by Nuala Casey
As a child, Kerstin had often visited the cathedral; its bulk gave her a great sense of reassurance, it was impossible to get lost in the city while that sleeping giant watched over you from every point. Her mother would take her to midnight mass on Christmas Eve and they would pray by the shrine of the Magi whose relics were housed in there. As they walked home through the icy streets, Kersten would listen to stories of her grandfather, Klaus; how one night while working alone in the crypt of the cathedral, he had been distracted by a faint knocking sound coming from the entrance, as though someone had entered the cathedral and closed the heavy wooden door behind them.
He had put down his tools and walked out onto the altar, shading his eyes with his hand to get a closer look. As he stood there, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace and warmth. Though it was the dead of night, a glorious light filled the room, seemed to stream through the stained-glass windows; while underneath his feet, a muffled noise rose slowly. It was unlike any sound he had heard before: sublime choral voices singing in Latin how death is not the end; how life endures in glorious colours beyond the final resting place. He had put his hand to his chest as he stood, cloaked in this sublime feeling of protection. Then, as suddenly as they had started, the voices stopped, the light dimmed and he felt something brush against his face, as delicate as a breath. In the darkness, he could just make out the figure of a woman walking down the aisle towards the door; the folds of her blue dress billowing slightly as if blown by a breeze. Then he heard the door close, as he had heard it open just moments before. And he had returned to the crypt, taken up his tools and worked until morning when the other stonemasons arrived. But he never told them of his experience; he kept it hidden in the depths of his heart until he lay dying, a happy, contented man of eighty-one, when he took his only daughter’s hand and told her of the night he had been visited by an angel.
Her mother has always been a mystery to Kerstin; an artistic bohemian spirit who believes in horoscopes and muses and angels. Her relationship with Kerstin’s father, a professor of Physics at the University of Cologne, had been brief and tempestuous. He was thirty years her senior and far too set in his ways to embrace the world of babies and nappies and nursery rhymes. But the relationship had created a scientifically-minded child who went to bed reading mathematics textbooks rather than stories; who abhorred the chaos of her mother’s cluttered life; who preferred numbers to words; theories to intuition. But though Eva would never truly understand her, Kerstin’s grandfather seemed to see something in his intense little grandchild. When she was a toddler she would sit for hours placing her building blocks into neat piles of even numbers. In the months before he died, her grandfather would watch her with a smile, then he would pat her head, turn to Eva and tell her that it was good that the child searched for order in this chaotic world; hadn’t he done the same when he helped rebuild the cathedral; turned that pile of rubble into a place of worship once more?
Kerstin looks at her watch. It is almost 7:30 p.m. Just a couple more pages and she will have made up the ground she lost earlier. It will be her name on the top of the report, her writing, her insights. She has worked hard on this report, with more diligence than she would afford others. How could she not, with something as close to home as Delta? But where she should be feeling pangs of guilt – for her mother’s tireless conservation efforts, the legacy of her grandfather – she feels strangely indifferent, as though this report is a piece of abstract art, a paper trail that will dissolve once it hits the air. They will be proud of me, she thinks, her parents, proud of their diligent daughter with her gift for moulding words and numbers into coherent statements of intent, calls to arms for wealthy investors with deep pockets. Yes, they will be proud, she concludes. Her mind is calm as she works; three months of research now ready to be reconciled into order and coherence. She will not let herself get distracted by dark thoughts because that will only lead to the counting, and for now the only numbers she needs are the ones on the screen in front of her. With her grandfather’s words ringing in her ears, she returns to the report.
*
Seb stands in the empty restaurant looking at the picture that he has spent the last ten minutes hanging on the wall. He puts his head to one side and squints.
‘Hmm, I’m still not sure,’ he says to Yasmine, who is sitting at the table opposite, busily writing menu plans for Wednesday night.
She looks up from her work and sees the picture. It’s a line drawing of a fig tree bursting with fruit; one of her favourites from the twenty pieces chosen as part of a community arts project run by Seb’s gallery, Asphodel.
