by Kate Forster
‘Are you going to stay help me knead this then? It is for your dinner after all.’ She pointed at the dough.
Marc caught her eye and held it for what felt like the longest time.
She straightened her shoulders, stared him down and smiled. A slow, disarming smile that threw him completely.
‘Let me guess? You’re joking again?’ he said.
‘Maybe,’ she answered with a small laugh.
He finally spoke. ‘If my children get in the way, please let me know.’
‘They weren’t in the way. They’re lovely company, truly,’ she answered as she worked the dough.
He frowned at her, trying to think the last time anyone had said the twins were lovely company. He wasn’t sure it had ever been said since his divorce. God knows the children took it badly. Even though they weren’t great parents, the children wanted them to be together.
He had wanted to tell them that sometimes parents staying together is actually worse in the long run for everyone but he couldn’t explain that to his children because then he would have to tell his kids about his own childhood and he never wanted expose them to that level of drama.
A gambler for a father and a faded nightclub singer for a mother whose toxic marriage made Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton’s seem like a fairy tale. And as the eldest of the four children, he did the parenting in lieu. He’d been parenting since he was nine and he should be good at it but he realised it was different with your own kids. He was so used to barking orders at his siblings he assumed this would work on the twins but it didn’t. It just made them fight for his attention by behaving badly. He walked upstairs to his study, thinking.
He shouldn’t have spoken to the chef like that but he was truly surprised to see the boys so happy at the kitchen bench and he wasn’t often surprised.
And Christa wasn’t fazed by him at all. She stood there and stared at him in such a way that he felt both bothered, offended and extremely intrigued.
Marc wasn’t one of those people who called themselves foodies. To him, food was simply a necessity to survive. He would eat the same thing every day if he could as long as he didn’t have to prepare it.
He had a chef back in San Francisco but he made a lot of sushi and ramen for the boys and he preferred protein shakes and the occasional salad.
This chef was making pasta with his sons? It was as though he’d walked into an alternate universe where carbs were back and his children were well behaved.
Adam walked into the study and put the laptop in front of him. ‘Those figures have been fixed,’ he said. ‘And I’ve backdated your address on the financial compliance forms to Pudding Hall from June, when you decided to buy Cirrus. That way you will have been in the UK for the right amount of time to own a media service.’
Marc nodded and checked the figures again.
‘Then you will be the biggest media owner under fifty,’ Adam crowed. ‘I’m already lining up the interviews in my head. Fast Company, Wall Street Journal, NBC, CNN, BBC Stock Report – it’s going to be huge.’
Adam worked harder than Marc some days, and when he told him he had to come to the UK to live for enough time to be eligible to buy the streaming service Adam hadn’t paused for a moment. He came to Pudding Hall because he loved to work and Paul came with Adam, which was fine with Marc. As long as Adam could get the deal through, he didn’t care where he spent the holidays.
‘You can’t tell anyone yet though,’ he reminded Adam, even though he knew he didn’t have to. He thought for a moment. ‘Did you get Christa to sign the NDA?’ he asked.
‘Yep, all done,’ Adam said.
‘And Peggy?’ he asked. ‘She seems nosy.’
The last thing he needed was her spreading information about what he was working on.
‘Peggy? She’s signed,’ said Adam. ‘Thought I doubt she would be the one to call The New York Times about the big media deal that will put Lachlan Murdoch on notice.’
Marc wondered about Peggy but she had been a part of Pudding Hall for thirty years, and had overseen it from the last owners to Marc buying the home, managing the contractors and decorators while he was in the States.
But when he arrived, it felt empty. There was no doubt it was beautiful. It had been on the cover of Architectural Digest and was the most pinned country house on Pinterest yet it felt like a movie set. Christmas should be joyful and fun and instead the house felt like an Airbnb. He thought about getting Christmas decorations or getting someone to decorate it for the boys, but it felt hollow.
He would apologise to Christa at dinner, he thought.
