The Food of Love

by Amanda Prowse

  In fact, the whole episode was nothing like anything. Let me explain.

  In my head I had always thought it was the biggest deal. I remember Mum saying once that she could tell which of her friends had had sex when she was younger, as they were the ones that stopped talking about it. I get that. But I don’t think they stopped talking about it because they were ashamed or because they knew secrets. I think it was because it would have been hard to describe the lack of drama, the let-down. Or maybe that was just what it was like for me.

  I know you will want to know who and where.

  It was Daniel George, at Tara’s house party. I’ve liked him for ages, obsessed about going out with him – and there we were, in Tara’s room, with the chest of drawers pushed across the door. It was what I had dreamed of. We took off our clothes and I realised at that moment that even though I had thought about him for a long time, I didn’t know him at all. I wouldn’t have recognised his scent or his touch, I knew nothing about him, and that made me feel quite sad.

  I loved the idea of him, the stranger. The reality was very different. I didn’t like the way he kissed me, didn’t like the silence that the whole event was wrapped in.

  When I had imagined it, we had laughed and chatted, like they do in a movie, where they bump noses and it’s sweet and lovely and he only thinks about me, only focuses on me, only wants me. But this wasn’t a movie. It was me and a boy with whom I had nothing in common and who I had never really chatted to and with whom I had sex.

  He didn’t mention my sheer floral shirt that I agonised over. He didn’t care about much. And it wasn’t sweet and it wasn’t lovely. I did it because I was drunk, or rather the booze fuelled my confidence, allowing me to do what I had thought about on so many nights.

  He left the room afterwards and I knew that I wasn’t going to dream of him again. He wasn’t the person I thought he was and I wasn’t the person I thought I was. I was changed.

  He gave me a lift home, just as the sun came up, and we didn’t speak, not one word on the whole journey.

  It made me feel like nothing.

  I guess I did have a secret revealed to me and that was this: first-time sex ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  I’m hoping the second time might be better. I’m going to wait and do it with someone who will make me laugh and who I can chat to, who will say ‘Hey, nice floral shirt, you smell gorgeous!’ and who won’t leave me shivering in a room, alone and crying.

  And I am crying now, as I think about that night all over again.

  SEVEN

  Lexi visited Hilary twice. Each time, the woman greeted them warmly, initially explaining her modus operandi before ushering Freya to a comfortable sofa with a stack of magazines and a coffee machine that wasn’t a patch on her own. The room was a waiting room disguised as a lounge, and it was where she was encouraged to wait while her child sat behind a closed door and spoke to a stranger.

  The first time, she had sat with clammy palms and palpitations, wondering what deep, dark secrets Hilary might prise from her daughter’s mind, nervous that she was being judged. Had she inadvertently done something wrong? It was with huge relief that she’d seen Hilary smile as they left, telling her that Lexi had done really well.

  Lexi herself had offered a beautiful insight: ‘I’m a bit like a computer that needs reprogramming; the way I think about food is muddled, and when we have sorted that muddle out, the clearer I will be about it all.’

  Freya wanted to turn the car around and go back and kiss Ms Hilary Wainwright. Lexi had not only understood that her thoughts were not the norm, but also that it could and would be fixed! It was a good day.

  Lexi was hunched over a cookbook, scribbling on to a notepad in her messy handwriting, her tongue poking from the side of her mouth; this task took all of her concentration. With one finger following the lines on the page, she read out loud, struggling with some of the words while making a shopping list of all the ingredients she would need. This was her new thing, a diversion that neither of her parents would have guessed at: cooking.

  ‘Why doesn’t cooking food make you feel sick, but the thought of eating it does?’ Charlotte asked with refreshing candour.

  Lexi had shrugged. ‘Don’t know. But it’s like I can deal with my obsession with food knowing I don’t have to eat it, and that makes me feel comfortable.’

  Freya was delighted, as not only did it demonstrate a healthy interest in food, but it was also something they could do together.