‘I think it looks great,’ she says, enthusiastically. Yet, she can tell just by looking at her husband’s pensive expression that he will spend the next ten minutes or so moving the picture a millimetre this way, a millimetre the other way, before returning it to its original position. It’s like he distrusts things falling into place too easily; he always has to look at something from all angles before making a decision.
As he adjusts the picture, she shakes her head and smiles then returns to her carefully crafted menu. At the top of the page she has written ‘Iced Tea Shots’ to be served on the roof garden and a little ripple of excitement flutters through her body as she remembers the smell of that incredible jasmine.
‘I got a call from Paula Wilson this afternoon,’ she says, not looking up from the page.
‘Who’s Paula Wilson?’ asks Seb, as he takes the picture down from the wall for the third time.
‘She’s the herb supplier I told you about,’ says Yasmine. ‘The one I met at the Bath Food Festival. She grows these amazing jasmine plants – Andalucian jasmine. It has the most incredible scent. I brought loads back with me, you remember; I made that iced tea and you said it was the best iced tea you had tasted outside of Morocco.’
‘Oh yeah,’ says Seb, only half-listening. The drawing is starting to annoy him. It just doesn’t look right. There is something twee about it, something banal and over-simplistic but Yasmine had insisted on it as soon as she saw it among the pile of entries that had poured into the gallery. She said it reminded her of the fig tree that had grown in her grand-father’s back yard in Tangier; said it represented abundance, fertility and nourishment. So Seb has no choice now but to keep trying to find a spot for it.
‘She’s dropping off a potted pair tomorrow,’ says Yasmine. She puts her pen down and sits watching Seb fumble about with the picture. ‘I told her I was happy to pay for them to be delivered but she insisted, said she’s going to be in London and would like to come and see the restaurant and meet us. That was nice wasn’t it? I’ll invite her to the launch if she’s still here on Wednesday.’
‘Hmm,’ says Seb. He is standing back, looking at the picture, which he has hung back in its original place.
‘Honestly, babe, it looks great there,’ says Yasmine. ‘You mustn’t over-fuss. If you analyse something so intently it’s bound to look wrong. That’s what you’re doing now. Trust me, it looks fine where it is.’
Seb shrugs his shoulders, walks over to where Yasmine is sitting and flops down into the chair opposite her.
‘I know I over-complicate things, Yas, but I just want it all to look perfect.’ He reaches across the table and strokes her cheek, ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he says, gently.
Yasmine smiles and holds his hand against her face. ‘Say that again when Wednesday’s over and nothing’s gone wrong,’ she says, kissing his hand. ‘I just keep thinking there’s some huge detail I’ve overlooked, something really obvious that I’ll only remember at 6 p.m. on Wednesday night when it’ll be too late. I’m having nightmares every night about it – last night I dreamed the kitchen blew up, the night before that I dreamed that we had no oven …’
‘That’s natural,’ says Seb. ‘This is a huge undertaking; it was the same with me when I set up the gallery. Do you remember, I used to get up at four every morning to write lists?’
Yasmine nods her head and smiles. ‘Yea
h, and I was no help: six-months pregnant and full of hormonal rage.’
Seb laughs. ‘We got through that though, didn’t we? And we’ll get through this. Everything is in order, and it’s a trial run really. But even so, we’ve got fantastic staff, a fantastic menu, an amazing location and the world’s best chef.’
Yasmine rolls her eyes at him teasingly. ‘Yeah, who needs Ferin Adrià,’ she laughs, leaning back in her seat.
It is the most relaxed she has looked for weeks and Seb thinks how he would like to press the pause button just for a moment, stop the momentum, the juggernaut that is this project, and stop and breathe, just the two of them.
‘… and here’s Henry with the guest list,’ says Yasmine, with more than a hint of cynicism in her voice.
‘Guest list? I don’t know about any guest list!’
