Lunching at Laura's

by Claire Rayner

  Ever since he had walked into the room he had been acting instinctively, planning nothing, not really thinking at all. Just reacting. But now it seemed to be time to be more sensible – and he didn’t know how to be. But she helped him.

  ‘I can hardly throw you out now, can I?’

  ‘I hope you don’t want to any more.’

  ‘Oh, I do. In a way. Not because of you, you understand, but because of me. I mean, I’m grateful to you for being kind. It’s awful when people slobber and grizzle all over you and you were very kind about it.’

  ‘Stop that,’ he said sharply. ‘Never apologise for tears. They’re honest feelings honestly expressed, never something to be ashamed of.’

  ‘All right, I won’t apologise. But I can be grateful. And I am. Though I would rather be on my own.’

  ‘I dare say you would. But I don’t think it would be the right thing for you right now.’

  ‘Oh? You’re an expert in what I need?’

  ‘I’d like to be.’

  She reddened and looked away from him. ‘If you’d like some coffee or a drink or something –’

  ‘Thank God for the sacred laws of hospitality!’ he said.

  ‘I’d love some tea. I’ll make it. Where’s the kitchen? Oh! There. Yes –’

  He went and switched on the light and she heard him say softly, ‘And who are you?’ and open the little back door and she closed her eyes in anger at herself. That poor drowned cat, out there in the rain all this time. She’d forgotten all about him.

  ‘Aren’t they incredible?’ Joel’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘It’s raining like crazy out there and this creature looks as dry as a dust storm.’

  The cat came stalking in, looked at the fire and then at her and after a moment turned its back on her and jumped on to the armchair and curled up, oozing disdain and behind her, Joel laughed.

  ‘Imperious devils, aren’t they? I like ’em. Listen, have you had any supper?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I thought not. Probably no lunch either. You look dreadful –’

  She blinked at that and put up her hands to smooth her hair, but she said nothing.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Piffle. Omelette all right?’

  ‘I don’t want –’

  ‘Oh, well then, I’ll do it anyway –’ And he went back into the kitchen and she heard him crashing around, an agreeable friendly sound and she sat and thought – what the hell am I doing sitting here and letting this strange man prowl around in my kitchen? I must be mad. I ought to be at the restaurant. I ought to be working. I can’t go on like this. But she just sat there and stared at the flames. It was as though she had no energy in her to do anything else.

  He watched her from the kitchen as he worked, beating eggs, cutting bread for toast, and finding butter and milk in the depleted little fridge. There wasn’t much there to use for any sort of interesting omelette, not so much as a sprig of parsley and he stood there by the door for a moment and looked at her and felt a pang of pure sadness for her. This little flat, so bleak, so lacking in any real sense of home, in spite of the brave little touches she had put in it; the almost empty fridge, the scornful cat – all of it seemed infinitely pathetic. But not as sad as the figure of Laura herself.

  She sat there in the corner of the sofa in her blue dressing gown, her knees hunched up and her arms around them, staring into the flames. He could see the curve of her cheek and one side of her mouth, drooping now and not lifting in that blazing triangular smile that had first pulled him to her, and the sight of it made the skin across his back move with excitement. She had looked marvellous that brilliant sunshining morning in Little Vinegar Yard, and he had been totally bedazzled by her. But now, seeing her looking anything but blazing, more like an extinguished fire, grey and flat and dull, the feeling was even stronger. She looked, he thought then, the way he would have expected the cat he had let in out of the rain to look; bedraggled and tired and sorry for herself, but the cat lay sleek and content on its armchair, licking its glossy fur into even greater beauty while she sat in the corner of a sofa and looked pitiful. Yet she seemed to him to be so lovely in her sad state that it was all he could do not to go in there and scoop her up again and hold her close. But she wasn’t weeping now, so he couldn’t. And he returned to his cooking.

