‘Are you still okay for this piece on PMS and food cravings?’
‘Yes, coming along nicely, and eating lots of chocolate – all in the name of research, of course.’
‘Good girl, quite right too. Got to dash, Helen’s on the other line, speak soon, darling.’
And just like that she was gone.
Freya resumed her position, slumped over her computer, rereading her paragraph about PMS symptoms while tapping her front teeth with the end of her pencil. It was a bad habit, the rhythm of which helped her concentrate. Freya sat at one of the high stools by the side of the breakfast bar in her opulent kitchen space, sipping at the espresso that her funky Italian machine spat out quicker than you could say Fancy a Starbucks? Her eyes roved the pale polished granite surfaces and her shiny three-oven stove, with six burners and a detachable griddle. She loved to cook, and to be able to make her living writing and discussing food was an unexpected joy.
She was part of the modern-day ‘foodie’ revolution, in touch enough to know that the way to get her words out was via regular articles, and attending any and every foodie event this side of Paris and commenting on it. It was a far cry from when she had started out as a keen graduate in the late eighties, typing up and sending out articles in triplicate and waiting days if not weeks for a posted reply.
She realised that she hadn’t tweeted for a while and opened up her account, sending out a picture of the wholewheat sourdough loaf she had knocked up on Sunday morning – with the caption ‘Bread and butter anyone?’ The satisfying little whistles of acknowledgement told her it had been well received.
Brewster, the family cat, sidled up to her and rested against her leg.
The phone rang on the breakfast bar. She expected it to be Marcia again with some new insight into PMS that she would bellow down the line between drags on her cigarette, or Lockie with another unfunny joke. She sometimes wished that she had an office to go to that was outside of the house, a place of work where she could not be reached.
It was a private number that she considered ignoring, without the time or inclination to listen to a sales call for things she didn’t want and couldn’t afford.
‘Mrs Braithwaite?’
‘Yes?’ She sat up straight, and put the pencil down. The voice sounded officious, instantly setting her pulse racing, but was at the same time vaguely recognisable.
‘It’s Miss Burke, Lexi’s form tutor.’
‘Yes, of course. Hello, Miss Burke.’ Now she recognised the voice of the woman she had chatted to across a desk on parents’ evening. ‘Is everything okay?’ Freya felt a flicker of nerves. The woman had never called before and these were the calls she dreaded: from school, from the accident and emergency department or the police. Her thoughts tumbled ahead to all the terrible things that might have befallen her children, picturing bumped heads and snapped wrists.
One of her biggest fears was that a car might hit them. She was always nervous of how they pondered their phone screens and stepped so nonchalantly off kerbs with barely a second glance, drilling into them the importance of looking both ways, of staying present and not getting distracted.
There was a second or two of silence, in which her heart beat a little too fast for comfort and her mind whirred with all the dreadful possibilities.
The young woman on the other end of the phone seemed to lose confidence in any of the lines that she may have rehearsed. ‘Yes, yes. Everything’s okay, I think, it’s just . . .’ She coughed. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to pop into school. I’d like to have a word with you?’
‘Is Lexi all right?’ She held the phone with both hands now. Despite Miss Burke’s words, her tone and request were less than reassuring.
‘She is. I just want to make you aware of something. Today is a bit crazy, I have a departmental meeting straight after school, but are you collecting her tomorrow?’ The woman added the question quickly, denying her the chance to fire the many responses that danced on her tongue.
‘Yes, at four-fifteen. Normal time.’
‘Could you possibly come in at three-thirty? I shall be in the school office and we can chat there.’
‘Sure.’ She nodded, as if the woman could see.
‘Great, thank you. I shall look forward to seeing you then, Mrs Braithwaite.’
After hanging up the phone, Freya spoke to the cat as she took a sip of her afternoon pick-me-up.
‘What on earth is this all about, eh? Why does Miss Doodah want to see me?’ she asked out loud.
Brewster was, as ever, short on a response.
‘Toby!’ She slapped the cool surface.
The cat ran off.
‘Be like that, then,’ she called after him. ‘Just because you didn’t think of it.’
It was simply too much of a coincidence that this boy had appeared on the scene and now Miss Burke had called her in.
