A Groom With a View

by Sophie Ranald

  “Right,” Lauren said. “So, first thing, we discredit her. She was a lingerie model, right? Anything there? Sleeping her way to the top, that kind of thing? And what about her daughter, Tanith, is it? Who’s the father?”

  Guido shook his head. “No, Lauren. Remember, I was a father to Tanith for five years. This is going to be hard enough for her. I’m not having her mother dragged through the gutter press too.”

  Lauren said, “But. . .” then stopped herself.

  Toby said, “I’ve looked over the contract you signed with Platinum. They could can the series, but I don’t think they will. They’ll take the view that this will do the ratings no harm, and I think that’s correct. I’ve been in contact with their legal team this morning and I’m waiting for confirmation, but we can take that as read for now.”

  “So what we need to do is turn this into good publicity for you,” Lauren said. “You’ll need to issue a statement apologising and explaining why you did it.”

  “That’s easy,” Guido said wearily. “You know what the London restaurant scene was like back then. Or maybe you don’t. No offence, Lauren, but you’re, what, thirty-five? It was all Marco Pierre White and Gordon Ramsay and egos and twenty-hour days and bankers snorting coke in the bogs. It was all about personality. No one would have been interested in a boy from Berkshire who could cook a bit. As I said, I needed a story. And the important parts are true. I scrubbed mussels in restaurants in Rome and was so skint I slept on the kitchen floor. And everything I’ve ever said I feel about food and cooking is true too. Everything I teach the young chefs coming through my kitchen is real, isn’t it, Pippa?” He looked at me, almost imploringly, for validation.

  “It’s true,” I said.

  “So we need to put together a proposal that’s going to shift the focus of this show away from you, the celebrity, and towards you, the mentor,” Lauren said. “The man who cares about young people and good causes. I’ve researched some schools, homeless shelters and conservation charities we can approach. It will mean some personal financial commitment from you, and it will mean giving others more exposure in the filming. The actor you worked with in last night’s show – I watched the unedited footage on our way over, and he’s gold. The camera loves him. We’ll book him for more hours, do a thing where you teach him to cook. Go out to schools and hospitals in deprived areas – we need to make people love you like they love Jamie Oliver.”

  “Fat-tongued mockney c. . .” Guido began, but Lauren silenced him with a glare.

  “And Pippa – you’ve worked with Guido for a long time. Would you be prepared to take a more prominent role in this?”

  I felt like I was on a roller coaster. You know, like at Alton Towers or somewhere, when you’ve been slowly, slowly edging upwards, and suddenly you reach the top. The view is dizzying, the knowledge that you’re going to plunge downwards is terrifying, and you wish you’d got off while you were at the bottom, when there was still the option of being a coward and going for a beer and a burger instead.

  “I don’t know,” I quavered.

  Then Guido’s phone rang. “Eloise? Right. From Bryn? That was to be expected. I’ll let Toby and Lauren know. Not to worry, sweetheart. Ciao.”

  He put his phone carefully down on the table, but it still rattled against the polished wood.

  “Thatchell’s have pulled the plug,” he said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  From: nick@digitaldrawingboard.com

  To: iain.coulson@coulsoncreative.com

  Subject: RE: Fw: Termination of contract

  Shit, mate, that’s not great news. You’ve had the Top Travel business for, what, nine years? Can’t believe they’re doing this. And you’ve won loads of awards for them too. Bastards. Anyway, I’m happy to give you a hand with some creative for the pitch next week. I’d say we can brainstorm some thoughts tomorrow night but we’ll be too busy getting off our heads on my stag – so that’s something to look forward to, anyway! And good luck tonight with K. Hope you guys can sort things out.

  Onwards and upwards, right?

  N

  By the end of that day, I knew every ripple in the grain of the walnut meeting-room table by heart. I’d drunk so much coffee my head ached and my stomach was churning. We’d redrafted the shooting schedule, had it ripped up by the production company, and redrafted it again. Lauren had fielded hundreds of calls from the media, telling everyone to wait for a statement from Guido, and eventually it was recorded and released. Guido had chewed his way through three packs of Nicorette gum and shredded two of the hotel’s notepads into tiny, even strips, which were scattered all over the table and the surrounding carpet. Toby was hoarse from negotiating with the Platinum lawyers.