They look up and see Henry Walker, the supposedly ‘silent’ partner of the restaurant venture, walking towards them with his usual air of largeness. Despite being short and rather portly, his voice, his manner, his whole demeanour makes him seem much bigger. As he approaches the table like a giant, a mythical warrior king come to pay a visit to his minions, he slaps his large hand onto Yasmine’s shoulder and laughs.
‘I’m just kidding you, darling. Everything’s under control.’ He wedges himself into the chair next to Seb. ‘Charles Campion’s coming, Time Out, Observer Food Monthly – I think they’re sending Jay Rayner, I like him, he’s a good bloke – oh and bloody Adrian Gill. What else? Oh yeah we’ve got a great band – Becky’s new bloke found them believe it or not – real, authentic North African vibe, I’ve got the CD back at the office, I’ll bring it tomorrow and let you hear it, they’ve just signed to Universal. Oh, and Lauren, our new PR, has compiled the very best VIP list: the elite of London will be ripping open their invitations as we speak.’ He rubs his hands together and grins broadly at Yasmine, waiting on her response.
‘Lauren?’ she says, her eyes serious, all of a sudden. ‘Lauren, from Honey Vision? Oh God, Henry, she’ll have invited all her mates and I told you I don’t want any glamour models or reality TV stars. They just turn up to get their photo in the paper. I want foodies, people who are going to really get what we’re doing here.’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ says Henry, his smile fading. ‘I gave Lauren your list of people and those invites have been sent out too. There’s no harm in a few high-profile celebs, the more publicity we can get the better …’
Seb has drifted away from the conversation. He is looking round at the deep crimson walls, the gold lanterns and thick church candles. Against this background, the drawing just looks odd, out of place; it is bothering him but he doesn’t raise it with Yasmine. He will just have to concede on this one.
Otherwise the room is really shaping up: clusters of tables of all shapes and sizes are dotted about; the long ones line both sides of the room and are accompanied by church pews scattered with sumptuous gold, red and green velvet cushions. The smaller tables are situated about the middle of the room and all are draped in embroidered tablecloths in shades of green, turquoise and red. Yasmine had been adamant that the restaurant would reflect her memories of visiting her grandparent’s house in Tangier: there had to be lots of colour, lots of textures and a feeling of informality with just a hint of decadence; lovers would want to come here for a first date amid the soft candlelight but families would feel just as comfortable coming to share a platter of mezze at lunchtime. Yasmine had made several trips to Tangier over the last few months coming back with bags full of fabrics and pots and dishes. Cosima has helped too: giving up her afternoons to sit with Yasmine and put little rose plants into the tiny terracotta pots that will serve as the table centrepieces.
‘It looks wonderful,’ says Seb, turning back to Yasmine and Henry. ‘It really does.’
Henry’s phone beeps and he sits up straight and grins. ‘That’ll be Poppy,’ he says, his eyes twinkling.
‘Poppy?’ says Yasmine. ‘What happened to Lydia?’
‘Didn’t work out,’ says Henry, elusively, as he reads the message on his phone. ‘Ah, super, she’s here, she’s outside.’ He stands up and straightens his jacket. ‘We’re having supper at Scotts; I said I’d be here. She’s dying to meet you both. Half a sec …’ He rushes towards the door.
‘Great,’ mutters Yasmine, rolling her eyes. Seb shrugs. He knows Henry all too well. The idea of a long-term relationship is anathema to him; his attention span is short and he has no patience with needy women or women who want to commit. Still, his girlfriends all come out of the same mould: Skinny, posh and not too bright.
‘Oh, wow, this place looks awesome!’
They look up to see a tall, red-haired woman dressed in a black leather pencil skirt and low-cut purple silk blouse. She is standing underneath the arched ceiling near the front desk, a large black handbag hanging from her wrist.