Her mind raced. Maybe school disapproved? Or maybe he and Lexi had been caught together? She closed her eyes at the thought.
Surely not!
Freya remembered an article she had read about a school where the head boy had been caught in the IT block with another sixth-former, unaware that their lunchtime dalliance would be beamed via CCTV to any number of computers in the county. She shook her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Freya! She’s a little girl, your little girl.’
She gulped her coffee, guilty for harbouring such a thought.
Freya stirred the half-finished ragout that simmered nicely on the stove. Dipping the wooden spoon into the mixture and bringing it to her lips, she tasted the soft tomatoes, with the hint of basil and the overgenerous twist of black pepper. She wondered if she had been right not to mention Miss Burke’s call on the way home, figuring it best not to pre-empt any discussion or worry her child unnecessarily.
‘Mum?’ Lexi loitered at the countertop, tracing invisible lines on the surface with her fingertip, avoiding eye contact. She had changed into her baggy sweatpants and oversized sweatshirt. Both girls, like her, couldn’t wait to shrug off any formal or restrictive clothing. She found it interesting that they didn’t choose to show off their slender physiques, choosing comfort over style whenever possible, although Lexi’s desire to dress down at every and any opportunity was a little frustrating.
‘Yes, love?’
Lexi swallowed, keeping her eyes downcast. ‘Would it . . . would it be okay if Toby, my friend, came over tonight?’
Freya placed the wooden spoon on the little ceramic rest that sat by the side of the stove. Her instant thought was one of delight: an opportunity to get the measure of Toby before her meeting with Miss Burke.
‘Yes, of course, you know you can bring anyone home, anytime, you know that.’
‘He’s just a friend.’
Freya was amused by the bloom on her daughter’s cheeks, which told her that even if this was the case, she might like it not to be.
‘Yes, you said. And you know your friends are always welcome. Will he be eating with us? There’s plenty.’
‘No, but we might get coffee or something.’
Freya nodded at her fourteen-year-old, who hated coffee. The thought of her baby suffering the bitter liquid for the sake of appearing older twisted her heart with love.
‘Sure. I know – I’ll make some cakes!’ She pictured a moist lemon-drizzle and some cherry-and-marzipan buns, eyeing the clock and calculating that if she started now, she would just have time.
Lexi twisted on the spot. ‘No, Mum. Don’t make cakes, that’s so babyish. Just act like normal, don’t make a fuss.’
‘Okay, but I make cakes for my friends, who are nearly all in their forties, and they don’t think it’s babyish.’
‘Daddy’s home!’ Lockie shouted from the hallway downstairs.
‘I think you might need to fill him in on the rules for later,’ Freya whispered, pulling a face, as her husband bounded up the stairs and grabbed his little girl in his arms, squeezing her tightly, before heading for the fridge and the
cold beer that sat in the door.
‘I’ve been thinking about this beauty my whole commute home.’ He studied the bottle.
‘How was your day?’ She smiled at her husband as he filled the space with his reassuring presence.
‘Fine, you know, a job, but even my smile was slipping after taking fifty pictures of people who all told me how much they hated having their picture taken and had to be goaded into looking natural. And the commute was fun, as ever. But that’s done and I’m home. How are my girls?’ he asked, twisting the top off his beer with his palm and swigging from the neck.
‘All good.’ She smiled, glancing at Lexi. She would update him on Miss Burke’s request later.
‘Ah, that’s better.’ He closed his eyes briefly, his beer restoring his flagging zest for the day. ‘Did you get your article off?’
‘Yup. Turns out it didn’t need to be with them until Monday, and Marcia was just forcing my hand – said she thought I worked better with a tight deadline!’ She curled her top lip.
‘Marcia’s right. You are a procrastinator.’
‘What is this, Pick on Freya Day?’
‘Yep, later I’ll trap you in the loo and make you give me your lunch money.’ He laughed.
‘You can cut that out: we are not to be babyish. Lexi has her friend coming over later and we are to be on our very best behaviour.’ She winked at her daughter, who made her way to the sink and let the tap run before filling a large glass with water.
‘Oh no, not that awful Fennella Fenackerpants – she is scary.’ He shuddered. ‘She corrected my pronunciation, twice.’