  At last, there was nothing to do but wait and see what the reaction was on that night’s news and in the next day’s papers.

  “Does anyone want any dinner?” Guido asked.

  I could tell that all he wanted was to be left alone, and Toby and Lauren looked as hollow-eyed and exhausted as I felt.

  “I think I’ll just order something from room service and get an early night,” I said. The others agreed, and we all shuffled off, drained and zombie-like.

  An hour later, I’d had a bath and demolished a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches and most of a bottle of wine. I was curled up on my bed talking to Callie on Skype, my phone propped up on the pillows so she could see me.

  “So that’s the story,” I said. “It’s carnage. I don’t know how long I’m going to have a job for. Without the Thatchell’s partnership. . . Fuck knows what Guido’s going to do. I don’t think he’s even thought that far ahead.”

  Callie shook her head. She was lying on her gorgeous gold leather chesterfield at home, her hair spilling over a peacock-blue cushion, and she was drinking rosé. “I was going to have a dry January,” she said, taking a sip, “But then I thought, fuck that. Poor Guido. It just goes to show, you can fool all of the people some of the time, or some of the people all of the time. Or something. I’m trying to be profound and failing, aren’t I?”

  It wasn’t the perfect opening for me, but it was an opening. “Callie, is Phoebe there?”

  “No, she’s round at her parents’ place. Again.”

  “Good, because there’s something I want to ask you. I’ve been wanting to ask since New Year’s. Callie, lovely, is. . . what’s going on with you and Phoebe? I don’t mind, but I wish you’d tell me.”

  Her face went very still for a bit. I could see her trying to decide whether to tell me anything, and if she did, how much. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said.

  “Callie! Look, it’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But you need to know I’m here. . . well, not there, obviously, but here. And I love you, and if you’re happy that’s all that matters to me.”

  Her face crumpled, and she pulled the pillow from behind her head and pressed it to her eyes. The movement obviously made her laptop slide off the sofa, and I heard a crash and then all I could see on my phone’s tiny screen was polished floorboards. I started to laugh, and after a bit I heard Callie laughing too.

  And between her laughter and her tears, the story came spilling out. How, when she was still with David, she’d known there was something that wasn’t right, and how relieved she’d felt when she’d ended it with him and was ready to take the first steps towards being her true self. How when Phoebe had moved in, although it hadn’t quite been love at first sight, it hadn’t been long before they’d realised they were mad about each other. And how Phoebe had dropped the bombshell that they couldn’t tell anyone, it must be a secret, because her fear of her father was too powerful.

  “I love her so fucking much.” By this stage Callie had righted the laptop, and I could see her tear-stained, happy face. “She makes me laugh every day. She’s so sweet and funny – well, you know that. And she’s so fucking sexy. I’m so proud she’s chosen me, she could have anyone. My girl.”

  I was weepi
ng a bit too. “I’m so glad. Being in love is just the best. But you’re going to tell people, aren’t you? Soon?”

  “I want to. I want to tell everyone how happy I am, and why. I hate being all furtive about it. The other day I was holding her hand in the supermarket, not really thinking about it, and we almost bumped into your mum. Phoebs dropped me like I was radioactive. She absolutely refuses to tell anyone. She’s known she’s gay for longer than me, and she’s more used to knowing and not telling, I guess. She says we have to wait, but I don’t know what the hell we’re waiting for. I asked if she meant wait for her dad to die, but that just made her cry. She feels so guilty, still. He’s made her feel guilty. Rotten old bastard, sometimes I wish he would bloody die but he’s as strong as a tank.”

  “Callie!”

  “Okay, I don’t really wish he’d die. Just sometimes, a bit. He’s only in his fifties, we could be stuck like this for another thirty years. And we can’t go and live somewhere else, because she won’t leave him and her mum.”

  “You poor love. It must be so hard.”

