by Prue Leith
“You must have scrubbed them in neat bleach.”
“Sure I did.”
Carrie laughed and said “Yup, and they feel like it. Pure sandpaper.”
The brief distraction of Kevin’s hands had taken Carrie’s eyes off Eduardo. But now she looked back toward the entrance and saw Eduardo step forward to greet a thin, tall young woman with a cloud of blond hair.
Eduardo kissed her cheek. Both cheeks. Then the first cheek again. Three kisses, French style. Then he reached to take the pale fox fur from her shoulders. Carrie registered her practiced swirl as she turned her back to Eduardo for him to take the coat.
Carrie’s thoughts came thick and muddled: No one would wear real fur in England; God, what a beautiful woman. And so young! Looks like a Botticelli angel. Why is Eduardo with her? She adores him—you can see it in the way she tilted her face for his kiss. That blond hair can’t be natural.
Kevin was saying something, but Carrie’s mind was on Eduardo’s big, familiar hand steering the girl through the small of her back. As the space narrowed between the tables, Eduardo dropped behind her, and they followed the waiter single file. The blond had a model’s gait—bum tucked under, bony hips stuck forward and non-existent stomach to the fore.
They passed Carrie and Kevin’s table, but Eduardo didn’t see them. Carrie’s instinctive move to waylay him died as she caught his look. His eyes followed the gentle gyrations of his companion’s bottom under the silk of her short skirt. That’s lust, Carrie thought. His tongue is practically hanging out.
She stared in disbelief, and with mounting distress. It couldn’t be . . . Eduardo would never . . .
When the couple arrived at their table, and the woman bent her head to hang her bag on the chair-arm, Eduardo put his hand on the back of her neck, in the space between her round neckline and her froth of pale hair. Then Carrie knew for certain. It was a gesture so intimate, telling of such ownership and desire, you couldn’t misread it.
Kevin’s voice made it through to her: “Carrie. What’s up?”
Carrie looked away from her brother-in-law and back at Kevin, her face unfocused, blank. And then she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes and looked away.
“Nothing.” She shook her head as though to clear it. “It’s nothing.”
Kevin looked across at Eduardo and said, “That’s one hell of a woman he’s got there. Isn’t it Michelle Ward?”
“Michelle Ward?”
“The supermodel. You know. I’m sure it’s her.”
“Never heard of her.” Even to Carrie, her voice sounded rude. But Kevin didn’t notice. He said, “She comes into my place with the young movie crowd. Or sometimes with aging rock stars. All sorts, but rich.”
“Supermodel?” Carrie knew she was sounding half-witted, but she was having trouble concentrating.
“You must have seen her, Carrie. She does all the big designer shows. She’s never out of the papers.”
Carrie was suddenly angry. What the hell did Eduardo think he was doing playing away from home? She had a clear picture of Poppy with Lorato on her back, baking homemade focaccia because Eduardo didn’t like the shop stuff.
She said, her voice hard, controlled, “Let’s have another bottle.”
“Sure.” Kevin signaled the sommelier, and gave the order. Then he leaned back in his chair and said, “C’mon, Carrie. Give.”
Carrie looked across at Eduardo’s table. She could not see his face, but the woman was in semi-profile. Her straight nose, wide mouth, dark eyes and flawless complexion were right out of a glossy mag. Her fuzzy curls were turned into a halo by the light behind her, and she was laughing, relaxed and happy.
“Tell, Carrie,” insisted Kevin.
“That bastard is cheating on my sister,” Carrie said.
“Lucky guy. Who wouldn’t with a number like that?” Then Kevin looked into Carrie’s face, blank with pain. He tried again. “You don’t know that,” said Kevin. “Could be a business associate.”
Carrie jerked her head, impatient. “No chance.”
The waiter poured them both another glass, and Carrie took a couple of large, slightly uncontrolled gulps. She said, “I can’t believe it. He’s always on the moral high ground. Always at Poppy about how I have no ‘moral core.’ That I sleep around. That I’m selfish. That I’m vain. Jesus, what a jerk.”
