by Marian Keyes
‘Where’s home?’ she asked.
‘Devon. I’m a country boy at heart.’ Like it was something to be proud of, she thought scornfully.
But then she found herself saying, ‘I’m from the countryside too.’
And in response to his questions she told him a bit about Knockavoy. At least, about its scenery. The huge waves of the Atlantic, the way they were sometimes so high they came in people’s windows. The air that was so potent that ‘My friend Tara says you could eat it with a knife and fork.’ Poor Tara, Katherine thought. She’s right, she is obsessed with eating. ‘I sound like an ad for Ireland.’ She smiled.
‘It must have been hard to leave.’
‘No. I couldn’t get away fast enough,’ she admitted. ‘I like the anonymity of London.’
‘It’s an urban wasteland,’ Joe teased, ‘where people don’t care enough about each other.’
‘Maybe. But it has great shoe-shops,’ she quipped.
He laughed, and looked at her with open admiration. He really was good-looking, she thought. This annoyed her.
Their main courses arrived. Joe’s was an awesome vertical affair. ‘How do they do it?’ he asked in admiration, deconstructing it with his eyes. ‘I see. A layer of bruschetta, a layer of chicken, a layer of basil, a layer of sundried tomatoes and a layer of mozzarella. Repeat as necessary. Blimey, don’t try this at home, viewers!’
‘Can you cook?’ She didn’t know why she’d asked. What did she care?
‘Oh, yes.’ He twinkled. ‘I make a great Thai green curry. Would you like to hear how?’
Winding her tagliatelle, she nodded, her spirits starting a slow slide. Now he was going to try and impress her with his New Man ability to cook. Oh, the tedium.
‘Well, first off you go shopping for the ingredients – any Marks and Spencer’s will do. Go to the chilled section – this is important, Katherine,’ he wagged an admonishing finger, ‘because lots of people make the mistake of going to the frozen section – and pick up a ready-made Thai green curry. Then when you get home take the cardboard off and prick the plastic cover with a fork, four times. No more.’ He paused, then continued meaningfully, ‘And no less. Then – and this is my well-kept secret – though it says on the back to microwave it for four minutes, just do it for three and a half.’ He nodded sagely at Katherine. ‘Then take the plastic cover off and put it in for another thirty seconds. You get a lovely, what we experts like to call, caramelized effect.’
He finished with a grin, and she actually laughed, entertained and relieved.
‘Well, it goes a bit hard,’ he admitted, ‘which is nearly the same as caramelizing. Then serve with rice, which can be delivered by any Indian takeaway. Now, you tell me one of your recipes.’
‘OK,’ she said, slowly getting into it. ‘Let me have a think. Right, this is a good one. Ideally you need a phone book, although of course leaflets dropped through your letterbox will do at a stretch. Pick up the phone, dial a number, ask for a twelve-inch, thin-crust marinara with extra tomatoes, then – and this is the vital bit – tell them your address. And there you have it – a delicious meal served in under half an hour! Delivery boy’s moped permitting, of course.’
‘That’s useful to know,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I might try that some night when I have my husband’s boss to dinner.’
‘Do you ever cook?’ She sensed a kindred spirit.
‘No.’ His brown eyes were sincere. ‘Never. Do you?’
‘Do you hate people who make a big fuss about cooking?’
‘I don’t exactly hate them. I just don’t understand them.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘If God meant us to bake cakes why did he invent Pâtisserie Valerie?’
‘Quite.’
They eyed each other in companionable silence.
‘We could co-author a cookery book,’ he suggested, suddenly. ‘For people who hate cooking.’
‘We could. I know loads of recipes.’ Katherine’s face took on a gleam. ‘I’ve a lovely one for humous. Go to Safeway, buy a tub, tear off the cardboard and Cellophane, serve!’
‘I love it.’ He dazzled her with a smile. ‘Let me tell you my one for a fuss-free roast dinner. Instructions: go and stay with your mum for the weekend.’