  ‘I’ve done the best I could,’ he said. ‘Your fridge isn’t exactly bursting. But give me a couple of eggs and a heel of bread and it’s amazing what I can do. Here you are.’ And he pulled a small table forwards, and set a tray in front of her. It looked attractive; a pot of teat and a plate of softly scrambled eggs piled on toast, steaming gently.

  She looked at it and then at him and said. ‘I’m really not hungry –’

  ‘No doubt. But it’s there so you may as well eat it. I’ve got mine as well – three eggs scramble up quite big, if you talk to them nicely while you do it.’

  She smiled faintly and then, as he brought his own tray and sat down on the hearthrug and balanced it on his knees, picked up her fork. It was obvious to him she was only being polite, but that didn’t matter. He watched her covertly as she took the first mouthful and then another and saw how the taste and warmth of the food woke up her need for it. By the time he started his own she was eating with real appetite and he ate, too, but with much more satisfaction than scrambled eggs usually created in him.

  They sat in companionable silence then, sipping the hot tea he had made and at length she sighed, and set down her cup.

  ‘I owe you an apology. I was rude to you,’ she said.

  He grinned. ‘When?’

  ‘Last time we met.’

  ‘Were you? I didn’t notice. I only thought what a – how agreeable I found you.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’

  ‘I’m quite kind. Some men are, you know.’

  She managed a small smile. ‘Did you think I’d doubt that?’

  ‘You’ve been ill-treated by one of the breed. I thought perhaps – I’d hate you to become a misanthrope.’

  ‘A –’

  ‘Manhater,’ he said obligingly. ‘It’s the literal meaning. From the Greek.’

  ‘If you lecture me on etymology you could make me misanthropic about you. I may be just a restaurateur, but I am literate.’

  He reddened. ‘I’m sorry. I meant no insult. Please, never think that. I enjoy words and –’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ She smiled then, and pushed the table in front of her to one side and stretched out her legs. She was barefoot and for a moment he wondered if she was wearing anything beneath her robe and again the flesh moved across his back. He went even redder and looked away from her, and she smiled even more widely.

  ‘It’s all right. I do it too. Tease out words and play with them – do you accept it?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘My apology.’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary. Are you feeling better now?’

  ‘Amazingly so. It’s odd – I could have sworn I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  She looked vague. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘That’s why you weren’t hungry. That’ll tide you over for a while, but not for long. Soon I’m going to send you to get dressed and we’re going out of here and –’

  ‘No!’ She pulled her legs up again and set her arms round them in the old defensive babylike posture. ‘I ought to be working at the restaurant. I can’t just –’

  ‘It’s the restaurant we’ll be going to. They’re entitled to see you there. Your customers. The waiters. Everyone.’

  She was looking hunted and tense again and he reached forwards and held out one hand to her. ‘No, don’t get like that. Listen to me.’

  ‘Well?’ she said and stared at him. It was odd, she was thinking. An hour ago he was the last person I wanted to see. I wanted just to be left on my own to think, and now – she blinked at the thought. Now, she needed him to tell her what to do. It was very odd.


  ‘You’ve panicked a little, I think. I know a bit about what happened, but not enough. Whatever it is – and never think I’m diminishing it in any way because I’m not – whatever it is, it’s my guess that we can deal with it. As long as we don’t get into a tailspin. That never helps.’

  ‘Alex must have told you all about it. Why else were you so anxious to come here?’

  He smiled faintly. ‘I’d have been anxious to come here no matter what. I like you. Didn’t you know that? You’re the most interesting woman I think I’ve ever met. He told me some. Not all, though, I suspect. I need more, if I’m to help properly. Let’s pretend I know nothing at all about what happened, and only the barest details about the people involved. Tell me the whole thing from the beginning and then we’ll come up with a strategy.’

  ‘A strategy,’ she repeated, as though she were savouring the word. ‘That makes it sound like a battle.’

  ‘That’s exactly how you should be thinking about it. When I came in here I think it was defeat you were dealing with.’

