Recipes for Melissa

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘I don’t mean our car. Or your dad’s. I mean the hire car at the other end.’

  Melissa now tilted her head to reappraise the grey, shiny case. In truth, she hadn’t thought about the hire car. Shit. She tried to imagine the boot of a Clio. Or was it a Fiesta? ‘It’ll be fine. Surely? Anyway – this way we share.’

  Sam craned both arms over his head. ‘Why can’t we just take two soft bags as usual?’

  Melissa stopped then, blushing and readjusting the band on her ponytail. There was an awkward pause; both looking away.

  ‘Oh – I get it,’ the penny dropping as Sam’s expression finally changed. ‘So – this is to reassure me?’

  ‘Sorry? I don’t know what you mean.’ She did.

  And now they were both staring at the case.

  ‘You don’t need to do this, Melissa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gestures. We talked this all through the other night. Closed it down. I thought we were OK.’

  ‘We are OK.’

  ‘Right. Good. So you’re not pissed off that I asked you to marry me. And I’m not pissed off that you had a panic attack.’

  Melissa tightened her lips.

  ‘You do know I didn’t mean now. Get married now. I mean, I completely realise you’re young still. I just meant get engaged. Have a plan. I honestly didn’t mean to put pressure on. To…’

  They both continued to stare at the case.

  ‘Look – I borrowed it from Lou. If you really hate it, I’ll give it back to her. I just thought it would be more convenient. You know – one case. It’s no big deal, Sam. Honestly. If you would rather we pack separately as usual, we can pack separately.’

  Each of them stopped then, conscious of the other’s breathing. It had been like this for the last forty eight hours. Ever since the debacle of the birthday dinner.

  The ring box.

  Melissa had handled it very, very badly and was more sorry than she could explain. She had been winded in the restaurant – just as she had been winded this morning in James Hall’s office – so that everything had come out all wrong. She hadn’t seen it coming. Not at all, which she realised, looking back now, was naive of her. OK – so she knew that he was smitten. That he had been smitten pretty much from the off. But Christ – wasn’t she now smitten too?

  She looked at Sam now and could see that other, younger version. Longer hair – ever so slightly sun-bleached. Sawn-off shorts. Awkward teenage smile but perfect teeth. She could feel that pull in her stomach – the strange contraction that happened every single time she turned a corner to catch sight of him unexpectedly.

  And OK – so it had taken her longer than him to see it. Believe in it. Their story the cliché of kids growing up together; that same smile across so many rooms across so many years. But Melissa truly loved Sam now, even if this fact paradoxically and inexplicably frightened her. So was it really so terrible that she wasn’t into the whole marriage thing? She had tried so hard to explain in the restaurant. Why couldn’t they just be in love? Why did they need a piece of paper? It wasn’t personal.

  ‘Not personal, Mel? You don’t know if you want to marry me – and you think that’s not personal?’ He had looked completely broken.

  She really couldn’t find the words to explain it because she didn’t even understand it herself.

  And now Melissa could not help it. The picture of the padded envelope. Her mother at a desk.

  Black ink…

  ‘So what was the solicitor thing all about?’ He had brightened his tone for her. She looked at his face as he changed the subject, and deliberately his expression also, and felt it. That sharp pull of a muscle, right in the bed of her stomach.

  ‘Sorry?’ She turned away to smooth and refold a shirt now, hoping that he would not notice that her hand was ever so slightly trembling.

  ‘You said it was today. The solicitor thing. The mystery letter. So what was it? A will hunter like you thought?’

  ‘Yes it was a will hunter. But – it wasn’t me. Wrong family. Long shot; trying to trace someone from some family in America.’

  Melissa had no idea why she did not want to tell Sam about the book. She had read just two pages. Overwhelmed.

  Her mother had got one thing right at least. She was in complete shock. So badly needing now to press pause. To go on this holiday and find some freeze-frame; some place to work out how on earth, on top of everything else, to hold on to him. How to show this lovely and much too kind man that the fact she wasn’t sure about the whole marriage thing did not mean that she did not love him. And yes – if she were honest – it was precisely the reason she had borrowed a case the size of a small country. Stupid. Clumsy. Panicking.

  ‘I can take the ring back if you like.’

  ‘Oh, Sam.’ In the restaurant she had asked for time to think about it. Begged him not to be hurt by this.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m fine about it, Melissa.’

  ‘Really?’ She sat down on the bed, a fresh wave of guilt washing over her.

  ‘Yeah – really.’ He turned to look at her properly. Not fine. ‘I got carried away.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t care. You do know how much I care, Sam?’

  He nodded very quickly – the kind of rapid nodding which didn’t mean yes at all.

  Melissa stood back up and for a moment then was very, very still – the familiar tightening in her chest, wishing she could say something which would trigger in him the same happiness he so effortlessly triggered in her. But when she paused like this; tried to analyse what it was she was supposed to feel or to say to make things OK for him, it just made things worse. Made her feel so inadequate and guilty, as if something inside her was jammed. Yes; that was it.

  As if something was jammed.

  She turned away again and continued sorting the items for packing into their neat little piles. Melissa, who felt safer and calmer in an environment of complete order – all her clothes hanging right this minute in neat sections in the wardrobe, according to colour and length.