“Hey, Carrie, you are overreacting a bit here. Your brother-in-law has a bit of totty on a trip to Paris. What’s the big deal?”
Carrie was drinking fast, her face flushed with a combination of alcohol and anger.
“You don’t understand,” she said. For a moment she looked as though she might cry. Then she shook her head and said, “But why should you? Let’s forget them.”
For the rest of the bottle—and it didn’t take long—she tried not to look across at Eduardo’s table. She tried to talk about other things: whether this place deserved its star rating, whether she could get the photographer to give Kevin a few prints of the pics he’d taken at Le Relais Irelandais. But it was hard work. The fun had gone out of the evening and she’d have liked Kevin to just go home.
Carrie signed the bill, and they stood up. She had decided she’d leave the dining room without alerting Eduardo to her presence at all, but that table across the room drew her attention like a magnet. Suddenly she changed her mind, and walked fast toward the table. Kevin tried to stop her, “Hey Carrie, give the guy a break . . .”
“Fuck that.” By now she was almost on them. “Eduardo!” she said. The blond bimbo looked up, surprised, her perfect mouth open. Eduardo swung round.
If she’d needed any confirmation of her brother-in-law’s infidelity, his face provided it now. He opened his mouth. Shut it again. Said, “Carrie!” Stood up so hurriedly an empty glass fell over. Then he said, “Good Lord.” And “This is . . . er . . . What a surprise.”
Carrie didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know why she’d come over. Eduardo rallied, regaining composure. “Carrie. How amazing. What are you doing in Paris?” He stretched his arms out to take her shoulders, intending to kiss her, but Carrie jerked back.
While he’d been trying to right the glass, stuttering and confused, Carrie had felt almost sorry for him. But the speed with which he resumed his charming in-control self infuriated her. She felt her face flush red and hot, and she had a burning feeling, a lump of fury, in her chest. She said, her voice hard and loud, “More to the point, brother-in-law, what are you doing in Paris?”
Neighboring diners looked up, curious. Carrie was having trouble staying upright. I’m drunk, she thought. Well, too bad. Kevin tried to put his arm round her, but she flung it off with an angry jerk.
Eduardo’s voice was low and steady. “I’m on business. Let me introduce you. This is Michelle Ward, an old friend.”
“Old friend?” mocked Carrie. “Not very old. Seventeen, is she?” Carrie swayed over the young woman, pushing her anguished face into the model’s perfect heart-shaped one. “Like older men, do you? Other people’s husbands?”
Michelle Ward’s brow furrowed and her eyes, at first wide with alarm, narrowed. She looked scornfully at Carrie, up and down, then turned her eyes, cool and questioning, to Eduardo. She did not say a word.
Carrie was very drunk, but not so drunk that she did not know she was making an idiot of herself. Or rather this—this—juvenile was making an idiot of her. The girl’s composure was worse than her beauty or her youth.
She could not stop. She said to Eduardo, “Well, I guess this non-speaking babe is a few years older than Angelina, anyway.”
By now Kevin had both his big arms round Carrie, pinning hers to her sides. He said, “Sorry, mate. We’re leaving.” And two waiters appeared to hustle Kevin and Carrie toward the door.
In the foyer, Kevin said, “C’mon, lass. Bed now. You’re pissed.”
The young man looked up from his computer and said, “What can I do for you, Madam?”
Carrie, steadying herself on the mahogany desk, said very carefully, “Can you tell me if Mrs. Eduardo Santolini has checked in yet?”
The young man tapped his keys, looked up and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Santolini. Yes, they are in the hotel. Would you like me to ring their suite for you?”
So it was true. A suite too. What a bastard. The receptionist looked inquiringly at her, and asked again, “Shall I try Mrs. Santolini for you?”
“No, No thanks.” Carrie felt her throat tighten and a great sob collect in it. With a wobbly intake of breath she turned to Kevin. “What’s the matter with me?” she asked.