  “You know what, Pip, it’s not all that bad. There’s a lot to be said for having a secret. In some ways it’s amazing. Just the two of us, in our own little bubble. That’s the good part.”

  “I wish you’d told me, Callie. And you’ve done all that work planning our wedding. I feel awful, making you do that for me.”

  “It was fine,” Callie laughed. “It’s been fun. And it’s going to be so amazing! Nick and I went to see Imogen the other day, and she’s got the light canopy sorted, it’s going to look so awesome. The plan is for the lights to come on – there are more than a thousand bulbs – just after you say your vows, when it’s almost dark. Even if it rains, it will be beautiful, like fairyland. And the florist emailed to confirm the final order and she sent through photos of all the individual flowers – it’s going to be so stunning. She’s found these things that look like cotton wool – I can’t remember what they’re called but they’re some sort of seed pod. And Nick’s booked a string quartet to play when you come in, and while you guys sign the register and stuff. And he told me about the menu – I know you think I’m the world’s biggest dullard, Pippa, but I fucking love retro food like that. Chicken supremes – lusherama. You’re going to have the best day.”

  I closed my eyes. I could see it all: the canopy of fairy lights reflecting in the mirrors on the tables, the tubs of snowdrops, the named – or possibly numbered – tables. The only thing about the day I couldn’t picture was me.

  “Oh my God, Pippa, I totally forgot to ask about the dress! Nick told me you’ve finally found one. Go on, spill!”

  I looked at her small, excited face on the screen. She’d just told me the most important secret about herself, and I couldn’t tell her I’d lied to my boyfriend about a frock.

  “Yes!” I said. “It’s amazing. It’s. . . er. . . white. And simple.” I wanted to describe the dream dress, the one I’d lost last time I was in South Africa. I’d hoped to go and find Valli and his shop and ask if there was any way at all he could get me another one like it, but we were leaving the next morning to go to a remote village in the Eastern Cape and film at a school. I’d be on a flight long before the shops opened. And now, trying to describe to Callie the dress I didn’t have, the dress I’d lost, I found I couldn’t quite remember what it had looked like.

  “You’ll see it when I get back,” I said.

  “Great,” Callie said. “And Pip, you know, thanks. Thanks for being so amazing and kind. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I hated you not knowing, and I’m so glad you do.”

  I felt a bit teary again. “It’s cool. Honestly, it is. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Got to go – Phoebs is home. I’m going to tell her I told you, okay?”

  “Course. Love you both.”

  I put down my phone, stretched my stiff neck and drained the last of the wine. My head was buzzing with alcohol and tension. I remembered what Callie had said about her and Phoebe in their private little bubble of love, and I realised that that was how it had been for Nick and me, for so long. But it didn’t feel like that anymore. Our bubble had been burst, our world invaded – by Erica, by Iain, by the tasteful invitations landing in the letterboxes of cousin after cousin, and most of all by the wedding I hadn’t wanted. And now, thanks to the wedding, Bethany was back in Nick’s life. I felt the same sick hollowness in my stomach I’d felt that morning, the sense of being harnessed into a rollercoaster that was going to plummet downwards at any moment, taking me with it whether I liked it or not.

  I called Nick’s mobile again, and this time I left a message.

  “Hi, it’s me. I have to be up in five hours so my phone’s going to be off. But I want to talk – I need to talk to you about the wedding. I’ll try again tomorrow. I hope you’re having a good evening.”

  Hearing his voice, I tried to imagine him next to me, what he’d say if I told him how I was feeling. But the image of his face in my mind was as hazy as my memory of the white dress, the dress that had made me feel like a bride. And I realised it was no good – our wedding was going to happen, just weeks from now, unless something drastic happened to stop it.

  “See that over there?” I muttered to Sibingile.

  “What?” She stared in the general direction of my pointing finger, past the tin-roofed concrete schoolhouse, the immaculately tidy flowerbeds where bright pink Michaelmas daisies and lush aloes grew, to the parched grey-green hills that stretched beyond.

  “There,” I said, “just disappearing on the sand road in a cloud of dust. That’s not a lorry, it’s my comfort zone.”