  Darks to the right. Brights and lights on the left.

  ‘OK. So how about we just go on holiday as we planned, Sam. We celebrate both our birthdays in the sun. We get a tan. And we have a lot of sex? Yes?’ And now she was talking much too quickly. ‘Which is actually the real reason I think the whole marriage thing is overrated,’ clowning. ‘Given that when people get married they stop shagging. Proven statistically.’

  He was silent.

  ‘Big pants, rows over the dishwasher and no sex. Is that really what you wanted for us?’ She turned to pull her tracksuit bottoms high up her waist, gesturing the shape of very big pants.

  ‘Don’t Melissa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please stop.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Trying to turn it into a joke. To do what you always do when you don’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You do. And it won’t work.’

  ‘It will.’ She pulled a face, stretching the jersey even wider from her hips until he was fighting a smile and then turning away from him again to take a deep breath. Trying very hard not to think of it. The ring box. The decision she was supposed to make on this holiday over her career.

  But most of all – the book.

  That beautiful fountain pen. The click of its lid. And the memory of a strange chemical smell which until today she had completely forgotten.

  Of ink.

  4

  ELEANOR – 1994

  ‘Have we spoiled her?’

  ‘Of course we’ve spoiled her. Why wouldn’t we spoil her?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Am I trying too hard?’

  ‘Eleanor. This is Disneyland Paris. Hardly the place to start worrying about spoiling a kid.’

  She had done this at Christmas too. Bought too much and in a panic put some of the boxes back in the loft.

  ‘You’re right. I know you’re right.’ Eleanor glanc
ed at Melissa in her Snow White costume, staring through a window.

  Of course it was too much. They were staying in a pink froth of a hotel, for Christ sake, and tomorrow were booked in for croissants with a mouse in tails.

  ‘I thought it had to be a birthday to meet Mickey Mouse, Mummy. Sophie in school said that—’

  ‘No. It doesn’t have to be a birthday, honey.’

  ‘You look tired, Eleanor.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She wasn’t. ‘Though I might just take a little break. I’ve told Melissa I need the loo. Would you mind doing the rides for the next hour and I’ll meet you at the restaurant for lunch? I’ll grab a nap.’

  ‘You sure you don’t need us to come back with you?’ he was leaning in to check her face more closely. ‘No. No. I’m not happy to leave you. Your eyes look a bit bloodshot to me.’

  ‘Honestly, Max – it’s fine. Mel’s on a high. She wants to see the dragon under the castle. I’m just a bit tired. I’ll be right by the phone. Don’t worry. Don’t fuss. She won’t mind. I can ring reception if I need anything.’

  ‘You promise me?’

  ‘I promise. And you have the list of rides – suitable for her age, I mean?’

  He tapped his top pocket to confirm the rustle of paper.

  Back in their room, Eleanor lay down on the bed and surprising herself by drifting, almost immediately, into a deep sleep. She woke – forty minutes later, with a heavy, dragging ache low in her abdomen. She checked her watch, took two more of the stronger painkillers, with water beside the bed, and closed her eyes as she struggled to swallow them. Two days it had been like this. So very difficult to swallow her tablets. She was starting to worry that she had misjudged the timing. The book.

  For this reason she had brought it with her – hidden it in a large soft zipper case containing Melissa’s hair paraphernalia – bands and ties for her ponytails.

  Eleanor opened it at the first picture. She had taken it just two days earlier, baking the cupcakes with Melissa from her mother’s recipe. They had decorated half with cream cheese and strawberries and half with strawberry pink icing – the colour of this hotel. Eleanor wondered whether Melissa would remember the story of the orange zest. What she would think when she got to see this picture. The book.

  Would there be time? Was she doing the right thing?

  She took her fountain pen from her handbag and took a deep breath to continue…

  …which is how every single day of my life, I wish more than anything on this planet that…

  …I was more like your father. Kinder and more forgiving, I mean. You will probably have fathomed by now what I knew within weeks of meeting Max. That he is probably the kindest man you will ever meet. Well – actually, cancel that. On reflection, I hope not. I hope that you will find someone as kind as your father to share your own life with. But I am biased, of course, and I think it will be a tough call.

  What I burn to tell you is a truth that I am not terribly proud of; that it took me a long time to learn from him. So often I would do the wrong thing, Melissa, before I met your father. Think the wrong thing. Say the wrong thing. I never deliberately hurt people or anything like that. I don’t think I am a bad person. I certainly hope not. But too often I simply opted out. Failed to do things which could have made a difference. And then somehow, time with Max just softened me and taught me to stop and think a bit more. To open my eyes.