“You’re drunk as a fiddler’s fart,” he said.
Chapter 7
Carrie was having a fraught morning. She’d overslept, and her assistant Lulu was on holiday. Her mother had rung three times in ten minutes, each time to thank her for her birthday flowers. The flowers, of course, had been sent by Poppy, though the gift tag bore both their names. After the third phone call Carrie rang Adrienne and asked her to throw away the card. If it stayed where it was her mother would read it anew every time she passed the vase and ring one of her daughters with thanks.
Then the shower head had come apart in Carrie’s hands. And she’d had to do without toothpaste because for the third day running she’d forgotten to buy any, and even stamping on the tube would no longer produce a smudge of paste. And when she got downstairs Richard was still cluttering up her kitchen.
“Don’t you have work to go to?”
He’d looked up, surprised at the snap in her voice. “I’m only due on site at ten. And since I’m away tonight, I thought we’d have a civilized breakfast for once.”
As Carrie grabbed a tray and started banging the cafetière, Richard’s cereal bowl, half-full mug, and his toast plate on to it, she said, “Did you now? Well, sorry. I need the table.”
Carrie shoved the sugar basin onto the tray, and added the milk carton, setting it awkwardly on the cereal bowl. Then she swung away. The movement was too fast, and the milk carton fell over, spouting an arc of milk over her arm and onto the floor.
Richard, still sitting with a piece of toast in one hand, lunged for the carton, catching it with his free hand and righting it as it hit the floor. He looked up at her, pleased with himself. It had been a spectacular save, and most of the milk was still in the carton.
But Carrie dismissed his boyish look with “Could you just go, Richard? Please. I need you out of here.” She wiped her arm and the floor with a J-cloth, and turned her back on him to stack the dishwasher.
“OK, OK, I’m going. But Carrie, what’s up?”
“Nothing.” She was making no effort to disguise her impatience. “Nothing. And anyway I’ve no time to discuss it. Not everyone can start work at ten.”
Richard frowned slightly, his expression a mixture of hurt and concern. He said, “OK. But darling, I’m not an idiot. You’ve been snapping my head off ever since you got back from Paris.” Carrie didn’t answer. She drummed her fists on the sink edge, glared at the ceiling and let out a clenched-teeth moan.
Richard walked out of the door, saying, “If you want to discuss it, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Or you could ring me in Manchester. The number’s on the pad.”
When he’d gone, Carrie felt a small cloud of remorse. She watched him through the kitchen window, zapping his car with the electronic key, throwing his overnight bag into the back seat. His face was set. Hurt and offended.
But what did he expect? Archetypical bloody male. Men always assumed their work was important and yours wasn’t.
By nine the table was strewn with soft fondant roses and lace ribbons; icing tubes and greaseproof paper; a bowl of icing; pencil, ruler and compass. The three tiers of a Victorian wedding cake were covered in smooth white icing. You’d never guess they were made of polystyrene.
The cake—due at the studios for some long-frock drama tomorrow—was starting to take shape. She held the paper icing cone in her right hand and steadied the tip with her left forefinger. Thin, even lines of white icing quickly built up to make the delicate half-moons of trellis spaced round the edges of the cakes. The cake-tiers were different sizes and Carrie adjusted the sizes of her decorations, and the distances between them, with mathematical precision.
As she worked she kept the bowl of royal icing covered with a doubled damp J-cloth to prevent it forming a crust. When her icing cone was empty, she took another square of greaseproof paper from the stack and, working fast and expertly, folded it into another one. She washed and dried the metal writing nozzle from the spent icing bag, and dropped it, point first, into the new one. She snipped off the paper point, shook the nozzle down so that its tip protruded, then spooned a tablespoon of icing deep into the bag. She held the bag tight round the spoon so she could drag it out clean, then folded the paper edges down to seal the top. She squeezed a test length of icing onto the marble slab. Perfect. Moist enough not to break, dry enough to hold its shape. She lifted the top tier onto the turntable. She was proud of the shiny smoothness of its final coat, which had gone on liquid. It was rare to get the surface so faultless: smooth as silk, and not a bubble.
