‘Lovely.’ I wonder now if I should have volunteered Sam for a stall at the regatta; seems she has enough on her plate without more work from me. What on earth was I thinking? Sam beckons Stacey, one of the waitresses, over.
‘Would you mind bringing us two hot chocolates slathered in squirty cream and marshmallows, and a plate piled high with cakes please, Stace?’
‘Coming right up,’ she says, cheerfully.
‘Thank you, I really need a sugar hit,’ Sam groans, and Stacey turns to me.
‘I’ve been telling her all week to take it easy, but will she listen? Can you please talk some sense in to your friend?’ Stacey shakes her head and gives Sam’s shoulder a quick squeeze, before picking up a pair of giant silver tongs and heading over to a glass display cabinet which is full of creamy peaked cakes all lined up in rows. Sam rolls her eyes before looping her arm through mine.
‘I sure will,’ I call after Stacey. I knew it! What was I thinking? I’ll just tell the regatta committee that Sam has another huge event to cater for, a wedding or something – perfectly plausible with it being summertime, the wedding season, after all.
Sam and I make our way over to the best booth in the corner at the far end of the café – perfect for chatting and keeping an eye out to see who is coming or going. We flop down into the reclaimed crimson red velvet train seats; they’re arranged in booths of four around low tables, with frilly shaded lamps that radiate a golden glow to create an authentic steam-train-carriage atmosphere. It’s just like being aboard the Orient Express, circa 1920, and very in keeping with the elegant Art Deco style of the Carrington’s building.
‘So, tell me all about the regatta plans.’ Sam leans forward eagerly.
‘Oh, there’s nothing very much to report,’ I say, fiddling with my bag to avoid eye contact. ‘Early days and all that. At the meeting last week we just divvied up the events; I imagine the real work begins after the next meeting when our project plans have been approved.’ Stacey arrives with the cake mountain and two plates. Grateful for the distraction, I hand a plate to Sam and busy myself with sorting out the napkins and forks.
‘Rubbish. Georgie, you’ve always been a bad fibber and I know when you’re keeping something from me. What is it?’ Sam scrutinises me as she helps herself to a particularly plump red velvet cupcake with glittery frosting, and so mountainous it completely coats her cheeks when she bites into it.
‘Nothing.’
‘Look, if they don’t want my cakes, then I shan’t be offended …’ Sam puts her plate on the table and licks her fingers. ‘It’s not like I’m desperate for more work or anything.’ She shrugs and grabs a napkin to wipe her face. ‘And, you know, I found out who catered for Isabella’s soirée.’
‘Who?’ I ask, suddenly desperate to know right away.
‘Only that chef from the Mulberry Grand Hotel who does the private functions. He comes to your house – or yacht in this case – and does all the cooking on the premises, which just makes it even more weird. Why use him, when they could have stayed instore, as it were? And I have it on good authority – one of my regulars went to a dinner party that he catered for, so I know my food eats so much better than his.’ Sam pushes her bottom lip out as I try not to smile at her ‘chef speak’. It always amuses me when she describes how food ‘eats’, conjuring up all kinds of weird and wonderful images in my head … Anyway, I know she’s right; Sam is a fantastic cook. When she left school, Alfie paid for her to spend a year at an exclusive culinary school in Paris. Her twice-baked goat’s cheese soufflé is always astounding. ‘Not very loyal, is it?’ Sam shakes her head, making her corkscrew curls jig furiously.
‘It is a bit strange – I could ask Tom, see if he knows anything about it?’ I offer, before taking a vanilla slice, or millefeuille, as Sam calls them.
‘No, honey, it’s fine, I don’t want to make a deal about it. I’m just curious, that’s all. So have the regatta people gone with the Mulberry Grand chef too – is this what you’re hiding? They don’t want me—’
‘Oh, but they do,’ I say quickly, and then instantly wish I could push the words right back into my mouth.
‘Brilliant! I’ll start planning a menu right away. We could do nautical themed cupcakes with little chocolate anchors – even boats, perhaps! How long is the regatta on for? I’ll need to make sure we don’t run out, and that there’s a good rotation with the selection; we don’t want the same cakes for the duration. People like variety and, let’s face it, some might stay for the whole event.’ Sam beams enthusiastically, really getting into the swing of things.
