by Fiona Walker
‘But Hector’s married to a local now, I gather?’
She snorted with amusement, swallowing down a black cherry tomato stuffed with a deliciously creamy, herby concoction. ‘Don’t let Poppy hear you call her a “local” – she is far too free a spirit. I think her family are from the area now you come to mention it. Goblin Granny certainly lived nearby.’
The raven’s-wing brows shot up again at the curious name, and she laughed. ‘Poppy’s mother. The stepchildren called her Goblin Granny because she lived in a gothic pile near Bideford with carvings everywhere and gargoyles peering from all the eaves; it makes Farcombe Hall look minimalist. I remember going there with Francis years ago – I think his father must have only just married Poppy. It frightened me witless. I was convinced it was a witches’ coven.’
‘Goblin Granny’s no longer living there?’
‘She died and it was sold,’ she explained, realising as she said it that this must have been the legacy that Poppy sunk into Farcombe to make her majority shareholder. ‘I think the family was terribly grand at one time; Poppy certainly talks about her parents hosting hunt balls and entertaining cabinet ministers on shooting weekends, but Goblin Granny was the last of that breed.’
‘So her daughter doesn’t host hunt balls at Farcombe?’
Halfway down her second glass of champagne, Legs was becoming increasingly careless with family gossip. ‘Her first husband probably put her off horses for life.’
‘How so?’
‘She married a local jockey when she was very young, much to the Goblin’s disapproval, as she thought him far beneath Poppy socially. I gather it was all rather – rushed.’
‘A shotgun marriage?’
‘There was a child,’ she nodded, ‘who stayed with the father when Poppy ran off. She never talks about it. I don’t know a lot more, to be honest. I was too young when it all happened, although I do remember Poppy and Hector eloping. We were holidaying here at the time. Now that was high drama.’
Anton swept in to remove the amuse-bouche, which Legs had devoured and Byrne hadn’t touched. Then he placed two rows of glossy asparagus in front of them, gleaming green fifty-calibre bandoliers of tastebud seduction.
Legs selected a spear and sucked butter from the tip.
Byrne was looking at her with the most amazingly sexy, direct expression and for a moment she egotistically wondered if she was turning him on. He was fabulously intense. Then, wiping a small oil slick from her chin, she realised that he was waiting patiently for her to carry on talking about the high drama of that summer when Poppy and Hector had eloped.
‘She was one of the festival team in the early days, when it was predominantly jazz,’ she told him between mouthfuls of asparagus. ‘There were lots of pretty women involved back then, fragrant envelope stuffers all with their hearts set on Hector; Francis called them the Vamps after the jazz term. I remember Poppy because she was so beautiful and had hair dyed the most incredible shade of pomegranate-red, and her voice was as deep as a man’s. We all thought she was amazing. We heard she had a terrible home life, but I never knew the details, just that Hector had practically saved her from destitution by giving her a job.’
‘And they had an affair?’
She nodded. ‘Nobody knew a thing about it until it all blew open. Hector went away on business one weekend, a last minute thing. Francis stayed with us in the cottage, which wasn’t unusual because we were all friends. My sister Ros and I had a terrible fight because we both wanted to share a room with him, and I won, even though he was more her friend than mine in those days – they’re the same age, you see. I remember lying awake looking at his sleeping arm dangling over the side of the bunk above my head, watching the luminous hands move on his watch, longing to touch his fingers.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Ten. I know it was terribly trollopy of me, but holding hands was about as hot as my fantasies got.’ She fell gratefully upon the Rioja he had just poured out. ‘He just seemed so sad. Then his father reappeared with Poppy at his side on Monday announcing they were going to get married, and Francis refused to move back in with them. He stayed with us the rest of the summer, and I kept the lower bunk, so I was overjoyed. And I even got to hold his hand a few times.’ She blushed. ‘But just as friends. He needed a friend, especially when he discovered that his father was sending him away to boarding school the following term.’
‘His new stepmother’s idea, I take it?’