‘And we could do glossy colour photos,’ Katherine said, enthusiastically, ‘of the microwave and the pizza-delivery boy and people eating things out of plastic containers.’
‘It would make a change from the usual gastro-porn.’ Joe’s face was alight with amusement. ‘Delia Smith, your days are numbered.’
Katherine had to admit Joe was nice. Or, at least, he seemed nice. Which meant he was probably a mad axe-murderer. They usually were. A silence followed, and they noticed for the first time that it had started to pour with rain outside. ‘Rain.’ Katherine sighed.
‘I like rain.’
‘You seem to like everything,’ Katherine was washed with sudden sourness. ‘Is there a male version of Pollyanna? Because you’re it!’
Joe laughed. ‘I just happen to think that most things can be turned to your advantage. Take the rain, for example. Imagine the scene,’ he invited, waving his hand with a vague grace. ‘It’s pouring down outside, and the rain is rattling at the windows, but you’re indoors, with the fire on, lying on the sofa, with your duvet, a bottle of red wine –’
‘You’re wearing thick socks and sweatpants,’ Katherine interrupted, astonished at her eagerness.
Joe nodded. ‘A Chinese is on its way…’
‘A lovely film on the telly…’
Joe’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. ‘A black and white one…’
‘Of course…’
‘Philadelphia Story…?’
‘Casablanca…?’
‘No,’ they said simultaneously. ‘Roman Holiday!’
They stared at each other. A bolt of connection shot between them, so intimate that Katherine felt he’d frisked her soul. Positively goosed it. When the waitress chose that moment to shove her face between them and ask if they were finished, Katherine could have kissed her, while Joe could have happily bludgeoned her about the head and neck.
In an effort to stave off the time when they had to go back to work Joe energetically encouraged Katherine to have pudding. ‘How about a tri-chocolate terrine?’ he suggested, reading from the menu. ‘Or a fudge and caramel praline?’
Katherine’s lips tightened. What did he think she was? A woman? ‘Are you having something?’ she asked.
‘No, but…’
‘Well, then,’ she replied coldly. And he wondered what he’d done wrong. It had been going so well.
But Katherine had looked at her watch and seen that the hour was up. In fact she’d let it go way over the hour and she was cross with herself and cross with him.
Her mask was back on. She ordered a double espresso and began barking out the Noritaki fixed and variable costs. Just to show him that the fun and games were well and truly over she took a printout from her bag. Then – and there was no other reason except to be cruel – placed her portable calculator on the table.
‘How about a liqueur?’ Joe suggested, when she was done. ‘Just one and then we’ll go back.’
She shook her head, her face closed.
‘Go on. As a very wise man once said, “Won’t you stay, just a little bit longer?” ’
‘And in the words of one of the greatest minds of the twentieth century,’ Katherine replied coldly, dropping her calculator into her bag, ‘ “That’s all folks!” ’
She stood up.
She let him pay the bill, trampling her feelings of guilt into the ground. After all she hadn’t wanted to come. But as he got up to leave, she said, archly, ‘Don’t forget the receipt, so you can claim it back.’ The look he gave her – hurt and disgust at her gratuitous unpleasantness – almost made her wish she hadn’t said anything.
It was nearly four o’clock when they got back to the office. This shouldn’t have hap
pened. Well, it wouldn’t happen again, she’d make damn sure of that. Anyway he was bound to be given the boot before the month was out. He was already into extra time by Breen Helmsford standards. And calculating his redundancy package would give her the greatest of pleasure.
The only problem was that he was good at his job and people liked him a lot. That gave her an unpleasant fluttery feeling of fear.
But by the time she’d got home that evening, her bad humour had been overwhelmed by a warm glow, which she wasn’t even aware of. Until Tara noticed and pointed it out to her. Then she wasn’t one bit pleased.
21
As Tara pushed open the front door, trying to hide her shopping, Thomas was in the hall, Beryl lacing herself possessively through his legs. ‘How was your step class?’ he demanded.
It took her a moment to realize what he was on about.
‘My step class? Oh, tough,’ she managed to lie. ‘Hard.’