‘Two days, but are you sure?’ I ask, tentatively.
‘Definitely, why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, you know … will you have enough time?’
‘Of course, and especially when the new night nanny, or manny, starts. And I’ve decided to recruit a manager too, to help run the café, do the admin side of things, which I hate. It all takes up so much time, the stock ordering, not to mention the accounts, VAT returns and all that. I never used to mind, but I guess my priorities have changed, and you’re right, I can’t do it all, not with attending the board meetings at Palmer Estates as well – trips up to London end up taking out a whole day. And Nathan is overjoyed that I’ve finally seen sense, as it will free me up to do what I love best – be with the twins and bake, instead of being dead on my feet all day long in the café and then just irritable when I pick the girls up. It’s no fun for anyone.’ Sam sits back; the look of relief on her face is almost palpable.
‘Good for you. Let’s have a toast.’ We chink mugs, a little too enthusiastically, as hot chocolate splashes onto the table.
‘Oops.’ Sam wipes it away with a napkin.
‘To you. My magnificent friend, Samantha, who knows when to ask for help!’ I say, cheerily. It’ll be good to have the old Sam back, full of energy and optimism.
‘Thanks, honey, and you know what they say … happy mum makes happy baby, or babies, in my case. God, I literally can-not wait, I’m that exhausted. Are you still up for helping with the interviews? I’ve contacted a few agencies already and Nathan will help out, too. We’ll be like a panel, he’s even put together a list of questions we can ask.’ She smiles.
‘Sure. Just let me know when and where, and I’ll be there … with my very best serious interview face on. Can I bring a clipboard?’ We both laugh.
My mobile pings, announcing the arrival of an email. I ignore it.
‘Oh don’t do that on my account,’ Sam says, gesturing for me to check my phone. ‘It might be important regatta business.’
‘Thanks. If you’re sure you don’t mind …’ I click on my inbox. Ah, it’s a message from Dad, in his usual shouty caps. It’s titled MEET DAISY. Ooh, he’s really getting the hang of communicating in the modern age now – he’s even managed to attach a picture! That advanced silver surfers’ course on how to ‘fully engage in modern technological times’ is obviously working a treat, even if the picture is upside down and a bit fuzzy. I tilt the phone; from what I can make out, it’s a photo of a very cool retro-looking sunshine yellow camper van. And it’s covered in white daisies. Oh my God. I quickly type a reply and press send.
Who does Daisy belong to Dad? xx
A reply pings back, almost immediately.
US OF COURSE ISNT SHE A BEAUTY XXX
But Dad never mentioned anything about buying a camper van. I’m not sure how to react. And aren’t they for – like – young funky cool people? Not pensioners with a passion for Cash in the Attic. I type a reply.
Wow! Yes, she’s lovely, can’t wait to see her xx
I go to place the phone on the table, when another email arrives.
BE QUICK WE ARE DOING EUROPE IN HER AND GOING NEXT WEEK BOOKING EUROTUNNEL NOW XX
Whaaaat? Since when did Dad and Nancy ‘do Europe’? He sounds like an over-entitled gap year student – not a pensioner who lives in the new retirement complex with a communal lounge. Surely he should be conc
entrating on the weekly bingo meet-up and looking after his lovely garden. And what about his black Labrador, Dusty? What will she do while they’re off jollying around Europe? No no no. He can’t just ‘do Europe’! And what about his angina? I’m sure there must be rules around travelling with that … surely he needs to be close to the doctors’ surgery at all times? How is that going to work, when he’s cruising through the Alps or whatever? That’s the beauty of where he lives – they have a GP on site! In literally one minute, he can be sitting in front of a doctor. No airlifting or mountain tracker dogs required …
‘You OK?’ Sam asks, bringing me back to the moment.
‘Um, yes. It’s from Dad. Reckons he’s “doing Europe”,’ I make silly quote signs with my fingers and pull a face.
‘Oh, good for him. How exciting,’ she smiles, slicing off a chunk of chocolate cake as I type a last reply.
Tom and I will be over at lunchtime xx
A few minutes later, and he hasn’t replied, so I can’t resist sending another email.
PS – do not book Eurotunnel until we’ve had a chat!