‘He hated her,’ she grimaced, ‘we all did, really. She banned us from the big house. Just before he left for his new school, Francis plucked up the courage to tell his father how alienated he felt by Poppy and Hector went absolutely berserk, saying he deserved happiness after all the misery he’d endured. Francis felt like he was being totally rejected. We used to write to each other during term time. He was so brave about it all, but he went through absolute hell.’
‘What happened to Poppy’s child? The one she left when she ran away with Hector?’
‘Left the area with the father, I think. No idea where they went.’ She helped herself to more wine. ‘Poor thing can’t have been any happier than Francis.’ She felt stupidly tearful remembering his utter despair. ‘The first holiday from boarding school, he brought Poppy a Christmas present he’d made, a wooden dove to hang on the tree; the ultimate peace offering. I loved him so much for his equanimity.’
‘Sounds quite a guy.’ He turned his butter knife on its point before spinning it around in his fingers.
‘He is,’ she sighed.
‘And you’ve stayed friends all these years?’ Byrne’s voice was so moreish in its mellifluence, the ultimate confessor.
Legs mopped up the last of the asparagus butter with bread, pushing the rejected woody stumps around her plate to form a green mosaic smile. ‘On and off and now off. I’ve rather buggered up the friendship in the past year, but I’m hoping to make amends.’ She looked up with an embarrassed smile, and found those strange flame and coal eyes burning into her face.
Swigging more wine, she decided she had nothing to lose. Who better to offload on than a total stranger who would take his Michelin judging off to another town tomorrow and never cross her path again? She badly needed to talk.
So out it spilled, the terrible guilt about what she had done to first love Francis, about falling for her charismatic older boss Conrad and rejecting the boy-turned-man whom she had loved so long and whose family she had become a part of. The long letter she had sent which had never been acknowledged. And now, the opportunity to make amends that she had rejected.
Byrne was a very good listener. A second bottle of Rioja was discreetly ordered as the asparagus plates were removed.
‘The awful thing is,’ – she was wet-eyed with sentiment – ‘I am so tempted to do it, to play lovers again and see what happens, but I know it would be like cartwheeling across a minefield, and I have to try to learn from my mistakes some time.’
‘What mistakes are those?’
‘Running off with somebody else,’ she admitted, lifting her glass with shaking hands and draining a great glug, then scrubbing at her top lip as she realised it must have left her with a red moustache.
‘So it was the manner of your leaving that bothers you?’
‘No! Yes! Maybe I chose the wrong one of those fifty ways.’ She sighed sadly. ‘Or maybe I should have stayed and tried to work things out. It’s behind us. He’s found someone new now, too. That’s what makes it all such a mess. We can’t ask Conrad and Kizzy to stand aside while we play this out. Pretending to get back together is so hurtful.’
‘Because he just wants to pretend, and you want it to be real?’
She was caught out by his insight. The tears swelling in her eyes started to spill. ‘It’s just not like him to want to mislead anybody. I think perhaps he only suggested we make it an act to protect himself in case I said no?’
‘Unlikely if he’s found somebody else. Men are very straightforward. We work i
n straight lines on a “want it, get it” basis. Why d’you think I invited you to join me this evening?’
About to protest that she had no idea, she suddenly replayed the ‘want it’ element of his theory in her mind and flushed deepest crimson. But then he ruined it by adding, ‘Truth is, I thought “I want to make that woman cry”, and I just have.’
She let out a nervous laugh of shock.
He was totally deadpan.
For a moment she flashed with anger, but the amount of alcohol she’d swilled had turned her into emotional blotting paper and she let out another sniffy, gulping laugh instead. ‘I know I’m a total cry-baby.’ She blew her nose again. ‘Francis hates me crying.’
‘It’s been proven scientifically that women’s tears contain a chemical that represses male desire,’ he said in that deep hypnotic voice. ‘I think it’s also been proven that watching the Twilight series has the exact same effect.’
She hastily mopped her tears with her napkin, too squiffy to notice that she picked up a corner of the tablecloth from her lap at the same time. Byrne showed lightning reflexes, rescuing the wine while the condiments shot towards him.