  There was a short silence and then she looked at him from beneath her lashes, shyly, like a child caught out in her bad schoolwork. ‘I think perhaps – yes, I did think it was all over. That I’d lost the restaurant.’ She frowned then and shook her head. ‘And I’m not going to be soothed now into thinking otherwise. As far as I can see, I have lost it –’

  ‘Not yet. There are things we can do. As I said, strategies. I want to find out why. I want the facts behind Mr. Cord and his dealings. Why all of a sudden he wants to close down the family business –’

  ‘He hasn’t said he wants to. Just that he wants it to be sold,’ she said. ‘I – it was just me saying that it would have to close if we sold. I’m trying to be fair, you see. I’m angry with him –’ She caught her breath then, with a little hissing sound. ‘My God, I’m angry with him, but I have to be fair. Maybe he wants to run it himself.’ Her chin came up then, and she said scornfully, ‘He’d make the most awful botch of it. He hasn’t a clue. It takes years of learning to run a place like ours as it should be.’

  ‘You have to be born into it,’ he said and smiled and she nodded at once.

  ‘Yes. Born into it.’

  ‘My film.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘My film, remember? That’s exactly one of the factors I want to consider. Whether there are some businesses a person has to be born into. The effects of family, of traditions –’

  ‘Then you do have an axe to grind.’ She managed a grin. ‘I told Alex that. That everyone always has an axe to grind. No one’s ever totally disinterested in what they do. There always has to be a reason.’

  ‘Of course I’m grinding axes. And knives and scissors too. I want my film and –’ He stopped then and looked at her closely so that she had to lift her eyes and meet his gaze. ‘I also want to know you better,’ he said very deliberately. ‘That’s the most important axe as far as I’m concerned. You.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said after a moment. There wasn’t very much else she could say, she thought and tried to look away from him. But she couldn’t, and he laughed softly.

  ‘So it’s agreed. You’ll get dressed and we’ll go to the restaurant and we’ll have a proper dinner – think of the eggs as just a starter – and plan how we’re going to save your restaurant and scupper Mr. Egregious Cord, and –’

  ‘Make your film.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, make my film.’ He laughed then. ‘And we’ll enjoy ourselves. There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as having a real villain to defeat, and Mr. Cord is one hell of a villain. And we’ll see him off. You’ll see if we don’t –’

  And she went obediently to dress, feeling better than she would have thought possible a couple of hours ago, but wishing she could be quite as hopeful as Joel Coplin was. Because for all his cheerful comfort, inside she remained deeply pessimistic.

  30

  The lift sighed its way upwards and the suspicious face of the man in the peaked cap disappeared beneath her feet and she relaxed. It was just like Dolly to live in a block of flats so lavishly carpeted and peach mirrored and ornamented about the entrance and hallways and staffed by so paranoid a doorman; to get past him had taken every bit of persuasion she had and finally she had told him tartly that if he wanted to telephone Mrs. Halascz and tell her he had sent away her cousin then on his own head be it; and the man had at last unwillingly let her in.

  Now, as she closed the lift gates behind her on the ninth floor, and took in the long corridor with its inevitable coral carpet and pink mirrored walls, she wondered why she had bothered. She had agreed with Joel last night that it would be a good thing to do, to get Evelyn and Dolly on her side, but now she wasn’t so certain. Would it work? It certainly hadn’t with Aunt Evelyn –

  She walked slowly along the hall, peering at the numbers on the polished mock mahogany doors, Nine A, Nine B, and thought about her discussion with Evelyn and felt the anger rise in her again. And then was angry with herself for being angry.