‘Tell me about Christa.’
‘Christa Playfoot. She and her ex-husband had a restaurant in Mayfair. Very well reviewed. Paul and I ate there a number of times. It’s everything a brasserie should be.’
‘Why is she cooking for me then?’
‘Because she’s getting a divorce, the restaurant is closed and you’re overpaying her to make protein shakes and hotdogs for the boys.’
Marc rubbed his temples and sat back in his chair. ‘The boys were making pasta with her and I ruined it.’
‘Pasta?’ Adam seemed surprised. ‘Is that a healthy option? Considering their mother loathes them having carbs.’
‘I guess so,’ Marc said. ‘I’m not great at this parenting full-time thing. But I don’t have the time to micromanage their macro intake at the moment.’
‘You don’t have to micromanage them, just love them,’ Adam reminded him.
‘Thanks, Dr Phil,’ said Marc but he knew Adam was right. Since he and his wife had separated he had the boys full-time while she decided to take her share of the settlement and invest in all sorts of schemes from movie producing, collagen juice bars, to investing in new mobile phone technology from Latvia. Marc had no idea if anything she was spending her money on was a good investment but what he did know was she didn’t want to parent at the moment and he was left holding the babies.
Back in San Francisco they had nannies but the boys claimed they were too old for nannies now and made their feelings known by terrorising them until no nanny agency would take the job, no matter the price.
Adam stood up and stretched his back.
‘Dinner is at seven thirty for us. She is feeding the boys at six,’ said Adam. ‘If you wanted to say hello to her and pretend the other version of you was a twin, then I would suggest a change of top and parting your hair on the other side to make it believable.’
Marc rolled his eyes at Adam. ‘Thanks for the tip but this isn’t an adult version of The Parent Trap.’
Adam shrugged. ‘I help where I can.’
Marc sighed and thought about how he came across to Christa. ‘I don’t think I made a great first impression.’
Adam peered at him. ‘Why does it matter what she thinks of you? You don’t care what anyone else does.’
Marc couldn’t answer for a moment. ‘That doesn’t say much about me if I’m a rude prick to everyone though. I mean, I just don’t really want to spend time with many people.’
Adam scoffed. ‘You just don’t get impressed by anyone anymore because most people want something from you.’
Marc couldn’t argue with that. It was true and he wondered if that was why Christa challenged him so much. She was doing her job her way, which he could respect and understand. Perhaps they were more alike than she realised.
‘I’ll talk to her,’ he said to Adam. ‘And show her I am not a complete arsehole.’
‘I still think the twin ruse is the way to go but you do you,’ quipped Adam as he left Marc to his work.
*
Just after six in the evening Marc walked downstairs where a delicious smell guided him to the kitchen. He could hear the boys laughing and talking loudly as he stood by the door, unseen by them.
‘Can we have ketchup?’ asked one of them.
‘Of course – what is a burger without ketchup?’ he heard Christa reply.
He took a deep breath and steppe
d into the kitchen.
‘Burgers? Who is having burgers? Why wasn’t I invited?’
Christa and the boys turned to him, surprise plastered on their faces.
‘You’re welcome to have one but the boys made you pasta for dinner.’ She seemed slightly on guard, which made sense since he had acted like a total idiot every time they had met before.
He looked at the plates of food on the bench. The burgers and fries looked incredible and his mouth watered at the sight of them.
Peggy came into the kitchen.
‘I have set the dining room for the adults,’ she said, which sounded like an order.
‘Oh, it’s okay, we’ll eat in here, I know Adam said seven thirty but it might be nice to eat together.’ Marc looked at Christa. ‘Or are you making something that requires extra time? Otherwise we can wait – I don’t want to be difficult.’
He thought he saw a little smile cross her lips. ‘Of course that’s fine. I have prepared homemade fettucine with a simple but delicious carbonara sauce.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ he said.
Peggy was wringing her hands. ‘I set the table in the dining room. With the good china.’