  Sibongile laughed. “Come on, Pippa, you’ll be fine.”

  I was so not fine. I was standing behind a table laden with meat, eggs, herbs and tomatoes. I’d had to abandon the safety of my chef’s whites, and I was wearing shorts and a pink T-shirt, my hair scraped back in a ponytail. Guido was in the background, subjecting the schoolteacher to the full force of his charm. She was a large, motherly woman in her fifties, and I suspected it had been many years since anyone had flirted with her. Every now and then I heard her squeal with delighted laughter.

  But I wasn’t looking at her, I was looking at the sea of expectant faces in front of me. About twenty six-year-olds, all in old but spotlessly clean white collared shirts, were waiting to be shown the wonders of Italian cooking through the medium of meatballs. And I was going to have to show them, and be filmed doing it.

  I heard Guido begin his spiel to camera.

  “We’re here in the Eastern Cape at the Adelaide Tambo primary school,” he said. “Four hundred pupils come here every day, some walking several miles from home to school and back. I am in awe of the commitment and determination these little ones and their families show to the vital goal of obtaining an education – but we all know children can’t learn on empty stomachs! So with me is Pippa, who is one of the most talented young chefs I ever took on at Osteria Falconi. She’s going to prepare a nourishing lunch and demonstrate some basic skills, and perhaps we’ll discover some cooking talent right here!”

  Reluctantly, I left the safety of my table and ventured into the midst of the children. Forty eyes were staring at me, grave and expectant. One little girl started to giggle, then put her hands over her face.

  “What’s your name?” I said, squatting down next to her.

  “Gladness,” she whispered.

  “How would you like to come and help me work the mincing machine, Gladness? It’s a job for a big, strong girl, and you look like a good choice.”

  Her eyes widened and she burst into a flood of giggles. Sibongile brought a stool for her to stand on, and I showed her how to turn the handle of the mincer, making sure she kept her small fingers well out of harm’s way. It wasn’t long before her arm got tired and I had to enlist a second child to take over, a boy called Pakiso, who announced that he was the best at football and extremely strong. After a few minutes, though, his bravado faded and it
was time for a new assistant. By the time we’d ground two kilos of lamb, all the kids had had a go, except one little boy, who just looked at the floor and shook his head when I talked to him.

  “That’s Solomon,” said the teacher. “He’s a very shy boy.”

  “Well, maybe he’s too shy to cook but I’m sure he won’t be too shy to eat,” I said. I broke a couple of eggs into the meat. “Now, here’s the fun part. You’ve all got clean hands, right?”

  “Yes!” chorused all the children, except Solomon.

  The kids crowded round the big bowl of seasoned meat and I showed them how to shape it, trying to encourage them to make nice round balls and discourage them from eating it raw. Soon they were all chattering away to me and each other, and the director had to ask their teacher to tell them to be quiet, because I could hardly make myself heard over their excited voices.

  I showed them how to make a simple tomato sauce, giving them little tastes of the fresh herbs and garlic. They’d absolutely reek of it tonight, I realised, but that was their mothers’ problem, not mine. Eventually – and it took ages, working with a brigade of six-year-olds was far harder than getting even the most hungover commis chef to keep his mind on the job – we had a heap of cooked meatballs, a vat of sauce and a huge pan of pasta ready to go.

  “Right, you lot,” I said. “I think you’ve earned your lunch. Who’s first?”

  “Me!” said Pakiso.

  Sibongile helped me dish up twenty enamel plates piled with food, and the children sat under a tree to eat. I found a spot next to Solomon.

  “Hello,” I said. “My name’s Pippa. And yours is Solomon, isn’t it?”

  He nodded silently. I noticed that, while all the other children were tucking into their food, his plate was untouched.

  “Did you get dud meatballs?” I asked. “Why don’t you have some of mine? I put extra pepper on them, so they’re very special.”

  He stared up at me, wide-eyed.

  “Go on,” I said, “try a bit.” I loaded up a fork with food and passed it to him. He ate, and his eyes widened some more.