‘Say hello from me, will you honey?’ Sam smiles, offering me the last of the chocolate cake.
PPS – Sam says hi xx
I go to slot the phone into my bag, and then realise – they won’t be expecting us and I don’t want Nancy panicking about having enough food in. She always makes a lovely effort to produce a banquet-like feast whenever Tom and I turn up. I quickly send another email.
PPPS – I’ll bring something nice for lunch xx
7
‘So are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Tom smiles, sliding an arm around my waist as he arrives. But before I can answer, he pulls me in for a kiss and I stand on tiptoe to reach his warm lips, my thighs tingling and my stomach flipping over and over. Even after all the kisses we’ve shared, it’s incredible the effect he still has on me. After leaving the café earlier, I bombed up to his office, but he was busy on a Skype call so I left a note with his PA asking him to meet me here at the taxi rank. We eventually pull apart. ‘Mmm, that was nice. I’ve missed you Georgie.’
‘Aw, don’t be silly, we only saw each other this very morning, just a mere few hours ago. Although admittedly it was very early when you left …’ I tease.
‘OK, smartarse.’ He tweaks my nose affectionately. ‘It may be just a few hours, but I can still miss you if I like. Then again, if you don’t want me to …’ He shrugs nonchalantly but his smile widens.
‘No, no, it’s fine, you can miss me, of course you can – but I’d hate for you to feel lonely, that’s all,’ I say, enjoying our banter.
‘Then move in with me – that way you’d never have to worry about me being lonely.’ He looks right into my eyes, his jovial expression turning serious and almost taking my breath away.
‘Let’s talk about it …’ I’m just about to continue when the taxi arrives, and after stowing the carrier bags safely in the middle of the back seat, we jump in either side.
‘Is that a yes?’ Tom says, fastening his seatbelt and turning to face me.
‘It’s a let’s talk about it,’ I say, flicking my eyes towards the driver.
‘Well, that’s good enough for me.’ He kisses my cheek. ‘For now. But only if you tell me something.’
‘What’s that then, Mr Carrington?’
‘Why have you got four enormous carrier bags crammed full of boxes from the food hall? I thought you wanted to try out that new gastro-pub around the corner.’ He gives me a quizzical look.
‘I do. Really I do, but would you mind if we try it another time?’
‘Sure. You’re the boss,’ he says easily.
‘Well not really, you’re the actual boss.’
‘True. But only when we’re inside the store.’
‘Is that right?’ I raise my eyebrows suggestively and whisper, ‘I can think of several other places too where you can be very authoritative.’
‘Only because you like it that way,’ he teases, not missing a beat.
‘Naughty!’ We both laugh.
‘Anyway, stop flirting and tell me what’s going on.’ He glances at the bags again.
‘I need to find out what Dad is up to. I think he’s having some kind of midlife crisis, so we’re going over there for lunch.’
‘I see,’ Tom says, totally unfazed, and then a few seconds later, he adds, ‘isn’t he almost seventy though?’
‘Well, yes. But that’s not the point.’
‘Well, it is a bit.’ He shakes his head. ‘Midlife is forty-something, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm.’ I ponder for a moment. ‘A three-quarter-life crisis then.’ Frowning, I pat the bags as if to emphasise the point.
When Sam and I had finished chatting, I went with her to the crèche, and after enjoying big squeezy cuddles with the twins, I whizzed down to the Carrington’s food hall in the basement and selected an assortment from the hot food and deli counters – lasagne (Dad’s favourite), garlic bread, tapas selection, profiteroles and mini crème brûlées, a cheese board with those charcoal crackers that I know Nancy loves, grapes, and Tom’s favourite, fruity coleslaw with hot chicken wings … I’ve got the lot.
‘He’s OK though, I hope?’ Tom’s forehead creases. He knows all about Dad’s past.
‘Oh no, it’s nothing like that …’ I shake my head.
A few minutes later and I’ve shown Tom the picture of Daisy, and he reckons we should keep an open mind, see what Dad and Nancy have to say first, before leaping in and getting them all worried with my anxiety. In fact, he made a very good point too – by ‘doing Europe’, Dad may have just meant they were popping over to Calais for some duty-free shopping; he does have a tendency to exaggerate, and they are partial to a nice bottle of red with a wheel of Brie. Oh well; I guess we’ll find out for sure very soon …
‘Have you stopped catastrophising now?’ Tom turns to face me.