Royal icing was more trouble than fondant, which you could buy ready-made. But for tiered cakes, with the layers separated by columns, she preferred the reliable concrete of royal.
Cake icing was calming. She could do it on autopilot. The work required just enough concentration to stop her thinking of Richard, or of Eduardo and her sister. She worked quietly, feeling a lot better.
When the telephone rang she thought, Damn, I can’t stop now, and she went on to finish the last lines of trellis. The ringing stopped, and Carrie started to carefully position the fondant roses between the crescents of trellis, gluing each into place with a blob of icing. The telephone rang again, and this time she picked it up.
It was Richard. He said, “Darling, I’m so sorry.”
“What about?”
“About being so off with you. I know you are frantic this morning. I should have thought.”
Carrie’s reaction was an instant return of irritation. What was with the guy? Why was he so wet? All he’d done was get an earful from her, and he was on the phone apologizing to her.
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry too. But I’ve got to go now. I’m in the middle of icing this cake and I can’t stop.” She put the telephone down.
As soon as she’d picked up the icing bag in one hand and a fondant rose in the other it rang again. She dropped the icing bag, snatched it up and barked into it, “Richard, for Christ’s sake. I told you. I’m busy.” And she slammed back the receiver.
Almost at once it rang again. Carrie lunged for it, picked it up, and banged it down. The next time it rang she took it off the hook, then reached into the open basket that served as her work handbag and switched off her mobile too.
The calm mood instilled by the therapy of cake-icing had gone now. She was worried that one of her customers might want to get through, and she was beginning to feel bad about Richard. She restored the two telephones and finished icing the cakes, then carried them carefully into the dining room. They could dry out on the big table, where no one was likely to damage them. She’d deliver them early tomorrow and assemble the tiers at the studio.
By noon she had a severe case of guilty conscience. She’d been a right cow. She telephoned Richard’s office, but he was still on the building site. She dialed his mobile.
“Richard, it’s me.”
“Oh hi, darling.” His voice was cheerful, his normal self. A flicker of
irritation overlaid her contrition. Why wasn’t he cross with her?
“Look, I’m sorry. But every time you telephoned I had to stop icing that damn cake.”
“What do you mean every time? I only rang once.”
“Only once!”
“Yes.”
“Oh no!”
“What? Why ‘Oh no?’”
Carrie started to laugh. She had a mental picture of one of her truly grand customers, the overbearing Duchess of Oakhampton perhaps, as the telephone was slammed down on her.
She told Richard about disconnecting the telephones, and said, “I guess it serves me right if I miss a load of good business. But I am sorry I was so ratty.”
“Oh Carrie. I do prefer you laughing to growling. See you tomorrow.”
“Fine. And good luck tomorrow.” He was going to see the Manchester City Planning Department about Eduardo’s plans for the new leisure center.
She restored both mobile and land-line and started on the pile of veg. She char-grilled slices of courgette on the lava-brick grill while simultaneously tossing chunks of orange pumpkin in cinnamon oil in a giant wok. She’d been hard at it for half an hour when the telephone sprang into life again. Good, she thought. Thank God for persistent customers.
“Carrie, it’s Eduardo. I’ve got to see you.”
Her stomach did a flip. Eduardo. She did not want to talk to Eduardo. She was still angry with him. She resented having to keep his secret, having to be cagey with Poppy. She’d avoided going round to see her, and she’d only spoken to her once, briefly, since she’d got back. She’d said nothing of seeing Eduardo in Paris. Which might not be lying, but it was close.
“Hello, Eduardo. Why so urgent?” She knew the answer of course. Eduardo was into damage limitation here. He wanted her to promise to keep quiet.
But Carrie wanted him to suffer a bit. She’d no intention of telling Poppy what she’d seen, but that was for Poppy’s sake, not Eduardo’s. A bit of begging would be good for the arrogant sod.