‘I think I might still be in love with Francis,’ she sobbed before she could stop herself.
Byrne was holding a wine glass in each hand, a pepper grinder in his lap and his male desire no doubt very repressed, but his face remained attentive and his dark eyebrows lifted inquiringly. ‘That’s quite a statement.’ He leaned forwards and set down the wine glasses. ‘Do you think he feels the same way?’
‘I don’t know.’ She blew her nose loudly on the napkin. ‘There’s something so strange about the way he’s behaving, like he’s being held to ransom somehow. It’s not like him to suggest anything deceitful, even given our parents’ exploits. And I don’t get the whole Kizzy thing at all – she and Poppy seem more besotted by one another than she and Francis are. I half suspect he’s only lined her up to make me so jealous that I want him back.’ She reached for her glass.
‘Well if he has, it’s certainly worked.’
She ignored him, slurping more wine before blustering on, ‘There’s no spark between them whatsoever, not like the one that’s obviously been burning away between my mother and Hector for all these years. As far as I can tell, they have the most genuine relationship of the lot of us, but it must end.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because it’s all so wrong!’
‘Because you disapprove,’ he corrected.
‘Do you blame me? Think what this is doing to my poor Dad.’
‘Let your parents sort themselves out.’ That deep voice was so calm and assured, yet the fierce eyes burned across the table at her with such intense heat her face reddened further. ‘It never does to interfere and play God, Allegra, not unless you want to risk everybody getting hurt in the fall out. Some deeds might deserve that sort of justice, but falling in love rarely does, certainly not when two people feel the same way about each other. You can’t force people in and out of love like you can coerce anger or tears or shame.’
It was more than he had said all evening and made Legs reel back, wine stormy in her glass as she realised with a jolt all the secrets that she’d just poured out to him.
And when he spoke again, she realised his voice was not as smooth or urbane as she’d first thought. It had a crackle of burning Kilkenny peat to it. ‘Take my word for it, Heavenly Pony; at best, your man Francis has moved on and found himself a nice girl to love; at worst (and this is my guess) he’s after some sort of revenge. Either way, you won’t come out of it happy if you try to get him back. Life’s too precious. Find a new lover.’
‘I have a lover!’ she protested too loudly, thinking guiltily of Conrad.
There was a brief hush around them in the busy restaurant, broken only by a nearby diner dropping a fork with a loud clatter.
He raised a dark eyebrow, penetrating gaze not moving from her face.
If she blushed any more, the tablecloth would scorch, she realised. Her hypocrisy was tattooed across her hot face. ‘Conrad. The man I left Francis for. We’re still together. He’s very good for me.’
‘I don’t think you’d be here pouring your heart out about still loving your ex to me if that was true.’
At that moment, the paella arrived and was set down between them, swimming with saffron, garlic, snails and rabbit. Legs had to swallow hard to stop herself gagging. She’d drunk far too much wine and gorged on amuse-bouche, bread and asparagus while developing verbal diarrhoea. Her appetite for food and conversation was dwindling fast.
And now she was paranoid about the ambiguity of Byrne’s last comment. As she helped herself to a tiny ladleful of paella, she regarded him worriedly through the steam. Did he think she she was some nutty Ancient Mariner? Or did he think she was just a silly flirt, keeping her London lover amused during the week and returning to stir things up with her ex at weekends? Did he perhaps even think the fact she was sharing a table with him tonight meant she was after him? She deeply regretted sucking drunkenly on the asparagus spears now. He was really very annoying company, making her spill all her truths across the table like the contents of her handbag, revealing her untidy mind and intimate secrets.
He’s a food judge, she reminded herself. Aren’t they all horrible misogynists? She’d rarely managed to get through an entire A. A. Gill column without the desire to hurl china, particularly on the occasion he’d reduced Guy to tears of frustration by describing the Book Inn as a gimmicky gastropub with slush-pile credentials and pulp-fiction food. She owed it to her host tonight to up her game.
