€œUnderstood.”
    â€œGood. Now, on to some business. Natasha wanted to have you round for supper tonight. Does seven o’clock