‘That wasn’t her fault; you kept calling her Nutella instead of Fennella, on purpose.’ Lexi gave a big sigh.
‘Did I?’ Lockie looked perplexed.
‘You know you did, and her name is Newbolt not Fenackerpants.’ Lexi shook her head at her dad.
‘I know, but I just had a bet with myself that I could make you say it and I won.’ Lockie jumped up and high-fived his wife.
‘This is exactly what I’m talking about!’ Lexi shouted. ‘Anyway, it’s not Fennella who’s coming; it’s my friend Toby, and you can’t muck about or say stupid stuff or make me say “Fenackerpants” or anything else, okay?’
‘Okay.’ Lockie tried out a serious face, testing it on his wife, who suppressed her laughter.
Lexi let out a noise of utter exasperation. ‘I’m going for a run,’ she announced, before flouncing down the stairs and shutting the front door a little more aggressively than was necessary.
‘Don’t be too long!’ Freya called, with no idea whether Lexi had heard.
‘Toby, eh? Is this the Toby muchly denied this morning?’ Lockie asked, as he gathered the newspaper from the table and made his way to the floppy lilac-coloured linen sofa that sat at the end of the room, opposite its twin, where a low coffee table, stacked with books, separated them. The bifold glass doors gave the most beautiful view over not only their courtyard garden, but also their neighbours’ gardens as well.
‘The very same,’ Freya replied, as she tipped diced celery into her ragout and turned her attention to shaping the minced meat, breadcrumbs, onion and beaten egg into meatballs, patting them into golf ball–sized shapes with her cupped palms.
‘Intriguing. I shall look forward to having a word with young Toby. Bit odd, though, isn’t it? If he’s nearer Charlotte’s age? I mean, Lexi is only fourteen,’ he called from the den.
‘Nearer fifteen, though,’ Freya pointed out. ‘And Lexi was very keen to point out that they are just friends.’
‘Sure.’ He winked. ‘It’s strange: I have got my head around the idea that Charlotte will no doubt in the near future bring a boy home, especially now that Milly is dating . . .’
‘Good for you – keeping your ear to the ground, girlfriend!’ She laughed.
Lockie ignored her. ‘But Lexi’s so little, and our baby. It feels odd.’
‘I genuinely think they are just mates. I think that if there was anything more to it than that, she’d probably be sneaking out to see him in private, not bringing him home to meet her odd, embarrassing parents who talk to the cat.’
Charlotte walked in from the hallway. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. He’s not like a regular sixth-form boy. He’s a total nerd. Physics club, chess club, debating society . . .’ She reeled off his infamous achievements, using her fingers to count.
Freya couldn’t admit to feeling a little more comfortable about the boy, now that the image of a young, shirtless Zac Efron had been wiped from her mind.
‘Don’t be mean, Charlotte. Anyway, I thought geeks were cool?’ She recalled a recent backseat discussion concerning smart, bespectacled boys.
Charlotte let out a loud burst of laughter. ‘That’s only funny because Toby is about as far from cool as . . .’ – she rolled her hand in the air, trying to think of a suitable, hilarious comparison – ‘. . . Dad!’
It was Freya’s turn to laugh.
‘Thanks a bunch.’ Lockie lifted his bottle in salute, while keeping his eyes on the open newspaper. They ignored him.
‘Ah, come on, Charlotte, I’m sure he’s a very nice boy.’ Lockie decided to jump in and defend Lexi’s friend. ‘It takes all sorts. And you have to remember that just because someone doesn’t fit your idea of perfect, they might be just that for someone else.’
‘Exactly, or Daddy would still be on the shelf!’ Freya quipped.
They both ignored her.
‘Cool is when Daniel George puts glasses on and goes totally hipster.’ Charlotte stared out of the window, lost in her daydream.
‘You okay, Charlotte?’
‘Hmm? Oh yes . . . where was I?’ She creased her brow.
‘You were giving me a definition of cool, saying it was Daniel George and not Toby,’ Freya recapped.
‘Yes! Exactly. Daniel is gorgeous and cool. Toby is not. He’s more weird.’ She shivered.
