‘Hey, Si. Great to see you,’ I said, trying not to sound too excited. ‘You should have texted. Have you been waiting long?’
He grinned. ‘Nah, and anyway, this little sweetheart has been keeping me company.’
‘Snowy’s anyone’s for a tickle under the chin.’
By his feet were two carrier bags from Sainsbury’s and for a moment I wondered whether he’d been kicked out of his hotel and the bags were filled with all his worldly goods.
‘What’s with the bags?’
‘I have the most amazing recipe for moussaka, and I wanted to try it on my favourite Greek.’
He was talking about me, right? ‘You’re going to cook?’
‘Yes, and you’re going to help, so come on – you’ve got potatoes to peel.’
The first thing Simon did was turn on the oven. Except, it wasn’t working.
‘Yeah,’ I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. ‘I’ve been meaning to look into that.’
He started laughing. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Shut up. Maybe I don’t use the oven because I make delicious healthy salads every night.’
Simon knelt down to look at the oven’s controls and after pressing a few buttons, the damn thing magically came to life.
He grinned. ‘You’ve got to set the clock, otherwise it won’t work.’
‘Well, that’s just dumb.’
‘Right, frying pan. We need to brown some onions.’
This I could do. ‘Olive oil okay?’
He nodded – thank goodness – because I didn’t have any other sort.
The kitchen was small and we had to keep moving around each other to get to things, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The mince was simmering nicely in the pan and even I had to admit we were creating some amazing smells.
At some point, Simon opened a bottle of wine, and we had almost drunk it before we’d even got to the bechamel sauce.
‘You want to make it from scratch?’
He looked mortally offended. ‘Is there any other way?’
‘It comes ready-made in a jar. Even the Londis around the corner has it.’
‘Once you’ve tried my bechamel, you’ll never go back to store-bought.’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively. Blimey, was he flirting over a jar of sauce? Who knew cooking could be fun?
‘So, what do we need for the sauce?’
He reached into his carrier bags and took out flour and eggs. I snuck a peek at what else was there. Moussaka needed a surprising amount of ingredients. A packet caught my eye. I yanked it out and dangled it in front of him.
‘Ready-made breadcrumbs? You are so busted!’
He held up his hands in surrender and laughed. ‘Okay, I admit it, I’m a total fraud. But I still win the adult stakes. Do you think I’m going to let you forget that you didn’t know what “blanching” meant?’
‘At least I don’t call an aubergine an eggplant.’
‘Actually, the Brits used the word eggplant until the eighteenth century.’
‘You just made that up.’
He’d opened the flour and had started sieving it. I did a double-take – I had a sieve?
He caught me staring. ‘Yes, I bought a sieve. Now stop looking at me like I’ve grown a third arm.’
He finished making the sauce while I peeled and sliced potatoes and aubergines. Then, we greased a Pyrex dish and layered in our mince, vegetables and bechamel.
The final touch was grating some Cheddar. Not strictly traditional, but he’d assumed I would have parmesan.
‘You can’t beat a good Cheddar,’ I explained.
‘I remember you were obsessed with it as a kid.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yeah, you hated it when your mum made sandwiches with halloumi.’
I frowned. ‘It’s not that I hated other cheeses, I just hated standing out.’ When I was younger, I tried to wear my Greekness as lightly as possible.
He rubbed my arm. ‘Every kid goes through phases like that.’
‘I couldn’t believe my uni friends grilled halloumi when we did barbecues.’ I shook my head. ‘All those years being embarrassed – what an idiot I was.’
‘I always loved that you were Greek – and not only because your parents always had eight different types of snack to offer me when I came round. I should have told you more often. Your place felt more like home than my own. My folks barely spoke to each other, and when they did it was via screaming matches about whose life was shittier. The only time I ever heard your parents shout at each other was when your dad had added cinnamon to your mum’s spanakopitta recipe.’
I smiled. ‘The Cannella Incident. We still can’t speak of it.’
*
The moussaka was lovely. But what made it lovelier was sharing it with Simon. We were sprawled on the sofa, our tummies full, and on our second bottle of wine.
‘It’s great being back in London,’ he said. ‘I should have come back sooner.’
‘It’s great having you back, Si.’
‘After my marriage fell apart, I thought I would too.’
He’d never really spoken about his divorce. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could have been there for you.’
‘I was a fool for not keeping in touch. Only communicating through email or Facebook. I wasn’t prepared to admit my marriage was a mistake. I avoided well-meaning friends who saw the end coming long before I did.’ He paused. ‘She cheated on me.’
‘Oh God. That’s awful.’
‘She claimed it was because I was at work all the time, some nights till midnight.’
‘That’s still not an excuse for infidelity,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Maybe I was avoiding her, though. So, my motives weren’t one hundred per cent pure. I should have listened to my gut and owned up that the marriage wasn’t working. But I’ve learnt something about myself: avoiding my problems never works out.’
‘It’s great that you can take something positive from it all.’
‘I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but it was a hell of a learning experience.’
I picked up my wine glass. ‘To learning experiences.’
‘And old friends.’
‘Less of the old, please.’
‘To wonderful, amazing, inspiring friends.’
