‘Tricky,’ says Ralph, brow furrowed in his young-fogeyish style. ‘I mean, you want something that makes you stand out from the crowd because competition is pretty stiff, especially at the better institutions. Have you given any thought to where . . .?’ He looks questioningly at Ben. Ben stares back. ‘Early days, perhaps . . .’ says Ralph, smiling uncertainly and shoving his glasses back up his nose with a knuckle.
‘He’s thinking maybe Bristol,’ says George.
‘No I’m not,’ says Ben.
‘Or Sheffield,’ says George, as if Ben hasn’t spoken.
‘Hmm,’ says Ralph. ‘Don’t know much about either of them. I mean, I know they have good reputations . . .’ He looks around as if for inspiration. ‘It is definitely chemistry you’re interested in?’
‘Yes,’ says George.
‘Sort of,’ says Ben.
‘Sort of?’
‘Applied chemistry,’ says Ben.
‘Oh,’ says Ralph eagerly, ‘in what area? Pharmaceuticals?’
‘No.’
‘Biotechnology—that’s always interested me.’
‘No.’
‘Renewable energy?’
‘No.’
‘Ben . . .’ hisses George, as close to menacing as he’s ever likely to get, while Isabelle wrings her hands.
‘Do tell!’ says Ralph brightly.
‘Cooking,’ says Ben.
A sharp intake of breath from George; Isabelle’s hand flies to her mouth.
‘No, Ben—’ starts George.
‘Well, yes,’ says Ralph, his face brightening. ‘And why not? How marvellous. Chemistry is the bedrock of food, after all.’
‘It is?’ says Isabelle faintly.
‘Absolutely!’ says Ralph enthusiastically. ‘Sir Humphry Davy’s Elements of Agricultural Chemistry—about 1810, 1812, if I remember rightly—that was all about food. I expect you know it, Ben? And Frederick Accum, around about the same period, said cookery was a branch of chemistry. And look at Heston Blumenthal—his kitchen is a positive laboratory!’
‘’S what my Aunt Hester says,’ gloats Ben, regretting his initial and wholly irrational dislike of their visitor, who, now he looks more closely, is working that whole Cumberbatch look pretty well. ‘One of Heston’s books is actually called Kitchen Chemistry, you know.’
‘Is it really? Well, there you are! This is jolly exciting,’ Ralph rushes on. ‘It’s so encouraging to find someone who understands what chemistry is for. So many of my peers are only interested in abstracts, but you’ve absolutely got it! You’d need to choose your course really carefully, though. Don’t want to go off down a blind alley. Unless—here’s a thought—unless you got some practical experience before applying. They do seem to like more mature students these days, and if you’d been at the coalface as it were—I mean, actually getting hands-on experience in a restaurant, say—I’d bet that would stand you in really good stead against the opposition. Plus, you’d have a little money in the bank, which these days is no bad thing. Might that be something you would consider?’
Ben has spent hours in his bedroom practising expressions in front of his mirror. He assumes his best poker face.
‘Practical experience? Instead of applying straight to university? Wow, that’s a thought. Isn’t it, Dad?’
A less controlled individual than George might at this stage have reached out a hand to encircle his son’s throat and squeezed hard, if only to dislodge the look of smugness that hovers around Ben’s features and that, try as he may, he is unable to suppress completely. George’s carefully constructed plan to persuade his son of the inadvisability of his current career intentions by parading before him the paragon that is Ralph Pickerlees lies in ruins around him. But George is a patient man, a mild man and, most importantly, of the school that keeps its dirty linen entirely under wraps, so he merely gives a rather thin smile and offers their guest more tea. Ralph, while not averse to tea, is extremely anxious to avoid the risk of having to accept more chocolate fudge cake—having almost broken a tooth on his first helping—so he swiftly refuses and mumbles something about needing to meet someone in town shortly. Within seconds, he’s out on the street, waving his goodbyes.
‘That was helpful,’ says Ben, as George closes the front door behind his guest. Were Ben not a teenager in the eye of a hormonal hurricane, whose parents are incapable of ever saying, doing or thinking the right thing, he might have found in his flinty heart a smidgeon of pity for a father so comprehensively trounced. Isabelle clutches her husband’s arm sympathetically as he morosely begins loading the tea crockery onto the tray. ‘Early days,’ she whispers.