  Over the past few weeks, she had watched her daughter patiently churn out batches of soft-baked chocolate-chip cookies, crumbly frangipane tarts, deep-fried arancini and fancily piped cupcakes, taking her time with each creation, as if only perfection would do. Lexi didn’t eat the food she produced, that would be a step too far. But the way she beamed at the praise given freely and sincerely by her dad and sister told Freya that this hobby was nothing but a good thing.

  ‘What’s this word, Mum?’ She held the book up.

  ‘Spell it for me.’ Freya lifted her head from her laptop, where she was starting to explore the world of baby food.

  Lexi held the page close to her face. ‘P-a-n-k-e-t . . .’ She paused.

  Panket? Panket?

  Freya was trying to guess ahead; she still found it unsettling that her smart girl chose the almost babyish, soft-letter sounds of puh and tuh and not the more adult pee and tee. It was another little reminder of her daily struggle.

  ‘Panket?’ she spoke aloud, wondering at the unfamiliar ingredient.

  ‘Hang on, there’s more!’ Lexi smiled at her mum’s confused expression. Again, placing her finger on the word: ‘. . . t-a. That’s it.’

  ‘Sorry, Lex’ – she shook her head – ‘I’m going to have to read it myself.’ Leaning over her child, she squinted at the word ‘pancetta’.

  ‘Ah, that’s a tricky one: pancetta! The cuh is a ch sound.’

  ‘Oh, pancetta, of course!’ Lexi tapped her own forehead.

  They both laughed.

  ‘Can we go shopping to get my ingredients?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘What, right now?’ Freya looked at the clock, torn between not wanting to dampen her daughter’s enthusiasm for the task in hand, but also not that keen on sitting in the traffic as rush hour approached.

  ‘I’m making a Spanishy dish, chicken and spicy sausage, and it’s thickened with paella rice and cream.’

  ‘Wow, sounds delicious and expensive!’ She sucked air through her teeth.

  ‘I’ll cook it tonight and it will be better tomorrow night. We can have it for supper. It feeds six, it says.’

  Again she turned her attention to the glossy text.

  ‘Ah, I’m afraid that’s written by someone who hasn’t met your dad. Come on then, let’s go shopping!’

  Freya shut down her laptop, reached for her rucksack and car keys and closed the front door behind her.

  As she buckled up her seatbelt and prepared to drive off, Mr and Mrs Rendleton sauntered along the street, arm in arm, out strolling around the block in the late-afternoon sunshine. He looked wonderful, as ever; his Crombie coat was buttoned up, his thinning grey hair combed to one side and held in place with shiny pomade.

  His wife was similarly well turned out, in black patent shoes and olive-green leather gloves to set off her black coat with its shawl collar. Her usually understated make-up was, however, a little garish, reminiscent of when the girls used to delve into her make-up bag as kids. The hot-pink lipstick had gone a little astray from her lip line, and a ring of kohl, usually subtle, had been drawn with a distracted hand and sat like comic glasses around her eye sockets.

  ‘Hello there, Freya!’ Mr Rendleton inclined his head, as was his habit, his mouth hidden behind his bushy grey moustache.

  Freya wound down the window and smiled out at him. ‘Good afternoon!’

  ‘Only just.’ He checked his watch. ‘Nearly evening. How are you all?’

  ‘We’re good, just off to the supe
rmarket, can I get you anything?’

  She didn’t make a habit of offering, but when they were in front of her and she was making the journey anyway . . .

  ‘That’s very kind, dear, but we are fine, aren’t we, Miriam?’

  Miriam. She repeated the name in her mind. They had been neighbours for nearly two decades, but Freya had not known her Christian name until now. It was pretty.

  The image of them waltzing in their dressing gowns sat behind her eyelids. She smiled at them fondly, as if they now shared a secret.

  He nodded, patting his wife’s knobbly hand. Just thought we’d get a drop of fresh air, blow the cobwebs out – didn’t we, darling?’

  He spoke to his wife, who gave an almost imperceptible nod and looked past him, concentrating on something on the opposite side of the street. Mrs Rendleton was unusually silent.