His dark blue eyes seemed so full of affection that I had to look away.
‘Cheers,’ was all I trusted myself to say.
After a couple of minutes, my heart was almost back to normal beating speed.
‘How long do you plan to stay at the hotel, Si?’
‘The firm’s put me up for a couple of weeks, but I want to find a place of my own before then.’
‘You could stay here if you like,’ I said, keeping my tone light.
‘I couldn’t impose like that.’
‘It’s no problem,’ I said. ‘I could at least give you a key. That way, you’re not hanging around outside in the heat.’
‘I know your game,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
He did? ‘What do you mean?’
‘You want to get out of cooking, don’t you? And here I was thinking you were being nice, when really, you want me to have dinner ready for you when you’re home from work.’
I gave him a shove. ‘That’s not what I meant!’
‘Bit of tidying, too? And to put the laundry on?’
‘Stop it,’ I said, trying not to squirm.
‘Basically, an unpaid housekeeper.’
‘No!’
‘Admit it, Frixie, you want me to be your slave.’
Oh God, why did I hear the word ‘sex’ in front of ‘slave’?
Simon’s phone vibrated, dissolving the – probably imagined – sexual tension.
He read his text while I topped up our glasses, surprised to find that we’d reached the bottom of our second bottle.
‘I guess I should call it a night,’ he said.
Before he left, I gave him a key, which he accepted without fuss. I mooched aroun
d the kitchen, rinsing our plates and glasses.
Were we finally on the cusp of something? The spark between us wasn’t in my head. I really wanted to ring Georgia and tell her all about it. She was the one I always turned to when it came to relationship advice. But it was late and she’d be asleep. I needed to dampen my excitement. Simon was fresh from a divorce – the ink on his decree absolute was barely dry. The last thing I wanted was to be his rebound relationship.
I twisted the taps off and dried my hands on a tea-towel. Patience, I told myself. Then went to bed with that damned Take That song drilling holes in my head.
11
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
The tables at the café near Georgia’s office leant like the Tower of Pisa, the lone fan on the ceiling did nothing to cool the place down and the waiters didn’t speak English, but Luigi’s was always packed because it served the best penne all’Amatriciana this side of Naples.
It was Tuesday lunchtime and Georgia and I were squeezed around a table for one. Our knees kept knocking and if I twisted my head fully to the right, I’d be kissing the mug shot of Frank Sinatra on the wall. Before she had the twins, we’d see each other every week. Now, a monthly lunchtime catch-up was the best we could manage. Thankfully, she’d been free when I rang this morning to convene an emergency session.
‘So,’ she said, putting her phone on silent. ‘How’s Simon?’
‘Divorced and moving back to England.’
Her eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. ‘Pissing hell, you work fast!’
A waiter set down two mugs of sploshing tea. ‘Very funny,’ I said, mopping up the spillage with a paper napkin. ‘We’re just friends.’
‘You’ve been grinning like an idiot since you got here. Come on, spill it.’
‘He came round last night.’
She leant forward. ‘Oh aye, keep going.’
‘He made me moussaka.’
‘Is that Greek for orgasm?’
I laughed. ‘No! He made the dish moussaka, from scratch. Or rather, we made it together.’
‘Sounds intimate, especially in your kitchen.’
‘It was . . . nice.’
A waiter arrived with our pasta before I could elaborate. Georgia’s eyes were as wide as the plates Luigi junior set down in front of us.
‘Nice? Please tell me it was a night of unbridled simmering sexual tension.’
Luigi was taking an age grinding parmesan onto our penne. I suspected his English was a lot better than he let on.
‘No, of course not.’ Then, when Luigi finally left, ‘Okay, maybe a little. But we talked for hours and it was lovely.’
‘They’re back, aren’t they?’
‘What are?’
‘Your feelings for him.’
If I was talking to anyone else I would have denied it, but this was Georgia. ‘Maybe.’
I gulped down some tea to avoid her gaze.
‘Did you have some kind of sexy food fight?’
‘No, I told you, we talked.’
‘It never descended into sexy times?’
‘Georgia, you’ve got a one-track mind, do you know that?’
‘Oh, fuck off. I haven’t had sex for months – everything’s shrivelled up down there. We’re both so exhausted all the time. I want to live vicariously through you. So, am I going to get to meet Simon this time?’
The idea didn’t immediately appeal. I wanted to keep Simon to myself for a bit longer. I couldn’t explain it, though.
‘He’s really busy with work.’
Georgia frowned. ‘That’s not going to cut it, my dear. Bring him to Dean’s surprise birthday.’
She’d been planning a fancy-dress party for her husband, Dean, with military precision for months. Many a lunch had been taken up discussing the finer details: were cheese and pineapple sticks ironically retro or just plain odd? This was my chance to divert the conversation away from Simon.
‘Have you picked out a costume?’
‘Of course.’
‘What about Dean? He can’t be the only one not in fancy dress, George.’
‘Got his sorted, too. It’s the white uniform from An Officer and a Gentleman. He’ll love it. Or at least, he’ll love it when he sees how hot I find him in it.’
‘You’ve thought of everything!’ I said.