‘A bit, I guess, but let’s just hope you’re right. Dover is only an hour or so along the coast from Mulberry, and the Eurotunnel takes no time at all. I’m sure it will be fine,’ I reply, attempting to convince myself as I slot my phone back inside my bag.
‘Exactly, and in the meantime, tell me about the regatta – have you finished your project plan yet?’
‘I have. And it’s looking very good indeed,’ I say proudly, having spent every spare moment since the meeting on it. I went with a proper project-planning app in the end; it’s on my laptop, but only after reading through one of those Dummies books for hours to get the hang of it. And of course my Pinterest page has evolved, too; in fact I have several now – one for each of the things I’m organising. ‘Although I’m really struggling with the ice-cream vans. And—’
‘Ice cream?’ Tom jumps in, looking animated.
‘Yes, I need to find loads of ice-cream vans. Mr Whippy. Lots of them.’
‘Well that’s easy,’ he responds, casually.
‘It is?’ I crease my forehead. ‘I’ve had a nightmare trying to find proper ice-cream vendors. I called the Catering Association, hoping they might have a list of vans in our area, but no such luck – told me they’re in decline, sadly, which is a bit of a mystery as I thought everyone loved ice cream. And I even went to the promenade, to the place I used to go as a child with Mum and Dad, right next to the pier, and the man in the van there said he’d be happy to help out for a few hours if his lumbago behaves on the day. But we can’t just have one ice-cream van, lumbago aside. No, we need lots, thirty at least. I’ve counted every street corner on Wayfarer Way, not to mention Market Square and the actual marina – we really need a fleet to line the route. And ideally someone to make a special regatta ice cream too.’
‘No problem. I’ll just call Uncle Marco.’ Tom grins.
‘Uncle Marco?’ My pulse quickens.
‘Yep, he’s …’ Tom pauses to ponder, ‘Isabella’s sister’s husband’s brother … I think.’ He shakes his head, clearly losing track of his extensive
family tree. ‘Or something like that. Anyway, that’s all irrelevant, what’s important is that he owns an ice-cream factory, in Scarborough I think.’ Oh my God. Wow! How exciting, an actual factory! I bet it’s just like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory with enormous vats of sweets and sprinkles, only with ice cream instead, obvs. I want to give Tom a massive hug, and would if the food bags weren’t in the way.
‘I went to visit once as a child, and there were hundreds of those funny vans, the ones that play the tinkly music. It was amazing. I’d never seen anything like it.’ Tom looks enthralled, and in an instant I’m reminded of the chasmic contrast in our backgrounds. Tom was home-schooled in Italy by a string of private tutors until he was fifteen, followed by a year at an exclusive polo school in Argentina and then on to Harvard when he was only seventeen. And that might explain why he calls his parents by their first names, almost as if they’re strangers. No wonder he was fascinated by a mere ice-cream van. I can’t imagine they featured much in his precision-built childhood. ‘I’ll call him this evening and get him on board.’
‘Oh Tom, thank you so much.’ He leans his head towards mine and I manage to reach carefully across the bags to give him a kiss on the cheek.
‘No problem. I’ll do whatever I can to help out. It’s fun and makes a change to be talking about something other than sales projections and supplier contracts. Anything else you need?’ he asks eagerly, obviously keen to embrace his lighter side – his face has even taken on a boyish charm. I love seeing him like this; it’s such a stark contrast to the business-like demeanour he portrays instore.
‘Don’t suppose you have another uncle with a carousel, by any chance?’ I still haven’t managed to sort one out.
‘Err, no! Sorry. Afraid not.’ Tom laughs and shrugs apologetically.
8
We pull up outside the retirement complex overlooking Mulberry Common and Dad is walking down the path to meet us. He looks really well, all short sleeves and gardener’s tan, and I’m sure his hair is a little longer than last time I saw him – darker too, come to think of it; he’s obviously still using the Just For Men to hold on to a more youthful look to belie his near-septuagenarian status. Dusty, his very shiny black Labrador, is bouncing along beside him.
Ice Creams at Carrington’s Page 7