‘I know you did, Peggy, but I want to eat in here with my boys,’ he said and paused, waiting for her to understand his tone as he texted Adam and Paul to come down earlier.
Peggy, to her credit, nodded.
Adam and Paul came into the kitchen soon after.
‘Are we eating in the dining room?’ Paul asked.
Peggy almost snarled, ‘No, Mr Ferrier wants to in eat in the kitchen.’ She spoke as though he’d said he wanted to eat in a pigsty. ‘I will move the place settings in here though the fine china will look out of place.’
‘Don’t worry about it. We can put it away,’ said Marc. ‘You head home – it’s dark. Please.’
Peggy went to the hook by the back door and took down her coat.
‘I can stay if you need me,’ she suggested.
‘It’s fine, head home.’ Marc hoped his words were firm but not mean.
She nodded at his instruction. ‘Goodnight, Mr Ferrier, Mr Abraham, Mr Salter, Master Seth and Master Ethan. And to you, Cook.’
She closed the kitchen door and Marc let out a sigh of relief.
‘She is truly something else,’ he said as he went to the wine fridge and opened it, searching for the one he wanted and then grabbing it. ‘Like a scary housekeeper in a horror film.’
He uncorked a bottle of wine and started to open and close cupboards randomly.
‘Speaking of horror films, stop with the cupboards,’ said Adam. ‘What are you looking for?
‘Wine glasses,’ he said.
‘Butler’s pantry, right-hand side, long cupboards,’ said Christa as she tossed a salad.
‘How do you know this after an afternoon here and I’m still searching after owning this place for several years?’
Christa smiled at him. ‘It’s my job,’ she said. He felt a tug of interest in her and it was foreign but also pleasant. He was glad he had decided to eat with the boys.
‘Boys, set the table for us. We’re eating in here tonight.’
He saw Adam and Paul glance at each other. ‘Don’t share looks. It’s lovely in here and smells incredible,’ he said.
Seth and Ethan rushed to get cutlery and plates, while Paul found placemats and napkins.
Adam was putting out wine glasses and Christa was whisking egg yolks.
It was a hive of industry and Marc felt something he hadn’t felt before.
Contentment.
‘It’s funny how a kitchen can create an instant atmosphere,’ he said to Christa as he opened the wine.
‘The kitchen is the heart of everything, in every culture, at any time. Food brings people together,’ she said to him as she pan-fried some bacon pieces in a pan, the spitting of the fat not fazing her for a moment.
‘Do you mind us eating in here?’ he asked, aware that he might be encroaching on her space.
‘Not at all – it’s nice to have some company,’ she said and he noticed the blue of her eyes.
He opened the wine and poured a glass for himself, Adam and Paul.
‘Would you like to join us for one?’ he said, wondering if that was okay. In San Francisco he never ate or drank with the staff but this felt more intimate and right, since they were in her space.
Christa looked at him. ‘I don’t drink when I’m working but thank you.’
She plated up the pasta onto three dishes and then carried them to the table.
‘Where is your dinner?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’ll get something later.’
‘There is more in the pan,’ he said to her. ‘I won’t take no as an answer. Please.’
Christa sighed. ‘Okay, I shouldn’t do this really, but it’s been a day, you know?’
Marc laughed. ‘I don’t think you saw the best of me any of the times we crossed paths today. I’m sorry about that.’
She shrugged. ‘I try not to make snap judgements of people.’
‘Really? I do but it’s something I’m working on,’ he admitted, wondering if the wine was actually truth serum.
He held out his hand. ‘Can we start again? Marc Ferrier.’
She took his hand in hers. ‘Christa Playfoot.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Now have some wine and let’s eat this incredible-looking meal.’
Marc sat at the head of the table as Christa placed down a leafy green salad and bread, while the boys carried their burgers to the table and sat down opposite Adam and Paul.
Christa sat at the end of the table, with her plate of pasta in front of her, looking awkward.
