A Little Love

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Guy told me about them and he gave me his book.’ She held up the laminated cover. He had fixed a typed label to the front: La Cuisine pour les Débutants. ‘I don’t know what it means, but the recipes are good. He’s written them all out in English and his handwriting is beautiful.’ She tipped the page to show Pru, who smiled at his neat italic script and ordered rows of measurements, weights and cooking times set towards the right of the page. ‘I’m working my way through all of them. Guy said it’s the best way to learn, to just get stuck in.’

  Pru nodded. Guy was right and a good man for entrusting this girl with his own beginner’s recipe book. She broke off a corner of sponge and popped it into her mouth, squashing it against her palate before biting into it. ‘This is very good, delicious!’

  ‘Oh, you’re just saying that.’ Meg blushed as she kicked at the tiled floor.

  ‘Meg, there is one thing I will never lie about and that is the quality of anything baked that leaves this kitchen. That’s my name above the door and if something isn’t good enough, you’d know.’

  Meg grinned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘I like making things and I’m rubbish at everything else.’ She instinctively placed her hand on her enormous bump.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Pru was worried. Meg looked tired and ready to burst.

  Meg flopped on to the stool on the opposite side of the counter. ‘I’m a bit scared actually.’

  ‘What are you scared of?’

  Meg considered this. ‘Having the baby – everything. And the closer it gets, the more scared I feel.’

  ‘That’s understandable. I know this isn’t what you planned—’

  ‘Nothing is what I planned, what we planned.’ Meg closed her eyes and dropped her head on to her arm, propping it on the table. As she told Pru about how she and William had planned for their baby, choosing paint for the baby’s room and picking out names, her eyes misted over. When she got to the part about moving in together to a new house, she stopped and gave a wry little laugh. ‘There was always a voice in the back of my mind telling me that it was too good to be true, that I was too lucky. Things like that don’t happen to girls like me. Turns out the voice was right.’

  ‘Where are your parents, Meg?’

  She snorted. ‘They’re divorced. My dad’s remarried and lives on Canvey Island. I haven’t seen him since I was about twelve. And my mum, well, let’s just say she hasn’t really got room for me in her life.’ Meg told Pru how she went into care when they divorced, and about the times her mother had come to visit her. ‘She only came twice, but she told me she was saving up to take me on a little holiday. I used to think about it before I fell asleep, planning what we’d do, digging in the sand and eating ice cream. One of the older girls gave me a pair of flip-flops that she’d outgrown; they had little ladybirds on them. I thought they were wonderful. A size too big, but that didn’t matter. I never wore them; I was saving them. I’d line them up under my bed every night, so that I’d be able to put them on in the morning, ready to go to the seaside. I thought if I wore them in the garden or around the house, I’d jinx things and wouldn’t get to wear them on the sand. Of course she never came and I never got to put them on. But I don’t think it was her fault really. She always had a lot going on, things weren’t easy for her.’

  It saddened Pru to hear Meg forgive her mum so easily, when she didn’t sound like she deserved it. But who was she to judge? Many a similar comment had been directed at Alfie. Perhaps this woman too had been waging battles too complex for those on the outside to comprehend.

  ‘Does she know about the baby?’

  ‘I told her, but I haven’t seen her. Don’t think she’s that fussed, to be honest. Mind you, I’d be more shocked if she was!’ She let out a long sigh. ‘I have to keep busy, Pru, so I don’t do too much thinking. I’m worried that if I stop and think, I might go a bit loopy.’

  Pru nodded. This she understood only too well.

  ‘Pru, I hope you don’t mind me saying this…’ Meg chewed her lip. ‘But I’m really sorry things didn’t work out for you and Christopher. You seemed to really like him.’

  Oh, I did that.

  ‘Don’t give up on the idea of finding someone. Don’t let him put you off. You just have to hang on for the right one. And maybe it is him, maybe he is your one; things might work out for you both, you never know. I’ve forgiven William. I still get mad at him, but really I’ve forgiven him, otherwise it’ll just make me feel rotten for my whole life and I don’t want that. I think you’re more likely to find love now you are back in practice, if you get me. Not that I think I’ll ever meet anyone, no one will want me.’