‘Good.’ Thomas smacked his lips in satisfaction.
Perhaps it was her hunger, perhaps it was unexpressed anger over what Thomas had said to her on Saturday night, but it must have been something because Tara rounded on Thomas in a sudden, inexplicable fury. ‘Good? Good? Are you going to give me a gold star? Or grade me? What do I get? Eight out of ten? B minus? C plus? For God’s sake!’
Thomas’s eyes bulged with shock and he opened and closed his mouth without saying anything.
‘You look like a goldfish,’ she snapped. ‘I’m going to make a phone call.’
She slammed into the bedroom, flung her purchases on the floor, lit a cigarette with one hand and tapped out Fintan’s number with the other. ‘So what did the doctor say?’
‘I didn’t go,’ Fintan soothed. ‘Just after I spoke to you today, you’ll never guess what happened.’
‘What happened?’
‘The lump disappeared.’ Fintan laughed. ‘Like letting air out of a balloon. One minute it was a kiwi fruit, the next a grape and the next a raisin!’
‘I was slightly worried, you know.’ She felt like an eejit. ‘Maybe you should have gone to the doctor anyway. At least to find out what caused it.’
‘No need,’ he countered. ‘Crisis averted. It was just a blip on the screen, and now we can all forget about it.’
‘Was it really the size of a kiwi fruit?’
‘Close enough.’
‘People don’t get big lumps on their neck just for the fun of it,’ she insisted, sucking hard on her cigarette. ‘Something is wrong and you should find out. What if it happens again?’
‘It won’t.’
‘It might.’
‘It won’t.’
‘What does Sandro think?’
‘Sandro doesn’t think, or at least he does so as little as possible, as well you know.’
‘Fintan, please be serious.’
‘Oh, no.’
There was a long pause. Eventually Tara was compelled to voice her worry. ‘Fintan, I have to ask you something. It’s none of my business, but I’m going to ask anyway. Have you had an HIV test recently?’
‘Tara, you’re overreacting.’
‘Look me in the eye,’ she interrupted forcefully, ‘and tell me that you’ve had an HIV test recently.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘So, you mean you haven’t had a test?’ Anxiety made Tara’s voice thin and high.
‘I mean we’re on the phone.’
‘You know what I’m getting at.’
‘Have you had an HIV test?’ Fintan surprised her by asking.
‘No, but…’
‘But what?’
She paused delicately. How could she say this?
Fintan interrupted, ‘Do you always use a condom with Thomas?’
In different circumstances Tara might have laughed as she remembered the song-and-dance Thomas had made on their first night when Tara had tried to get him to wear a condom. ‘Like eating sweets with the wrapper on,’ he’d whinged. ‘Like going paddling in your shoes and socks.’ She’d never suggested it again. Luckily she’d still been on the pill from the Alasdair days.
‘Well, no, we don’t always, but…’
‘And has Thomas had an HIV test?’
As if, Tara thought. He’d be the last man on earth to have one. ‘No, but…’
‘Then please shut your clob,’ Fintan said, pleasantly but very firmly putting her in her place. ‘Thank you for your concern, but it was probably just a mild dose of myxomatosis. Or maybe diabetes. How are your diseases at the moment?’
But Tara, red with censure and shame, didn’t want to play.
‘Any sign of the rabies recurring?’ he asked.
She said nothing, damning her misplaced, knee-jerk concern. There was probably more chance of her being HIV positive than Fintan.
‘Or the malaria?’ he inquired politely.
Still she said nothing
‘I hear there’s a bad dose of anthrax going around at the moment,’ he said, ‘so wrap up warm!’
‘If you’re sure you’re okay,’ she said humbly. ‘I must have my dinner. Talk to you tomorrow.’
I’ll be away all week,’ he said. ‘Working in Brighton. See you at the weekend.’