George rallies. ‘Nice boy,’ he says. ‘I must thank Victor for persuading him to call by. Still, it’s only one opinion. Be helpful to have a chat with your careers master at school, Ben.’
‘Smatterson? You’re kidding, right? He’s the one who suggested I became a maths teacher! I hate maths!’
‘We’ll always need maths teachers,’ says Isabelle timidly.
‘We’ll always need dustbin men and firefighters; it doesn’t mean I’m going to become one!’
‘Don’t be cheeky, Ben,’ says George automatically, putting an arm round Isabelle’s shoulders. ‘We only want what’s best for you.’
Ben manages by superhuman effort to control his desire to scream: this conversation has played out dozens if not hundreds of times in exactly the same way and unless he’s very careful it is certain to end precisely as it has always ended—with his mother in tears, his father apoplectic and him barricaded in his bedroom. To forestall the inevitable, he turns on his heel, takes the stairs two at a time and thunders down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door goes some way in compensating for his powerlessness.
CHAPTER 9
Dinner is an awkward affair. Awkward for Harriet, anyway. Hester is in high spirits—almost too high, thinks Harriet, then chides herself immediately for her churlishness. Why shouldn’t Hester let her hair down once in a while? She ought to be pleased to see her sister having such a patently good time after the rocky few months they’ve endured. She notes the spots of colour on Hester’s normally pale cheeks and the uncharacteristic flamboyance of her gestures, the readiness of her laugh at Lionel’s witticisms. Why, thinks Harriet, she’s flirting!
Lionel’s decorum is exemplary. Attentive to both sisters, he is clearly anxious that Harriet shouldn’t feel excluded. But it can’t be helped. How can she be included when Hester keeps steering the conversation back to their eventful day in the kitchen, when besides Hester’s own run-in with the maestro, Riccardi had also laid into some other unfortunate student?
‘She simply mentioned that someone on MasterChef had said there was nothing wrong with using dried pasta for linguine con vongole if you were pushed for time,’ explains Hester indignantly.
‘He’s a purist, I imagine,’ Harriet says, scratching around for something to contribute.
‘A purist?!’ Hester explodes. ‘He’s a tyrant! The poor woman was practically cowering under the counter. Lionel had to ride to the rescue.’
‘Oh, Hester, I didn’t!’
‘Don’t be so bashful. He did, Harry. He just said to Franco very quietly, “That’s enough.” And Franco subsided like a punctured balloon and went back to massacring red peppers.’
‘Did he apologise?’ asks Harriet, surprised that unassuming Lionel should have stood up to a bully. Still waters, she thinks.
‘Oh, good grief, my dear, he wouldn’t know how to!’ Lionel laughs. ‘Pampered by their adoring mamas, Italian men are never wrong.’
He catches Hester’s eye and they smile broadly at one another. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘tomorrow we get to make our own pasta, so stand by for more fireworks.’
‘Can’t wait,’ says Hester, eyes shining.
Harriet addresses herself to her osso bucco, over which her companions are now waxing lyrical.
‘So nice to see it served traditionally,’ says Hester.
‘Absolutely,’ says Lionel, savouring his mouthful. ‘It’s never the same without gremolata, don’t you agree?’
Frankly, thinks Harriet, I wouldn’t care if it were served with chips. It’s only a bit of meat, for heaven’s sake! But she smiles dutifully and agrees that, yes, gremolata makes all the difference. She wishes suddenly that she were back at The Laurels in front of the fire, Marmite on toast at hand, a crossword on her lap. It’s hard work being a gooseberry.
Across the table, Hester eyes Harriet surreptitiously between forkfuls. Whatever is the matter with her? Poor Lionel is being a real trooper, gamely trying to maintain the conversation and getting the bare minimum in response. Is it her fault that Harriet’s not able to join in the conversation about the course? She is fully aware of her sister’s frequent glances in her direction. I will not feel guilty, she thinks. If I want to have a private conversation with someone, why shouldn’t I? She is not thinking of Lionel; she is back in the garden, conducting that very difficult phone call. It was unfortunate the call had come through at that moment, with Harriet all ears. If anyone ought to be feeling guilty, it’s Harry, sitting opposite looking like a week of wet Wednesdays . . .