  Both were silent for a moment, and Pru could see Meg’s emotion rising. She changed tack, tapping the mixing bowl with her finger to draw her focus. ‘You need a dot more flour. If the mixture was thicker, it would stick to the tin a bit better, and hold its shape. Another minute on your baking time and they will be Plum standard.’

  16

  Pru pressed her lips together, trying to blot her over-zealous application of gloss, and ran her tongue over her teeth; she wanted to look her best. She hadn’t been able to decide whether to take a little square raspberry and frangipani bun as her offering, or a mini gooseberry meringue. Although she had sworn to herself and to Milly that she would never go looking for him again, she had listened to Meg and knew she had to try one more time. Her stomach churned as she put her left hand inside the pocket of her white linen jacket, partly to hide its tremor but also to wipe her sweaty palm on the fabric. She was nervous. Trying to look casual, she walked with a measured pace until she came to the park. She checked the ribbon on the patisserie box in her right hand. In the end she had opted for a delicate tarte au citron, the base of which was the finest, crumbliest sweet shortcrust she could muster. The filling was sharp but fresh, with twirls of lemon zest running through it, and it was covered with a lattice of icing infused with sirop de citron.

  She approached the curve in the path and looked ahead towards the bridge. As ever, lovers walked arm in arm, strolling along the paths and across the grass, only today she didn’t feel they were kindred spirits. Instead, they were to be envied, part of a secret club from which she was barred. It was as if the whole other world that she had only recently learned about was once again locked behind the secret door and even if she had known where to find it, she no longer had a key.

  In her imaginings, she and Christopher had arranged to meet, but the truth was that she hovered near their bridge on this busy lunchtime in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of him in his favourite place. She had practised how she would look – surprised but delighted – and had pulled the face a couple of times in the mirror.

  Approaching slowly, she scanned the crowds and every time her eyes fell upon a dark suit or a head of grey hair, her heart stuttered. Closer inspection would reveal the man to be an imposter. She took a seat at a spot a little way around the bend but with a perfect view of the bridge to her right. An hour passed before she had to accept that he was not coming, not today. Reluctantly she placed the tarte au citron on the bench and left, looking back over her shoulder until the bridge had almost disappeared from view.

  Even though he had not been there, she still pictured them finding each other, him laughing, saying, ‘There she is,’ and the two of them standing close together, sipping coffee and planning their weekend away. Even this false memory, almost a dream, was enough to lift her spirits.

  ‘Hello.’ His voice came from behind. She stopped and turned and there he was, two feet away from her, his complexion a little flushed, whether through embarrassment or exertion she couldn’t tell. Two dark circles of fatigue sat beneath his eyes. His hair was a little more unkempt than she had seen it.

  ‘I… I brought you a lemon tart.’ She pointed to the bench, wondering if it was too late to go and retrieve it.

  He nodded; he had seen.

  ‘Shall we sit for a while?�
� he asked.

  She nodded. Yes! Yes, my love! We will sit for a while and we can make everything good! She hadn’t counted on the rush of desire and warmth she felt at seeing him; it took all of her strength not to jump into his arms.

  Pru noted how he walked with his hands in his pockets, awkward. The two of them sat either side of the cake box; it became a barrier and not the gift she had intended.

  ‘I’ve thought about seeing you, tried to bump into you and now we are here I don’t know what to say. I feel quite tongue-tied!’ She giggled.

  Christopher knitted his hands in his lap and sat, straight-backed, looking ahead. ‘How have you been?’ His voice was hoarse. She noticed he had lost weight. His cheeks were a little jowlier and his chest smaller; it didn’t suit him. Nothing a few good meals wouldn’t sort out.

  ‘I’ve been terrible, actually. Very, very upset and lonely.’ She decided not to sugar-coat the truth, no more lying via omission.

  He nodded. This was his story too.

  ‘But here we are!’ Her voice lifted and her face broke into a smile. ‘Open the box! I made it myself. I couldn’t decide between—’

  ‘Pru,’ he interrupted, still unable to catch her eye, ‘this isn’t a reconciliation.’