‘I have to – I can’t just have fun at the drop of a hat anymore. I haven’t had a drink for two years. His mum’s going to take the twins for the night and we’re going to bloody well enjoy it.’
I had a quick glimpse of the old Georgia. The one who wasn’t weighed down by having to keep two mini-humans alive. It was great to see her excited by something other than her babies’ digestive tracts.
‘Looking forward to it, Georgia.’
*
After lunch, I swung by Mike’s office to give him an update on the forthcoming issue. But of course, after a few minutes, the conversation strayed towards the longer-term future of the magazine – and if it still had one.
‘I spoke to Ed the Shred, earlier,’ said Mike.
My muscles tightened. Ed Fairbanks was the head of special projects at Octagon. No one really knew what he did, but his job mainly involved firing people and slashing budgets. Hence his nickname, Ed the Shred.
‘What did he want?’
Mike rubbed the back of his neck. ‘He’s set all of us new sales targets.’
All of us included the two other magazines the company had recently bought – a car review monthly and a baking magazine. None of us had anything to do with one another, although I sometimes wondered whether I could swap some of my comp gig tickets for salted caramel cupcakes.
‘What numbers are we talking about?’
‘We’d need to double our ad sales.’
If I hadn’t been sitting, my knees would have given way.
‘Why do they keep moving the goalposts?’
Mike sighed. ‘Rumour has it that Ed the Shred wants to come in as executive editor if these new targets aren’t reached.’
‘He’d come in over my head?’
Mike pursed his lips. ‘You’d be out, and I suspect the rest of the team wouldn’t be that far behind.’
‘But . . .’ I went woozy for a second. ‘Ed isn’t a journalist and he knows nothing about music.’
‘I don’t disagree, Zoë. What they aren’t saying is that Ed’s tenure would be short-lived. He’d come in, strip everything he can from the Re:Sound brand and then close the magazine. We’d be lucky if we ended up with an internet radio station.’
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
‘Are you sure you still want to focus all your energy on getting Marcie Tyler?’
‘What choice do I have? Thanks to her reclusiveness and her recent stint in rehab, Marcie is the only artist that could generate the sales we need.’
‘Well, there’s still Hands Down, and Nick Jones is rather keen.’
Anger flared in my gut. ‘Are you and he planning something behind my back?’
‘We’ve spoken a couple of times.’
I shook my head. This wasn’t like Mike at all – it had to be Nick’s doing.
‘I will hit those targets and I’ll do it the right way, Mike.’
*
Back at my desk, I had a missed call from Nick and an email. Sod him. He’d made his bed with Mike, he could bloody well lie in it. I would find another way to get to Marcie.
I’d managed to get a couple of hours’ work done when Jody called from reception.
‘You’ve got some visitors.’ Then, without waiting for me to ask who, she added: ‘I’m sending them up.’
I heard them before I saw them. My parents marching towards me in matching reversible jackets, making that swishing sound that only anoraks produce. I checked the sky out of the window. Not a single cloud. But that didn’t stop the voice in my head scolding me for not having brought an umbrella today. My parents could smell rain two continents over.
‘Mum, Dad, what are y
ou doing here? Is everything okay?’
‘We came to do some shopping and wanted to say hello,’ Mum replied. ‘You’ve got a big M&S up here.’
Dad was not known for his love of shopping, and it was only now that I noticed he was carrying something that looked suspiciously like a toolbox.
Gavin was staring at me with ill-concealed glee. Crap, what had I told the office about my folks that was about to bite me on the backside?
Before I could warn him to be discreet, he spun round in his chair to face them. ‘Hello Mr and Mrs Frixos, I’m Gavin.’
They shook hands, their expressions mirroring Gav’s delight.
I was racked by filial guilt that this was the first time they’d ever come to the office and I hadn’t thought to make the introductions myself.
‘Shall I give you a tour?’
Dad held up the plastic case he was carrying. ‘I brought my tools so I can fix your dishwasher.’
‘You don’t have to do that, Dad.’ Surely there was some sort of health and safety directive he’d be infringing?
‘Oh, that’s great,’ said Lucy, who’d mooched over. ‘It was my turn to buy the washing-up liquid – now I don’t have to bother. I’m Lucy, by the way.’
I glared at her. ‘Maybe you could go and get some dishwasher tablets, then.’
‘Oh, we’ve got loads of them,’ she replied. ‘We haven’t been able to use them in weeks.’
Dad shook his head in a ‘this is serious’ way. I needed to get them away from Lucy before she accidentally let slip that last week I’d got a mild electric shock when I’d tried to sort out a paper jam in our dodgy photocopier.
‘Why don’t I make us all a nice cup of tea,’ I suggested, trying to herd them towards the kitchenette. Please God, don’t let there be a half-eaten curry in the microwave.
‘So, what have you been up to since the weekend?’ I asked Mum as we waited for the kettle to boil. Well, Mum and I were waiting for the kettle; Dad had declined the offer of caffeine and was already unscrewing the sides of the dishwasher and inching it away from the wall.
‘We went to see Father Michalis today to go over everything for the wedding. He asked about you.’
I hadn’t been to church for years, so I suspected I was about to get a telling-off.
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 9