‘Dad, we made the pasta. Try it, try it,’ Seth said excitedly.
Marc took a mouthful. The yolky sauce tasted like a dream and the salt of the bacon cut through the richness, creating a symphony of flavour in his mouth. The pasta was the perfect texture and al dente. He looked up at the twins.
‘This is unbelievably good.’
The boys smiled with pride and he felt a stab of guilt for yelling at them earlier.
He looked at Christa at the other end of the table. ‘So it seems you are a chef and not a cook.’
Christa gave him a wry smile.
‘My degree and work pedigree would agree with you but thanks for confirming.’
‘Was I being condescending then?’ he asked. ‘Oh God I was. I was trying to be funny.’
Christa said nothing as she ate.
Marc laughed but it sounded false to his own ears. Try harder, he thought and he turned to Adam and Paul. ‘I apologised to Christa for being an absolute idiot today. I’m surprised she’s stayed here.’ He looked at Christa. ‘But after seeing what you have taught the boys, you can stay forever.’ He laughed and everyone joined in, not because he was funny – he was self-aware enough to know that – but because he had apologised. That was something he was trying to improve in his life. When you were rich, not many people expected apologies. But when you were a billionaire, you were told never to say sorry for anything because you could buy forgiveness. Christa looked at him for longer than he felt comfortable with and he worried she could see through him. She returned her focus to the food on her plate and he wondered what she was thinking. Was she impressed by him? Did she dislike him? Did she think he was rude? Arrogant? Probably all of the above, he thought, wishing he could start everything again.
He watched the boys eat their burgers, which looked incredible, while Paul chatted with Christa about her restaurant and a mutual friend they had.
‘Good idea on the chef,’ he whispered to Adam.
‘She’s pretty great,’ answered Adam. ‘The boys love her, which is no easy feat. Although this pasta is so good I will be up a pants size if she keep this up.’
‘Don’t bring your California food anxiety here; it’s a holiday and this food is incredible.’
Marc watched the boys listening to Christa talk and noted the way she incl
uded them in the chatter.
She was a natural with kids, he thought as she switched easily from talking to them and then Paul and back again. She offered bread and salad and cut the boys’ burgers in half to make it easier for them to eat but she didn’t look at him unless he asked her a question or spoke directly to her.
The discomfort of her dismissing him made him realise something. This is how he made her feel, he thought, and he hated himself. He needed to think before speaking, he reminded himself but he wanted her to know he recognised her work with the dinner and with the boys.
He raised his glass and held it up to the room.
‘To Christa, our chef and pasta queen! And wrangler of recalcitrant people of all sizes. May you never leave Pudding Hall!’
Christa picked up and glass and raised it to him.
‘Thank you,’ she said and he caught her eye and he nodded at her and she nodded back. An agreement of sorts had been made, and he had never wanted to impress anyone more than this woman who had turned Pudding Hall upside down in an afternoon.
Homemade Fettucine
Ingredients
2 cups plain (all-purpose) flour
3 large eggs
½ teaspoon sea salt
½ tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
Method
Pour the flour on a clean and clear work surface and make a volcano shape. Break eggs, olive oil, and salt into the centre. Use a fork to break up the eggs while keeping the flour walls together, Be gentle. Then use your hands to coax the flour into a dough until it is a messy ball
Knead the dough. To start with, the dough will feel dry, but continue until it finally comes together around the 8-10 minute mark. Then it should be malleable and smooth. If the dough feels too dry at any point, wet your fingers and sprinkle it with a little water to bind. If it’s sticky, dust more flour onto the bench and then shape the dough into a ball. Wrap in plastic cling film and leave resting at room temperature for 30 minutes.
Dust two large baking sheets with flour while the dough is resting.
Once ready, cut the dough into four pieces and carefully flatten each into an oval disc. Run the first disc of dough through the pasta machine roller attachment three times on level 1 (the widest setting).