  ‘I . . . I need to get back.’ Mrs Rendleton ran her fingers over the brooch at the neck of her blouse. ‘I need to get back now. They’re delivering my pram; I should be there.’ She turned to Freya, her thin lips parted to reveal caramel-coloured teeth. ‘It’s a Silver Cross. It’s navy blue.’ She nodded proudly at Freya.

  Mr Rendleton patted her hand. ‘We’d best be getting back.’ He smiled, as if his wife had not made the statement.

  Freya watched them trundle down the street.

  ‘Is she a bit loopy, Mum?’ Lexi placed her finger in her mouth, chewing on her fingernail.

  ‘That’s not a nice word, Lex. I think she’s struggling, yes, poor old thing. It might be dementia, I don’t know them well enough to get involved, but she seems happy and he clearly adores her. Still sad, though.’

  She pulled the car into the traffic.

  ‘Do you think it’s easier to go through things if you have someone to look after you like that?’ Lexi glanced at the elderly couple as they passed.

  ‘Yes. I do, actually. I think everything is easier if there’s someone to share the burden.’ She thought of Lockie and how he had cheered her spirits over the last few weeks.

  ‘I don’t.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’ Lexi shook her head. ‘When things aren’t going right for me, I’d like to shut myself away and not have to talk to anyone or see anyone. I’d like to disappear.’

  ‘Oh, Lex! Even me?’ She pushed her bottom lip out.

  Her daughter held her eye. ‘Even you.’ Her voice was cool.

  The magnitude of Lexi’s words and the tone in which they were delivered stabbed her to the core. Freya always assumed that no matter what was going on in her kids’ lives or how desperate things became, she would always have a part in it, rationalising that they would need her.

  They drove to the supermarket in silence, their bubble of joy quite burst.

  The supermarket was busy; queues of shoppers stood in impatient lines that snaked back from the tills down the aisles.

  Lexi had posed her question to the grocery assistant with a sense of urgency.

  ‘I’ll go look out the back if you like?’

  The boy stared at Lexi, his expression hopeful that she’d smile, shake her head with embarrassment and say ‘Oh no, not to worry, I don’t want to be any bother . . .’ – but she didn’t. She stood still, seemingly unaware of the chaos all around, the gridlock of carts and baskets full of produce, as rowdy customers shoved and elbowed their way towards the organic avocados and fabulous dining offers. Freya watched as she nodded serenely and murmured, ‘Thanks, yes,’ with relief, as if the sourcing of fresh tarragon was the most important thing in the world.

  Freya had to admit it was a little awkward, but compared to the nervous antics of her child that last fretful time she had been in a supermarket with her, this was entirely preferable.

  Lockie and Freya lounged on the sofa in the den as Lexi tightened her apron, stirred the sauce, splashed cream, boned chicken thighs and sliced chorizo. The smell of pancetta crisping with onions in the pan filled the space.

  ‘Someone’s busy.’ He kissed his wife’s head, which lay against his shoulder. ‘Smells delicious, Lex!’ he called across the open-plan space to the stove.

  She ignored him, entirely engrossed with the preparing and cooking of the food. Referring frequently to the recipe, she checked and rechecked the measurements, whizzing around the kitchen like a thing possessed.

  The front doorbell rang.

  ‘No rest for the wicked.’ Freya swung her legs from her seat.

  ‘It’ll be for you, then.’ He winked at her.

  Freya flicked on the hallway light and trod the stairs to the front door. A cool chill whipped up from the street and she regretted not grabbing her cardigan. She didn’t recognise the outline of the stout figure on the other side of the glass until she was upon it.

  ‘Mr Rendleton! Come in, come in!’

  She opened the door and stood back. She realised that it had been at least six years since he had last crossed her threshold, in response to a note Lockie had pushed through all the neighbours’ doors, apologising in advance for any mess, dust and upheaval during the conversion work on their house. She recalled he had been gracious, grateful for the forewarning, and assuaged their concern, saying that a little dust and noise was no trouble at all.