  ‘It’s not?’ she whispered, unable to keep the edge of sadness and disappointment from her voice.

  ‘No.’ On this he was firm, jutting his chin and pulling back his shoulders. ‘I’ve done something terrible and I am sorry. I wanted to see you to say that in person. I am truly sorry.’

  Tears slid down the back of her throat. She couldn’t find any words. She had thought she was being given a chance and the joy she’d felt at the prospect had filled her completely. Meg’s words floated into her head. ‘It was too good to be true, I was too lucky. Things like that don’t happen to girls like me.’ Pru simply nodded. She understood. He had chosen his career over her and there was very little she could do about it, no matter how much it saddened her.

  ‘I have a team of advisors and… sometimes things are taken out of my hands. Do you understand that?’ He looked at her now, his expression doleful.

  She shrugged, caring little how his precious career worked, wanting to be alone but at the same time wanting this meeting, possibly their final one, to last as long as possible.

  ‘Why don’t you go away for a while, Pru? Take a holiday, get out of town.’

  She stared at him, perplexed. Did she repulse him that much that he wanted her gone? Removing the chance for any accidental encounter. He needn’t worry; she wouldn’t be hanging around his park, not any more.

  ‘I would happily buy you a ticket,’ he mumbled.

  Pru stood, stole one final glance at the bridge and took a deep breath. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone has paid for me, Christopher.’ With that she turned and walked away without looking back. Her tears finally fell and she let them, whimpering as she made her way back to Curzon Street.

  By the time she reached home, Pru had decided that she’d done enough moping. As she hung her linen jacket on its hook, she resolved to turn her humiliation and hurt into fuel that would drive her forward.

  ‘Right, Alfie, enough is enough.’ She glanced at the photo on the wall in the basement office. ‘I’ve had a good old think and it’s about time I got my arse in gear. So I have decided, no more pining, brooding or thinking about what-ifs. I’m a grown woman with a business to run. And I can’t keep apologising, can I? So as of now, I will spend more time with my clients, more time with Guy and I am going to push myself.’ Pru stretched and looked at the diamond on her right hand. She didn’t need to rely on a man for her success or her happiness.

  ‘And it all begins… with syllabub.’ She clapped.

  She went into the workroom, fastened her apron around her waist and pulled the cold metal bowl from the giant fridge. She held it under her nose and inhaled the mixture that had been infusing since early that morning.

  ‘Oh, you smell wonderful!’ Pru closed her eyes and breathed in the heady sweetness, a combination of brandy, sweet white wine, the juice of a whole lemon and dissolved caster sugar. She fished out a hand-wrapped muslin bundle of spices and a long curl of orange peel and tossed them into the bin. The mixture was ready for stage two. Pru pulled the lid on a fresh carton of double cream and poured the required amount into the bowl, before reaching for her balloon whisk.

  She started to whip, moving the mixture slowly yet steadily against the sides of the metal bowl. Then she changed the angle of her wrist and started again, making sure she incorporated the mixture at the bottom of the bowl. Over and over she did this, watching as the cream started to thicken and the mixture bloused under the slow, rhythmical movement. After a while she set the bowl on the counter and, using a fine grater, added the zest of a fresh lemon. Once the pale yellow cream was peppered with its golden flecks, she picked up the whisk and continued.

  She observed the pale mixture intently, continually folding and whisking until it began to rise in the bowl. Finally it thickened and gained weight, like a plump pillow beneath her whisk. This was the point at which to stop; just one or two more turns of the hand and the mixture might curdle. She recalled this very thing happening to Monsieur Gilbert and the tirade of blasphemous French that had bounced off the walls as a result. Her mouth twitched at the memory.

  Pru spooned the syllabub into fancy cocktail glasses and dotted each one with a generous dollop of compote de framboises and a sprinkle of crushed and toasted hazelnuts. She placed the desserts on a tray and climbed the stairs, dropping one off for Milly, who was lying under a mountain of bubbles in the bath.

