The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [44]
“We want to sign up, for your…services,” Flora announced, turning to give Alice a non-too-subtle wink.
Alice quickly stepped forward. She had planned another dull explanation of rogue charges and debit fraud, but now she found herself trying to look innocently interested. Perhaps a less obvious tactic would yield more information: “I, uh, heard about this place from a friend, and thought I would come by and see it for myself.” She tried to sound as vague—yet knowledgeable—as possible.
The woman relaxed. “Of course! Which class were you wanting?” she walked forward, reaching for a haphazard folder on the near counter, stuffed with stained pages and loose sheets of paper. “I have a pastry series just finishing and meat preparation next week…”
“Cooking classes?” Alice couldn’t stop herself exclaiming. Ella had gone through the effort of defrauding her for sauté skills?
The woman stopped. “I don’t understand.” She looked back and forth between them. “I thought you—”
“This is such a cute kitchen!” Flora interrupted quickly. She smiled at the woman disarmingly. “I love the rustic influences,” she cooed. “Is that a Falcon range?”
“Yes.” She paused, distracted. Flora quickly peppered her with questions about design themes and the darling little side bowls while Alice tried to think. So Ella had been taking classes here. But somehow, that knowledge wasn’t enough. When Flora had finished her spiel about earth tone accents, Alice adopted a regretful expression.
“I’m trying to remember what class my friend took with you. She was raving about it so much. I’d love to try it out myself.”
Beside her, Flora’s eyes widened. “Good one!” she mouthed, giving Alice a thumbs-up. So much for subterfuge.
Luckily, the exchange went unnoticed. “I can check,” the woman offered, flicking back in her organizer. “What’s her name?”
“Alice,” Alice said quietly. “Alice Love.”
“You’re friends with Alice?” Immediately, the woman brightened. “Oh, that’s great! How is she? Feeling better, I hope.” She looked concerned. “It’s such a shame about that stomach bug, she had to miss our final session. Everyone sends her their best,” she added, beaming.
Alice blinked at the outpouring of enthusiasm. “Ah, thanks. I’ll…pass that along.”
“So, she was signed up to Tartes and Tartins”—the woman consulted her book—“which ran for four weeks. I don’t have another starting for another few months, but our Italian country-cooking class begins next week. What did you say your name was?”
Alice paused. “Ella,” she said suddenly, beginning to back away. The name felt foreign on her lips. “Ella Nicholls. But I’ll just take your details for now, and then call later?”
“Of course!” The woman smiled. “Here, take some leaflets. And give my love to Alice!”
***
As they climbed the stairs to Cassie’s flat later that afternoon, Alice was still puzzling over her discovery. “I don’t understand why she would choose that, out of everything she could buy.”
Flora shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to eat cakes.”
“So why not charge a hundred pounds at a patisserie?” Alice argued. “Classes are different.” They weren’t something you just picked out from a shelf: they took planning and commitment and a process. She tried to picture Ella, joking with the other students over a counter of sugar and spices, showing up every week with a new anecdote. Did she tell those people the same stories she’d told Alice? Was she the same character for them or someone completely different?
There was a thought. Alice felt a slight chill at the idea of Ella playacting another role, this time as Alice. But before she could let it settle, she opened the front door.
“Oh!” Flora squealed.
In front of them, Cassie and Vitolio were twisted in a decidedly athletic embrace on the living room floor—naked, sweaty, and enthusiastically thrusting at each other. Alice tilted her head, mesmerized. Could that really go there…?
“Mghmm!” Flora made another noise, and Alice automatically reached to cover