‘Do you have children?’ asks Harriet, watching Lionel watching Hester.
‘Sorry?’ He drags his eyes back to look at Harriet, thoughts clearly elsewhere.
‘I was just asking if you had any children.’
‘Oh, no. Sorry. My wife and I, we . . . it somehow never happened. I think in some ways it was a blessing: Connie never enjoyed the best of health, unfortunately—a weak heart—and I think perhaps a child might have been . . . well . . . it’s been ten years now since she. . .’ He tails off with a brief smile that nevertheless signals clearly the end of his disclosures. Harriet nods neutrally. Hard to read his response: is he regretful? Thankful?
‘How about you?’
She toys with a spoon. ‘No, unfortunately.’
‘Unfortunately?’ says Hester sharply. ‘I’ve never heard you say that before.’
Harriet is taken aback. This conversation, out of nowhere, suddenly feels horribly intimate. She shrugs self-consciously. ‘It’s never really occurred to me before.’
‘How can it not have?’ snaps Hester.
‘Well, do you regret never having children?’ asks Harriet, ruffled.
‘We were talking about you.’ Hester stamps on a distant memory hovering on the edge of her subconscious.
‘And I’m asking you.’
Lionel clears his throat. The sisters stare coldly at one another. Harriet is the first to look away, aware of Lionel’s discomfiture.
‘I expect Hester has told you about Daria and Milo,’ she says to him, hoping even as she asks that Hester hasn’t.
‘Oh, yes, the waifs and strays you took in,’ smiles Lionel, relieved at the apparent change of topic, but affronting Harriet instantly. Is that how Hester talks about them?
‘If you like,’ she says stiffly. ‘And our nephew Ben.’
‘Second cousin,’ corrects Hester.
Harriet ignores her. ‘It’s just that over the past few months, we’ve had a great deal of contact with all three of them—inevitably—and I’ve realised what a lot they bring to life. Especially a baby.’
‘Like what?’ says Lionel.
‘Oh . . .’ Harriet struggles for a moment.
‘Yes, like what?’ presses Hester.
Harriet actively dislikes her sister in that moment.
‘Well . . . joy, laughter, tenderness and a tremendous protectiveness, if that doesn’t sound too mawkish,’ she says to Lionel. ‘I realised with rather a shock when all the terrible things were happening over Christmas that if anyone had harmed a hair on Milo’s head, I could most probably have killed the perpetrator.’
‘I say!’ Lionel sits back, shocked.
Hester, too, is taken aback by the violence of Harriet’s response, then with a jolt realises she feels much the same.
Harriet gives a brief, embarrassed laugh. ‘All I’m saying—’ she is careful not to look at Hester ‘—is that I realise what a blessing it’s been having the three of them in my life and I feel very privileged at my age to have become a sort of surrogate grandmother.’
The silence that greets this revelation is unsettling. It is as if she has unwittingly introduced an unwelcome solemnity to a riotous party: no-one quite knows how to respond.
‘More wine?’ says Lionel.
Harriet lasts until coffee and then makes her excuses to leave Hester and Lionel alone.
‘Forgive me, but I must go and prepare myself for tomorrow.’
‘That sounds intriguing. What on earth does the morrow hold?’ asks Lionel.
Harriet supposes it is unease that moves him to employ such archaic language.
‘The morrow—’ she stresses the word deliberately and earns a frown from Hester ‘—promises a hike up a mountain, followed by strenuous artwork trying to capture something of the beauty of nature. That’s according to the esteemed Gervais.’ Gervais is their highly talented but ineffectual tutor, for whom the whole experience of trying to impart a glimmer of his own abilities to his class is manifestly proving a wearisome burden. He struggles to mask his appalled reactions to most of the students’ work. ‘It did say no experience required,’ Harriet had hissed at one of her fellow students who, like her, was finding the experience a mixture of shame and hilarity. ‘Yes, but not no experience gained,’ Mary had hissed back; they had dissolved into stifled giggles at the back of the class, a position that Harriet fears serves as a metaphor for the pair of them for the entire course.