Byrne was staring moodily into the paella pot. It smelled delicious for all its witch’s brew ingredients. Worthy of several Michelin stars, Legs decided proudly. Didn’t Heston Blumenthal make snail porridge after all?
She drew breath and smiled winningly, determined to get back on course, softening him up for Guy and Nonny while making it clear that she was a committed girlfriend to Conrad.
‘I can assure you I am doing all this with my lover’s blessing,’ she said in a measured voice which she hoped sounded mature and level-headed, but to her ear was unpleasantly Theresa May.
‘You two work together in a literary agency, you say?’
He had a very sharp memory, she realised as she vaguely recalled blithering on about Conrad’s genius while waving a spear of asparagus about earlier. ‘Yes, I’m his assistant.’
‘Then the man’s no better than a pimp in my opinion.’
‘How dare you talk about Conrad like that!’ she huffed.
‘Married men who sleep with their PAs are all slimeballs. Does he get you to buy his wife’s Christmas presents?’
‘He’s separated!’
Several fellow diners were starting to look around at them again. Legs checked herself hard by cramming in a mouthful of paella. ‘Mmm – absolutely delicious. Better than any I’ve had in Spain, don’t you agree?’ She beamed across at him.
He politely tried a mouthful, nodding thoughtfully. ‘If I’d tasted the same paellas in Spain as you I might be qualified to judge.’
‘He really is terribly, terribly good,’ she gushed, conscious that Theresa May was morphing to Thatcher now. ‘I’ve never had better.’
‘Your lover?’ he was deliberately trying to wind her up.
‘No, Guy the chef.’ She licked her spoon, forgetting herself as food hedonism returned. It was absolutely delicious. She had another mouthful. If one forgot about the snail thing, it was ambrosia. ‘Guy’s brought so many visitors to the area, mostly to try his food. He’s been tipped as the next Rick Stein. Exceptional velvety depth.’ She smiled again, noticing that he was staring at her mouth. Thinking he was spellbound by her cupid lips, she pursed them winningly, only to find that she had several rice grains wedged between her teeth.
He was glowering at her again. ‘And he doesn’t mind you being in love with your ex?’
‘Guy doesn’t mind what anyone does as long as they e
at, drink and be merry here.’ She picked up her glass, smiling encouragingly as he ate the delectable paella.
He laid down his fork to focus the full kiln-mouth heat of his angry eyes upon her once more. ‘Does Conrad know you’re still in love with Francis Protheroe?’
Her smile wavered. ‘I didn’t say I was still in love with him, I said I might be. Can we not talk about Conrad any more? I want to talk about food and Farcombe and you – your interests, like your family here. Are they Irish too?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to discuss them. Besides, I asked you a question.’
Legs went to protest again, but didn’t quite know how to address him, so stopped short. It was only just dawning on her that she didn’t even know his first name. Having told him such intimate truths, even confessing about Heavenly Pony, it somehow seemed too late to try to find out, rather like asking a one-night stand what they were called the morning after.
She ate some more paella, grateful to feel it soak up some of the Rioja she’d swilled. He probably had no family nearby, she decided. That was just a well-worn line. He was a lonely Michelin man accustomed to getting single dining companions drunk and raiding their secrets. A lonely life on the road.
She now couldn’t remember what he had asked her, so bided her time masticating, devouring every complex corner of the flavour, increasingly convinced it was star-worthy.
‘Tell me about your boss and lover,’ he asked in that confidential, moreish voice.
‘He’s lovely.’
‘Goes with the territory – love, lover, lovely.’ He played with the assonance, exposing her banality.
‘He’s sexy, manly.’
‘Clever?’
‘Oh, yes. Hugely. He discovered Gordon Lapis.’
‘That a fact?’
‘He’s a genius.’
‘Lapis?’
‘Conrad. Well, both really, but Conrad’s easier socially. I doubt Gordon gets out much.’
‘You know Gordon Lapis well?’
She shook her head. ‘I love his books. They just lift up life when you’re reading them. But I share that intimacy with millions. And of course we all think we know him, but it’s Ptolemy we fall in love with, not Gordon.’