  And now, in this awful chapter of my own, I keep rewinding to times when I wish that I had behaved differently. Before some of your dad rubbed off on me, I mean. For some reason I keep thinking of this girl in school. She was called Monica and she was exceptionally clever but also terribly thin and terribly shy. Don’t get me wrong. I was never unkind to her. I would smile at her and try to talk to her. But I never really knew how to handle the fact that she was on the outside of everything. By the third year, I think I realised deep down that it was more than shyness. Her hair started to thin and she began to dye it as if by way of disguise or distraction. Dramatic red, then blonde. But I still didn’t say anything or ask anything. I just sort of gave up trying to talk to her. Opted out. And then many years later she turned up on a talk show. Turns out she had anorexia nervosa – all of her life. Very nearly died at one point and talked about how lonely she always felt. Soon after that all the papers went completely mad about eating disorders. You couldn’t open a tabloid without some feature about it. And I remember thinking how awful it must have been for Monica through all those years in school, living with such terrible sadness in the days when so little was known about it. And I wish I could go back – Melissa. To try at least to talk to her. Just to try that little bit harder to be that little bit kinder.

  Max would have done better. You know that and I know that.

  You may well, by now, take more after him than me, and I hope so. But this book is about honesty and so I will be frank. Be kind, my darling girl. Always try to be kind. It sounds so trite and I know that you would not be intentionally otherwise, but sometimes it is as simple as deciding not to sit on the fence. To do something instead of nothing. Am I sounding like a lunatic? Like some terrible God squadder? Or do you understand what I am trying to say to you?

  * * *

  Eleanor looked at the page of handwriting, skimming through the last few lines. Was she preaching too much? Would Melissa see it as criticism? She blew on the ink and bit into her bottom lip. This was so much harder than she had thought. The decision not to edit. To write straight into the book. She felt a frisson of panic.

  And then the phone startled her. Max.

  ‘Hi – honey. I just woke up. Phone made me jump.’

  ‘Sorry. You OK?’

  ‘Yes. I feel better for a sleep. Where you ringing from?’

  ‘Ice cream shop.’

  ‘Oh right. So how was the dragon?’

  ‘Best not to ask. Rather too realistic for a girl of eight.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘It’s taking a lot of raspberry ripple’

  Eleanor laughed. She could picture them exactly – Melissa persuading her father into double scoops. Sauce. Chocolate flakes. ‘So – she’s twisting you around her little finger again?’

  ‘Moi?’

  ‘I take it we need to bump lunch back?’

  ‘No. No. Twelve thirty still OK. You know Melissa. Always hungry.’

  Eleanor glanced at her watch – just past noon. ‘Meet you there. I just hope it’s as good as the write-ups. Got a river with boats – right through the restaurant. The picture looked gorgeous.’

  ‘Not that we would want to spoil her,’ he was teasing.

  ‘Shut up and tell her I’m on my way.’

  ‘Tell her yourself. Here, Mel. Come to the phone. It’s Mummy.’

  There was a fumbling with the phone and some unintelligible spit whispering. Go on. Go on. It’s Mummy.

  ‘I wasn’t scared.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The dragon. I wasn’t scared of the dragon. I don’t know why Daddy said that. He shouldn’t have said that.’

  Eleanor felt her shoulders move and closed her eyes.

  ‘He’s a silly Daddy. Of course you weren’t scared. You’re my brave, brave girl.’

  5

  MELISSA – 2011

  That one man’s snoring could make so much noise was unbelievable. Partly her fault, to be fair. Way too much red wine.

  Melissa stared at the clock – just past four a.m. – and then stared at Sam, well aware that it was not healthy to so often watch him like this when he was sleeping. To think and think and sometimes whisper in her head; to tell him things in her head only that felt too dangerous. Out loud.

  She closed her eyes and leant back on the pillow, exhaling very slowly. Normally when she could not drift back to sleep, she would tiptoe through to the kitchen for a cup of tea but the door needed oiling and she really didn’t want him to wake so, instead, lifted her handbag from the bedside chair and padded through to the en-suite bathroom. Sh
e clicked the light, wincing at the glare and turning to check there was no movement from the bed. Nothing. The snoring continued, which for a moment made her smile.

  I do not snore, Melissa.

  She put the seat and then the lid of the toilet down and sat, carefully taking her mother’s book out of her bag as she pushed the door to. Just shy of the click. There was that same hollow feeling in her stomach now as she examined the title again. Her name in the familiar slanting hand.

  Melissa paused, took a long, slow breath and turned the title page to look again at the photograph alongside the first recipe. She was wearing a green-striped top, but what was strange was she remembered the jumper very well and yet did not remember the photograph being taken at all. She looked down at her arm and could see it really clearly. The soft wool with hoops of green and cream.

  In the picture she was holding a baking tray of cupcakes, half covered with cream and strawberries and half covered with vivid pink icing and tiny silver balls. The feeling in her stomach changed now, her fingers twitching…

  Sprinkle them gently, love. As many as you like…

  Melissa turned her head towards the shower and back again, narrowing her eyes. She was remembering a wooden spoon. The coolness of the tiny silver balls as she picked them from the container. Yes. She was allowed to lick the spoon. Melissa could feel a strange tightening in her chest and a change in the movement of the air around her. She must have been beaming right at her mother as the photograph was taken and yet she could not call this up. The image of her mother standing there with the camera. Why? If she could remember the wooden spoon and the silver balls, why not that? And then she was suddenly unsure if they were real memories at all – the spoon and the decorations – or if she was taking them from the photograph. Wanting it to be so.

  Why did she not remember any of this before?