Going Dutch

by Katie Fforde

  ‘Earl Grey,' she said eventually.

  ‘Certainly,' He bowed, and left her.

  Feeling a lot better about the whole process than she thought she would, Dora took in her surroundings. A piano played tunefully but invisibly from somewhere. There were pillars painted with garlands of flowers and the occasional bird, a theme echoed in the panels which were interspersed with mirrors. She could see herself sitting rather primly on her chair and relaxed her shoulders a little. It was quite crowded, she realised, and wondered if it had been difficult for Tom to get a table. Not everyone was smartly dressed but there were a few examples of what her mother would call 'tea gowns'.

  Had she not been on her own, she wouldn't have felt dreadfully out of place in her new but casual trousers and V-neck T-shirt, but she would have definitely bought a skirt had she known where she was headed. And she was slightly surprised that they'd let her in.

  Before she had time to get anxious about her scruffiness amidst so much old-fashioned glamour the waiter was back with a cake stand loaded with food.

  Dora hadn't had much lunch – Tom had been very firm about them only having a snack, and when she saw the little finger-shaped sandwiches, oozing with smoked salmon and cream cheese, cucumber and ham, she found herself suddenly starving. Now she was worried about how much it was acceptable to eat. She remembered her grandmother going on about 'an ample sufficiency'. She was bound to err on the side of ample.

  Her tea arrived before she had reached a conclusion. It was in a china teapot with an echo of the walls and pillars painted on it. A matching jug and sugar bowl were all arranged around the cup and saucer. Dora felt as if she was six again, playing tea parties with Karen, and smiled.

  ‘Mademoiselle, wait two minutes and I will come back and pour for you. But do eat!’

  She put a sandwich on to her plate and ate it. It was one mouthful. She took another. They were exquisite – little morsels of perfection. The bread was fresh, the fillings just the right balance and the butter creamy and delicious.

  At least the food is lovely, she thought, her private irritation with Tom thawing a little. She was glad he had made them have a horrid hot dog for lunch rather than a sandwich – she wouldn't have been enjoying these ones so much if they had.

  The waiter swooped up again. 'Mademoiselle, I will pour your tea. Do you take milk?’

  Dora began to wonder why he was singling her out for such attention. She had observed several people pouring their own tea while she was waiting. He placed the cup at her elbow. 'You like the sandwiches, yes?'

  ‘Yes, I do. They're wonderful.'

  ‘I will bring you more if you wish.'

  ‘No – no thank you. There are plenty here.'

  ‘After you must try the scones. I made them myself.' He seemed inclined to linger but was summoned by another table.

  Did waiters really make scones? Or did pastry chefs, or whoever did make them, double up as waiters? She ate another sandwich – cucumber and ham this time – while she thought about it.

  ‘Mademoiselle, please, the scones. With the cream and jam.' He was at her elbow, twinkling at her, making her feel pampered and desirable. He took a scone with the tongs and put it on her plate. Then he cut it in half and put a lavish amount on cream on it, then a teaspoonful of jam. 'Please – eat.’

  The scone was small but it still filled Dora's mouth so that she brought her napkin up to her lips to avoid spillage. She chewed, swallowed and smiled.

  ‘Well?' demanded her waiter.

  ‘Delicious, but I think I really prefer the sandwiches.’

  ‘Poof!' he said derisively. 'Try an éclair.’

  Partly through embarrassment and partly because of the utter ridiculousness of the situation, Dora began to feel giggly. She struggled to keep herself under control. If this delightful waiter would only go away she'd be able to keep herself in check. Everyone knew about summoning a waiter but she didn't have any personal experience of how to send one away. She put the éclair into her mouth. It was food heaven.

  ‘Well?'

  ‘It was delicious, as I'm sure you know. Now do go and look after some other customers. You'll lose your job.'

  ‘Pas du tout. I am in charge today. Do you still prefer the sandwiches?'

  ‘I don't know. Probably not.'

  ‘Try a meringue,' he urged. 'They are tiny.’

