The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!. Fiona Gibson

all looks delicious,’ I agree. ‘Mmm, I like these pancakes.’

      ‘Blinis,’ he corrects me, adding quickly, ‘At least, I think that’s what they’re called. You know, the little Russian things …’

      ‘Oh yes,’ I say as he expertly shells one of the tiny eggs. I want to ask him what kind of bird might have laid it – a pigeon perhaps? – as he seems approachable and I’m warming to him already. At least he’s around my age.

      ‘Hang on a sec,’ he says, putting down his plate and reaching for my badge. ‘It’s the wrong way up,’ he adds with a grin.

      ‘Oh!’ I laugh as he repositions it. ‘So, um, how are you feeling about the course?’

      ‘A bit apprehensive, I suppose, but who cares if we mess up? I’m just regarding it as a bit of fun.’

      ‘Me too. I didn’t think we’d be thrown into cooking today, though. I thought, you know, we’d be broken in gently …’

      ‘You’ll be fine,’ he insists. ‘You seem like a very capable person, Audrey.’

      ‘Really?’ I ask with a smile.

      ‘Yes, um … I’m sorry …’ He flushes endearingly. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop when we were arriving but I couldn’t help overhearing …’

      I sip my cordial, genuinely uncomprehending.

      ‘… It’s just,’ Hugo goes on, ‘I gather things don’t go too well at home in your absence. And I thought, ah, she’s one of those women who runs everything brilliantly, like a well-oiled machine, and whenever she’s not on hand it all falls apart …’

      I peer at him, fascinated by his observation. ‘Like a well-oiled machine? Whatever makes you think that?’

      ‘Well,’ he explains, ‘you’re certainly very tolerant, telling your other half how to use the washing machine.’

      I watch as he pops the egg into his mouth. ‘You thought I was on the phone to my husband?’

      ‘Well, er, I just assumed …’

      I laugh loudly. ‘That wasn’t my husband. I don’t actually have one. It was my son.’

      ‘Oh! Oh, I see …’ He chuckles awkwardly. ‘Sorry, Audrey. It’s just the way it sounded …’

      ‘That’s okay,’ I say, grinning at the thought of my non-existent, appliance-phobic husband. ‘It’s ridiculous anyway. I mean, Morgan’s not a baby. He’s eighteen and he should be able to cope on his own.’

      ‘I’m sure he can,’ Hugo says firmly.

      ‘You’re right. In fact, I suspect he could be perfectly capable. He just botches things up – I mean, if I ask him to hoover I can guarantee he’ll choke the tube with a sock …’

      ‘… Smart move,’ Hugo remarks.

      ‘Exactly. It’s his way of getting out of doing stuff …’

      ‘Phoney ineptitude,’ he adds with a smirk.

      ‘Phoney ineptitude?’ repeats the slender blonde woman who’s arrived at our side.

      ‘It means pretending you can’t do something when you’re perfectly capable,’ I explain, checking her name badge: Lottie.

      ‘Oh, I don’t need to pretend,’ she exclaims, widening her blue eyes. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before …’