  ‘I won’t, but thank you.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Freya stepped forward and pulled the door to behind her, to keep the heat in and their conversation out.

  ‘Well, yes . . .’ He paused. ‘I wanted to explain about Mrs Rendleton.’

  ‘Oh!’

  She wanted to assure him it was none of her business, but didn’t want to sound disinterested, unsure how to preserve his privacy whilst being neighbourly.

  ‘She’s going downhill, I’m afraid. Getting very forgetful and a little confused.’

  Freya nodded. ‘I could see earlier that she was preoccupied.’

  ‘Yes, preoccupied.’ He nodded. ‘We lost a baby, a little boy, stillborn.’

  ‘Oh, goodness! I’m—’ she began.

  Mr Rendleton held up a palm, as if to silence her.

  ‘No, please, it was over sixty years ago, but it seems to be playing on her mind more and more recently. I suppose I wanted to warn you that if she seems distant, not quite herself . . .’ he floundered.

  ‘I completely understand. And if there is anything I can do . . . ?’

  He smiled at her, flattening the front of his coat with his palm. ‘Nothing any of us can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’re always here, Mr Rendleton, just the other side of the back wall, if you need anything, day or night.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. I’d better get back.’ He pointed along the street. ‘I’ve left her alone and she’ll start to fret. We shall see you soon.’

  He smiled and made his way back down the path.

  ‘Who was it?’ Lockie laid his open book face down on his chest as Freya came back into the living room.

  ‘Mr Rendleton. I think he just wanted to tell someone he’s worried about his wife. She’s getting very forgetful and obviously deteriorating. Sad, really.’ Freya took her place once again by his side. ‘To look at them through the window, you would never guess what they are going through.’

  There was a beat of silence, when both recognised but declined to comment on the parallel.

  ‘Nothing sad about reaching a ripe old age and being warm and loved with a roof over your head,’ Lockie said finally.

  ‘I guess. But it still feels cruel, unfair.’

  ‘Taste this, Dad!’ Lexi ran over with a wooden spoon held flat over the outstretched palm of her other hand. She stepped over her mum’s legs and pushed the spoon towards his face.

  He sat up straight and touched the sauce to his lips before finishing it all with one swallow. ‘Wow!’

  Lexi beamed at his response.

  ‘That is so good!’ He licked his lips. ‘I tell you what, I’ve changed my mind, I think I will come and eat at your restaurant after
all!’

  ‘Can’t wait for tomorrow night,’ Freya added, truthfully.

  ‘Is it okay if I invite Toby?’ Lexi bobbed on the spot, still enlivened by the compliments.

  ‘Of course!’ She smiled, happy that her girl wanted to mix, and reminding herself to warn Charlotte to make him feel welcome.

  Lockie waited until his daughter turned her back before curling back his top lip in dread for his wife’s benefit.

  The next day, with the house tidied, the loo bleached and fresh flowers sitting on the table in a vase, it was suppertime.

  Lexi had been nervously flitting from stove to fridge and back again for a good hour.

  ‘Come on in, Toby!’ Lockie boomed, as he uncorked a chilled bottle of white.

  ‘Thanks.’ The pale, greasy boy standing in his chinos and navy-and-grey-striped jumper nodded at his hosts for the evening.

  Lexi stirred the pot on the hob. ‘I made this yesterday; it’s a Spanish recipe. I hope you like it!’

  The pink blush to her cheek spoke volumes.

  ‘I can confirm that having been chief taster last night, you are in for a real treat.’ Lockie rocked on his heels.

  ‘Hi, Toby.’ Charlotte, as per her earlier instructions, sidled into the room and took a chair in readiness for supper.

  ‘Hi.’ He stared at her. ‘Are your applications in?’ His robotic monotone was less than endearing, any question sounding more like an instruction.

  Charlotte visibly bristled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where have you applied?’

  ‘Er . . . Durham, Bath and Nottingham.’ She toyed with the edge of the place mat.

  ‘To read what?’ he pushed.