  It was pathetic, that was the thing, and more than that; it was frightening. Looking at Evelyn, all sharp edges and suspicion and resentment of other people’s happiness, had made her feel cold inside. She had gone to the small house tucked away in a narrow street behind Queensway in a fairly hopeful mood. Her evening at the restaurant had jolted her back into a better frame of mind; she was still worried, still alarmed by the threat to her precious place, but actually being there, among the familiar tables and chairs and above all with Maxie and Miklos and Angie and all the others had comforted her. Halascz’s restaurant had been there far too long for someone like Philip Cord to be able to topple it. It was too solid, too real to be spoiled. Evelyn and Dolly and Paul – surely they all cared as much for the family and its traditions as she did? Once they realised what Cord was up to, they’d help her, and support her; of course they would. He had been the object of whispers and gossip ever since he had married Ilona; they had all disliked him. Surely now they would rally round and exclude him and his destructive plans?

  But Evelyn had been very difficult to talk to. She had come to her front door and peered round it only after Laura had rung several times, and stood there behind it looking at her with one dark suspicious eye and had only invited her in when Laura had said loudly, ‘Hello Aunt Evelyn. May I come in and talk to you? I did phone, remember. I said I was coming.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ Evelyn had mumbled, but let her in all the same and led her to a stuffy sitting room on the first floor of the tiny house, which, Laura thought, couldn’t have been cleaned, let alone repainted or cared for in any real way, for many years.

  She could remember being brought here to visit long ago when she was a child and it had seemed gloomy then. Now it was depressingly grimy and it smelled sour and old and heavy with cats. There were three of them in the sitting room, prowling about among the greasy, overstuffed furniture and glaring malevolently at her, and the smell there had been even more unpleasant; and that had been when Laura had felt the first sharp stab of fear.

  Cats, she had thought. I keep a cat. Will I get like this, alone and lonely with nothing but cats? Will I stop noticing they smell? Will I get grimy and defeated and miserable like Aunt Evelyn?

  And her fear had made her tongue sharp, she now knew as she remembered, walking along the coral carpets of Aunt Dolly’s St. John’s Wood fastness. She shouldn’t have spoken to her as she did. For she had said abruptly, ‘Aunt Evelyn! What’s all this about you selling your share of the restaurant?’

  The older woman had bristled, her narrow shoulders in their sagging purple cardigan coming up almost to her ears and she had stared at Laura and said loudly, ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Of course it’s my business! The restaurant only exists because of me! It’s my work that gives you your income!’

  ‘It was my father’s place, and I have every right to have a share. You can’t come here and tell me I haven’t! It’s mine and I can d
o what I like with it. It was my father’s –’

  ‘And mine.’

  ‘It wasn’t! My father was the one who had all the right, who should have had it all. He was a Halascz. You lot aren’t! Your father was just the cook, squeezed his way in, got round the old lady, my father told me about him. Oh, I know what happened there! My father, he told me! So don’t you go on at me –’

  ‘Aunt Evelyn, let’s not fight over this.’ Too late Laura caught her tongue between her teeth, began to be placatory. ‘It belongs to all of us, of course it does. You and Paul and me and Ilona –’ She had stopped then and bitten her lip and then said again, more loudly, ‘And Ilona and –’

  ‘Dolly,’ Evelyn said with a little crow. ‘And Dolly. Go and tell her what she can do with what’s hers by right and see where it gets you. She’s not a Halascz, mind you, for all she’s married the name. She’s just a woman who gets her hands in my brother’s pockets and robs him. Me, I’ve more right to my share than she has to hers. Poppa earned it for me, and gave it to me. I don’t have to nag a husband for it, make his life a misery the way Dolly got her share –’

  ‘None of that matters, Aunt Evelyn,’ Laura had said desperately. ‘Does it? Not now. It’s the way things are now that’s important. And Philip Cord –’ She managed to get the name out somehow. ‘Philip Cord is trying to cheat us out of our place. You do realise that? That he’s trying to cheat us?’

  Evelyn had looked sideways at her, her eyes sharp and foxy and the marmalade cat on her lap which she was stroking suddenly tightened its claws on her arm and made her squeal and she pushed it away. But she still watched Laura with that beady eyed gaze.

  ‘I wouldn’t say cheating,’ she muttered. ‘Fair price. Fair price isn’t cheating.’