Thomas was listening at the door. She pushed past him and banged into the kitchen. She was angry with herself, stung by Fintan, very hungry, and fresh out of any resolve to stick to her diet. ‘Is there anything to eat?’ She threw open a cupboard door and looked, with disgust, at the Weight-watchers soup, tinned tomatoes, dried pasta and cat food within. ‘It’s like a famine zone,’ she muttered. ‘A Third World kitchen. If we’re not careful the World Health Organization will start airlifting in crates of maize and flour. If we set up a donations line, we’d make a fortune.’
Thomas watched her in shock. He’d never seen her like this before. Another cupboard revealed Thomas’s stockpile of tinned steak and kidney pies.
‘You could always have one of them,’ he suggested, surprised at the nervous tremor in his voice.
‘I’d rather eat my own kidney,’ she retorted. ‘What time is it? Safeways is still open, I’m going out to buy food.’
‘Hang on a mo’, I’ll come with you.’
‘No, you won’t,’ she said, gathering her car keys.
‘Get plenty of vegetables,’ he called after her.
Tara turned around, walked back in and put her face very close to his. ‘Why don’t you shut it?’ she suggested, then left again, leaving him staring in confusion as she got into the car and screeched away. The worm had turned. The worm was positively gyrating.
*
There were a couple of cast-iron rules that Tara lived her life by. ‘Do unto others as you would be done by’ was one. ‘Don’t go to the supermarket when you’re hungry’ was another.
But she was in a rule-breaking mood. Trolley or basket? Basket or trolley? How much damage was she planning on doing?
Trolley, she decided.
She blitzkrieged her way through the fruit and vegetables department, casting disdainful looks left and right. Not a single piece of fresh produce would be coming home with her tonight. Then some carrots caught her eye. Carrots are my friend, she remembered. Many was the time that raw carrots had kept the spectre of hunger at bay. But not today. Not unless they were chocolate-coated.
‘Carrots can shag off,’ she muttered.
A young man, two days off the bus from Cardiff, overheard her. It was true what his mother said: London was full of mad people. Great!
Tara caught him looking at her speculatively and a thought struck her. They did singles nights at some London supermarkets. Could it be that she’d stumbled upon one? She glanced shyly and found that the boy was still looking at her. She was surprised and not displeased. Vaguely, she thought about smiling at him and then decided not to bother.
Who needs a man when you can have food?
And food she would have.
Usually a trip to the supermarket took Tara a very, very long time. It was like
walking through a minefield. Temptation on all sides. Every purchase was deliberated and agonized over. Assiduously, the back of each packet was examined to see how many calories and grams of fat it contained. Nothing with more than five per cent fat was allowed into the trolley. ‘None Shall Pass!’ was her motto.
Unless Thomas wasn’t looking.
Sometimes she trailed a finger wistfully along the forbidden Indian meals or frozen pizzas, wishing things were different. But she’d long stopped going into the biscuit aisles, because the sense of loss was too great. Best to just close the door on that part of her. It had been a passionate love affair, too passionate, and she knew they could never be just friends. But sometimes she couldn’t help but remember the good times.
Memories can be beautiful, but still… A pink, fuzzy-bordered picture of her laughing and twirling in slow-motion, her hair flying, her arms wrapped around a packet of Jammy Dodgers. Or of her running downhill through a cornfield on a beautiful summer’s day, holding hands with a packet of orange Viscounts. Or of her giggling happily, cheek to cheek with a chocolate ginger nut. Ah, the way we were…
But this night was different. Tara bulldozed through the aisles, like an Iraqi tank invading Kuwait, hidebound by none of her usual reticence. Instead it was Access All Areas. With one sweeping gesture she tipped a large part of a shelf of crisps into her trolley. Without an atom of guilt she threw in a couple of fat-bastard sandwiches for the journey home.
But it was hard not to make a start on what she was flinging into the trolley. Eventually, hoping not too many people were looking, she broke open a bag of Monster Munch. Then another. Then a pork pie. And then she reached the biscuits.
Unable to stop herself, she picked up a packet of Boasters and looked at it. Maybe I shouldn’t, she thought. But an evil little voice suggested, Says who?