‘Weird, as in likes maths? Or weird, as in might strangle us in our beds?’ Freya was curious.
‘Both.’ Charlotte nodded.
‘Well that’s good to know.’ She sighed.
Soon after supper was cleared, Lexi rocketed to answer the front door and the sound of stilted teenage chatter rose up the stairs. Lockie sat at the table editing pictures on his laptop; Freya was on the sofa with Brewster, the chocolate-pointed tabby, pretending to read. Her mind, however, raced behind her tortoiseshell glasses; she was eager to get a look at this boy who had piqued her daughter’s interest, making her want to get in shape and start drinking coffee. She sat up straight at the sound of Lexi’s laughter and tried to look alert and simultaneously relaxed.
‘Hey, Mum, Dad. This is Toby.’
The unlikely duo ventured only a few steps into the kitchen, clearly not intent on staying.
Freya was a little startled. She stared at the diminutive boy with the sheen of grease on his pallid, spotty complexion and the thin, bloodless lips that framed his small teeth. His clothes were old-fashioned: a cream twill shirt, beneath a dark cable-knit jumper and dun-coloured chinos. Despite donning the garb of a middle-aged birdwatcher, he looked a lot younger than his seventeen years.
She and Lockie exchanged a knowing look – part relief, part surprise – as he jumped up and strode forward to shake the boy’s hand. ‘Hello there, Toby.’
‘Hello,’ he breathed, without smiling.
‘Hi, Toby.’ Freya waved from the sofa, not wanting to crowd the boy or make too much of a fuss.
He waved back with a tight-lipped expression, then stood with his arms hanging by his sides and his shoulders sloping downwards. He looked tired and downbeat, one of those people whose very appearance had the ability to leave you feeling a little deflated. Freya tried to erase the mean-spirited thought and smiled broadly, as if her joy might permeate his vanilla-covered crust and give him a jolt.
‘Can I get you guys anything to eat?’ She couldn’t resist. It was almost instinctive, this desire to feed all who crossed over her th
reshold.
‘No, we’re fine, we’re going to watch The Walking Dead on Amazon and do a bit of research,’ Lexi answered for them both.
Freya resisted the urge to holler, Leave the door open, sit on separate chairs! We’ll be popping down periodically! She let her gaze rove over the boy, who looked harmless.
‘I had a sandwich and an orange earlier,’ Toby offered in a rather nasal tone.
‘Right.’ Freya noted his rather robotic overshare.
‘We might have a coffee later.’
‘Okay.’ Freya smiled.
With that, Lexi turned and headed back down the stairs to the TV room. Toby smiled briefly and followed suit.
Freya stared at the space they had only recently vacated, and then looked at her husband, who seemed to share her sense of anticlimax.
Freya jumped up from the sofa and cornered Lockie by the table. ‘That was all a bit disappointing,’ she whispered.
‘What were you hoping for?’ he whispered back. ‘His take on the latest employment figures, fire juggling, a few jokes?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess I thought he might be a bit more of a catch.’
‘Poor bloke!’
‘No . . .’ She squinted. ‘I don’t mean looks-wise, that’s not important. I mean, I don’t know . . . I just thought he must be quite dynamic to have made such an impression on Lexi, and yet he seems . . .’ She let the thought trail, struggling to find the right word that was a combination of ‘dull’ and ‘pale’, without it sounding too much like an insult.
‘Bit bland?’ Lockie offered.
‘Yep. Bit bland.’ She pulled a face.
Lockie laughed as he retook his seat at the table.
‘I must admit, he looks like a right fun-sucker. That’s the trouble with having such a witty, good-looking, accomplished husband: all men are going to appear a little beige by comparison.’
Freya walked over to the fruit bowl and picked up a banana. ‘What’s that? . . . Yes, I agree. My husband is indeed completely delusional.’
She threw the banana back into the bowl and went to put the washing in the tumble-dryer. Despite their light-hearted exchange, Freya still felt the need to hover outside the TV room, listening for any clues as to what was going on inside. She was relieved to hear their rather dull conversation about zombies. Smiling, she made her way back upstairs, knowing that if they were talking, they weren’t kissing.
The Food of Love Page 3
