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appeals so much, do you think?’ she mused.
    One of the women, a forty-something with tightly curled brown hair, smiled.
    ‘Don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘but nearly everyone orders it. I think it’s something to do with being away from home. Calories and cholesterol don’t count, so it seems, if you’re away on holiday. Or in this case, at a conference. I reckon hardly anyone bothers with a cooked breakfast when they’re at home, though.’
    Jenny laughed and agreed, but nevertheless donned her apron to add her own speciality dish of the morning to the mix. She’d decided that it would be appreciated by the guests if St Bede’s could offer them a slightly different option for those who were more adventurous; and so for the Great Jessies’ first breakfast, she had created for their delectation, what she was calling her Oxford Herb Omelette.
    When she’d been researching any famous food items connected with Oxford, she had, of course, come across the world famous marmalade, pots of which were on the tables upstairs in hall, naturally, but also something called the Oxford sausage, which was a very delicate mix of meat and herbs. Some recipes claimed it went back only a mere few hundred years, whilst others grandiosely claimed it had medieval origins, when meat products were regularly heavily spiced or herbed in order to try and disguise the taste of less-than-fresh meat.
    Dismissing the interesting if off-putting history, Jenny had seen at once how the herbs used in the Oxford specialitysausage would lend themselves to an herb omelette, and had set about experimenting. Now she checked the chits, and saw that only six members had opted for it, as opposed to the full English, but she wasn’t disappointed. As word spread about her specials she had no doubt that the demand for them would soon pick up.
    Humming happily to herself she reached for the organic, locally sourced eggs, cracked them into a bowl and began to beat. She’d got a really good price for them by offering to buy the farmer’s home-cured ham as well. She knew that if it was popular, then the regular chef was likely to continue using it, thus everyone won. As any wily cook knew, there were always crafty ways around a stringent budget. And herbs were dirt cheap as well.
    So to speak.
    As Jenny diced and gently crushed a variety of herbs in order to release their flavour, she felt calm, confident and happy. She had digs and a job set to last for the whole summer and, with luck, a new lover hovered on the horizon with which to share her evenings.
    But, as it happens, that morning, she was not the only one taking stock of her life.
     
    Laura Raines briefly took her eyes off the road to glance across and check out the lush, rolling green pastures of the Berkshire Downs. She smiled to herself, wondering what the green wellington set were doing this morning. Probably mucking out the horses and feeding the dogs and getting the kids off to school. Not necessarily in that order.
    Although Laura herself had been born into a privileged, upper-middle-class background, she hadn’t ever really bought into the whole
Country and Sporting Life
thing, and was more than happy to live in the swanky area of a large northern city. She liked the shops, theatres, restaurants and galleries, and sheliked spending money. Most of it was her own, left to her by her dead papa. When he’d popped his clogs her mother, bless her, had promptly sold off most of his assets and had liberally dished out the proceeds to herself and her two children.
    Now, as she headed south towards Hayling Island, and a discreet little hotel she knew, tucked away nicely out of sight and sound of anyone who might know her, she smiled happily.
    Maurice was oblivious in Oxford, attending one of his awful conferences, which meant that she had five whole days before she had to get back to Harrogate and play the dutiful wife once more.
    She met her steady, grey-eyed gaze in the driving mirror, and smiled