Yasmine gets up from her seat wearily and brushes a hand through her short, dark hair. Seb looks up at her as she stands. She is exquisite. He knows she’s tired, he knows that she feels rather self-conscious in her jeans, T-shirt and trainers next to another one of Henry’s leggy models, but to Seb she is timeless; her beauty exists outside of fashion and faddishness. He would like to draw her tonight, in this light, with her hair all messy and tousled, then he would like to make love to her slowly and deeply, do all the things that she loves … He stops himself, feeling the blood rush to his groin. The last thing he needs is to greet this Poppy woman with a hard on.
‘Guys,’ says Henry, guiding the woman towards the table with his hand placed on the small of her back, ‘this is Poppy Lawton-Fields.’
‘It’s so good to meet you,’ says Poppy. Her smile is wide and fixed. She reminds Seb of a gelding and she is very young, twenty-five at the most. Next to her, Henry suddenly looks old, frumpy even, in his navy blazer and crisp blue jeans.
‘So you’re off to Scotts?’ says Yasmine, cutting into the rather awkward silence that is hanging heavily in the air. ‘Make sure you try the oysters, they’re amazing.’
‘Oooh, I love oysters,’ says Poppy. She looks at Henry rather pleadingly, like a child waiting to be taken out for a treat. ‘Although, I’d better not have too many, I’ve put on so much weight lately.’ She pats her stomach and giggles.
‘You’re joking, Pops,’ says Henry hugging her towards him. ‘I’ve seen more fat on a chip, and anyway oysters are hardly calorific. I’m going to order you a nice, juicy steak, fatten you up a bit.’
‘Oh, you are so naughty,’ shrieks Poppy. She taps a long, pale pink fingernail on the edge of Henry’s nose in admonishment.
Seb tries not to meet Yasmine’s eye. If he does, they will both lose it; best to save the laughs for later.
‘Would it be okay to have a look at the garden?’ asks Poppy, her eyes wide and excited. ‘Henry said it’s utterly divine.’
‘Of course,’ says Yasmine, nudging Seb. ‘Follow me.’
They walk in a procession up the wooden stairs; past the first floor dining room and up another flight of steps to the second floor bar; a mirror-image of the other two floors, but with more of an after-hours club vibe; the kind of space where people drop in for a quick drink, then get so relaxed they end up staying for dinner. Tucked away in the far corner is a discreet set of French windows, almost obscured by a thin strip of cream lace. Yasmine tries the handle – the doors are unlocked – and they step out into Arcadia.
Poppy gasps. ‘Oh, my God, this is amazing.’
Yasmine’s touch is everywhere, thinks Seb, as he follows them out. The lanterns, the colours – her favourite combination of red and gold – the hexagonal pattern on the tables, the green glass bottles that, come Wednesday evening, will be filled with sweet peas and eucalyptus; it is Yasmine’s meticulous re-creation of the hidden corner, the magical garden they encountered on their honeymoon in Marrakesh. They had stumbled on it, like all life-changing moments, by taking a wrong turn, both tired and short-tempered in the heat of
the noon-day sun. Yasmine had walked ahead of him and he heard her gasp as she turned the corner. ‘Come on Seb, you have to see this.’ They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on deep green velvet cushions sipping mint tea in the shade of a fig tree, while flecks of sunlight trickled through tiny holes in the hand-shaped leaves and wondered how such a sumptuous, bountiful place could exist just moments away from the crowded dusty heart of the marketplace. It was here that the seed was planted in Yasmine’s mind; Seb had watched her as they sat there, her eyes bright with excitement and longing, drinking in every last detail of the enchanted world that had opened up in front of them. When they returned to their hotel that evening, she had laid out her plans for a restaurant cast in the mould of the garden; it might take years, she said, but she would recreate that corner one day, and allow others to feel the way she and Seb had felt for those idle few hours.
The four of them stand motionless looking out over the railings at the darkening red sky.
‘My God, you can see the whole of London from here,’ shrieks Poppy, as she leans over the railing. ‘Who needs Primrose Hill?’
‘Careful, Pops,’ says Henry, holding her arm and guiding her gently away from the edge. ‘It’s a long way down if you lose your balance.’