Lionel makes a valiant attempt to get her to stay: ‘But the night is young, Harry! Do have a digestif, at least.’ Harry?! When did she invite him to call her Harry? She glares at Hester, who is carefully inspecting the backs of her hands. But she is torn: she doesn’t want the evening to end on a sour note and an Armagnac might restore the balance. On the other hand, despite Lionel’s blandishments, Hester appears quite indifferent to as to whether Harriet stays or goes. Or has Hester’s invitation to Lionel been a ruse to ensure she doesn’t have to be alone with her sister? Suddenly, she is tired of the whole situation. Pleading fatigue, she declines Lionel’s offer and makes her stiff adieu, conscious of their eyes on her retreating back as she makes for the foyer.
‘We’re off to the bar,’ one of her new painting acquaintances calls over to her as she comes out of the restaurant. ‘Care to join us?’
‘Oh.’ Harriet hesitates. She really would like a drink and the group is a good mix of personalities. But having just refused Lionel’s invitation . . .
‘Oh, come on. We can all get a bit wasted and slag off Gervais,’ says Guy, a balding accountant from Surrey, here on holiday with his extremely attractive—and artistic—wife, Bella. She now loops her arm through Harriet’s and frogmarches her towards the bar and a large Vecchia Romagna—‘No, you absolutely may not have an Armagnac—we’re in Italy! Shame on you!’—and a little light grilling about Lionel.
‘Is it a holiday romance?’
‘Bella!’ says Guy with mock severity. ‘Don’t be so nosy. Look, Harriet’s embarrassed.’
‘No, she’s not. You’re not, are you, Harriet?’
Harriet shrugs but keeps her counsel. ‘The only thing I’m embarrassed about is the standard of my painting,’ she says.
‘Join the club,’ says Guy morosely. ‘I thought doing this course might bring the pair of us closer together, but all it’s done is prove to me what I always suspected.’ Bella starts laughing and tries to put her hand over her husband’s mouth, anticipating what is to follow. He is considerably taller than her and easily fights her off. ‘That I am a talentless drone and she, my wife, the light of my miserable life, is a refulgent star glittering in the company of the greats.’
‘Stop it!’ says Bella with a snort.
‘Did you or did you not say my attempt at water lilies bore more than a passing resemblance to fried eggs floating on a sea
of oil?’
‘I would be delighted if I could draw even a fried egg.’ Harriet, relaxing, starts to laugh. ‘I hadn’t realised until now how hopeless I am at anything artistic.’
‘Ah, but,’ says Bella, whom Harriet now realises is more than a little inebriated, ‘the thing is, the only thing that really matters: are you having a good time?’
‘I am, actually,’ says Harriet, surprising herself. ‘Well, I am now.’
‘Then who cares?’ shouts Bella. ‘Who gives a flying f—’
‘Bella!’ Guy’s hand is clamped over his wife’s mouth, his face a perfect picture of feigned outrage. Bella winks at Harriet, struggles free of his restraint and mouths a careful ‘sorry’ before turning back to signal to the barman. Guy puts out a cautionary hand, then withdraws it.
‘We don’t get away often,’ he says quietly to Harriet, as though asking her pardon. He looks lovingly over at his wife. ‘Our little lad, Jack. Down’s. My parents are looking after him for the week.’
‘Ah,’ says Harriet softly, suddenly sober. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We aren’t. It’s just, once in a while, we both need a break. Kick over the traces. You know.’
‘Yes,’ says Harriet, aware that she doesn’t know, can’t begin to know, nobody can. But it puts a lot of things in perspective. She drains her glass. ‘I’ll leave you to your lovely wife, then. Thanks for the company. And the drink.’ She squeezes Guy’s upper arm and he bends down to give her a swift peck on the cheek. He smells of wood shavings, vanilla and wine. Nice.
‘’Night, Bella,’ Harriet calls, but Bella is deep in conversation with the barman. Guy rolls his eyes and sketches a wave, then goes to join her.
As Harriet slips across the foyer on the way to her room, she sees out of the corner of her eye the last two diners in the restaurant, heads bent close together, deep in conversation.
CHAPTER 10
‘Sorry,’ says Hester, reaching for her glass. Lionel dribbles the last few drops of wine into it. His own glass is still half full. He holds the bottle aloft.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 6