  ‘Ooh, how lovely, syllabub in the tub! Is there anything nicer!’ she garbled, a large spoonful having found its way into her mouth with lightning speed. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’

  Pru tutted. ‘What am I, the waitress? Blimey, I’m going!’

  She knocked on Meg’s door. ‘I brought you pudding!’

  ‘That looks lovely, what it is it?’ Meg lay in the middle of the bed; she looked tired.

  ‘It’s syllabub.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ She spooned the mixture into her mouth. ‘Oh, that’s delicious. Kind of winey, with cream, and very citrusy.’ She licked her lips. ‘Can I taste orange as well as lemon?’

  Pru nodded. The girl had a palate on her.

  Milly was on the early. Pru, in no hurry to go to bed, where she would be at the mercy of her dreams, wandered around the flat with her syllabub balanced on her palm, resigned to another disrupted night without Bobby – or Christopher. She wondered when this ache for him might disappear. It was one thing to recite the words of detachment in her head, but her heart hadn’t quite caught up. The disappointment left a nasty aftertaste to everything she swallowed, even her delicious syllabub. ‘A sadness that will sit behind your eyes and fill your mouth with sourness.’

  17

  Pru was up early, sitting in her office, going through invoices when Meg rushed down from the café, clearly flustered, red in the face and flapping her hand, trying to indicate without words what was going on.

  ‘You all right there, Meg?’ Pru placed her pen on the desk in front of her and studied Meg, who nodded and rolled her eyes over her left shoulder.

  Following in her wake with a determined stride and a thin-lipped expression of disgust was Lady Miriam.

  Pru did a double-take; she hadn’t scheduled any meetings. ‘Ah, Miriam! What a lovely surprise. I wasn’t expecting you! Let me get you some coffee.’

  She stood up to call for Guy, who was overseeing the creative team in the workroom next door. They were rolling tiny pink sugar-paste roses and hand-shaping the petals which Guy would finish painting later. He had perfected the art of applying shadows and hues to make the flowers look as if the sun was falling against one side of the cake; it was a stunning effect.

  Lady Miriam flicked her hair back over her shoulder. ‘I don’t want coffee, thank you.’ Her tone was clipped.

  ‘Oh,
right. Well, do take a seat.’ Pru indicated Lady Miriam’s usual chair and sat down opposite, her hands on the desk. She tried to guess: Bunny was having second thoughts on the colour scheme, or maybe Lady Miriam required an extra tier in response to a sudden rise in her daughter’s popularity.

  ‘This is rather delicate, Pru, but I need to discuss this.’ Lady Miriam unfolded the red-top newspaper from the top of her leather tote and laid it on the desk. Her eyes shone.

  Pru stared, confused. Her eyes scanned the front page, which described a drunken brawl between two footballers’ wives and carried several photos of someone she didn’t recognise having a glittery frock malfunction on a red carpet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miriam, I don’t quite follow.’ She smiled.

  With an alacrity bordering on excitement, Miriam flipped to a well-thumbed page and slid the double-page spread across the desk towards her. Pru popped her glasses on her nose and squinted at the black and white picture of a rather leggy woman climbing into the back of a taxi. It took a while for her to recognise the woman as herself.

  ‘Oh!’ she giggled, ‘that’s an old one!’ She wondered why they had printed this particular picture of her, which must have been at least twenty years old, taken as she left a function in the West End and revealing a little more thigh than she was usually comfortable with. Pru raised her eyebrow at the headline – SHE NEEDED THE DOUGH! – and then started to read. As she raced through the opening paragraphs, her smile faded – Under a veil of respectability… Catering for Hollywood A-listers… Cakes costing thousands of pounds… The colour drained from her cheeks. There it was in black and white: the story of her life – a hooker who used her ill-gotten gains to fund the start of the prestigious Plum Patisserie. In each sentence lay a kernel of truth, enough to make challenging or denying it impossible. She felt sick and her legs shook underneath the desk.

  Pru gasped for breath. ‘I’ve done something terrible,’ he’d said in the park. She had thought he was referring to breaking her heart. But now it was clear. He had sold her out, told her story before someone else did. She wouldn’t have believed it possible.