  Dora only just got it to her mouth intact. Once there it dissolved into creamy sweetness enhanced by the chopped strawberries in the cream. 'That was truly heavenly.'

  ‘I will bring you some more.’

  Dora was already feeling slightly sick – any more meringues would make her feel very uncomfortable. She belched discreetly into her napkin and felt a little better. She glanced at the door. Could she – should she make a run for it? She realised she couldn't, even if Tom had paid for it all in advance.

  ‘No, really!' she said as the waiter appeared with five tiny, perfect meringues on a doily-covered plate. 'Mademoiselle…' he said reproachfully.

  ‘I really couldn't. They were lovely, but..'I will pack them in a box for you.’

  He had just presented the box to Dora, having curled the gold and pink striped ribbons, when Tom appeared. He did not seem pleased.

  ‘Oh, hello, Tom,' said Dora.

  ‘Could I have the bill please?' he demanded from the waiter.

  ‘Of course.' The waiter raised an eyebrow and then went away to the desk.

  ‘That man!' said Tom, furious. 'He's done nothing but try to pick you up since you got here!'

  ‘No he hasn't, don't be silly!'

  ‘I've been watching. He wasn't like that with the other guests.'

  ‘Spying on me, Tom?' Dora pretended to be indignant, but actually she was rather pleased.

  ‘Just keeping an eye. That greasy, smooth-talking…' He paused while he thought of an acceptable word. '… man was trying to seduce you with cream cakes.'

  ‘Mm. There are worse ways,' said Dora, feeling very frivolous and lighthearted.

  Tom scowled and marched over to the desk. Never had Dora seen Tom being so masterful or, she had to admit, grumpy. While she felt sorry for the waiter and smiled her apologies to him, she couldn't help being a little flattered by Tom's obvious jealousy. Perhaps he didn't see her as just a mate.

  He followed the waiter to the desk and got out his wallet. Dora picked up the box of meringues. Tom could eat them in the park.

  ‘Come along,' he said firmly, taking her arm and marching her out of the hotel. Dora barely had time to smile at the waiter in gratitude.

  ‘That wretched man!'

  ‘He was very attentive.' Dora was giggling now.

  Tom was marching her along the road like an irate father. 'If I'd known-'

  ‘It was a lovely tea, Tom, and I feel much braver now about going into a restaurant on my own.'

  ‘It's not funny!'

  ‘Yes it is! It's hilarious. Now, stop being grumpy and we can find somewhere for you to eat these meringues. They really are delicious.’

  Tom made a growling sound.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jo had been so excited to see Karen again that she really couldn't think about anything else. Karen had come in the car with her father to pick her up from the airport and flung herself almost into the path of passing traffic so she could run to her mother.

  ‘Mum! You've got a tan. You look amazing.’

  Karen had seemed completely different and just the same simultaneously. Mother and daughter hugged for several minutes until Philip guided them on to the pave ment where they could hug in safety.

  ‘Darling, I've missed you so much!' said Jo, holding Karen's hand, leaving Philip to carry her luggage.

  They had walked, hip to hip, back to the car. Jo ignored Philip, not only because she was so taken up with Karen but because she didn't quite know how to treat him. She felt no animosity but she didn't feel any great warmth either. Especially after her night with Marcus. She would see how she felt when the
y'd got home. She pushed all thoughts of Marcus aside and concentrated on her daughter.

  ‘I've cooked a meal,' said Karen as they headed out on to the motorway. 'I nearly let Dad pick you up on his own but I couldn't wait to see you. I hope it's all right.’

  The two women talked – mostly about what Karen had been getting up to in Toronto – non-stop all the way home while Philip just drove. Eventually he said, 'Here we are,' and they realised they were home.

  He opened the boot and got out Jo's luggage, which included what she'd bought while she was waiting for her flight.

  ‘Well, I suppose I'd better go back to the Travelodge,' he said.

  ‘Where's – er – Samantha?' asked Jo, not wanting to hear that she was waiting for Philip in a motel.

  ‘With her parents. She's fine about being at home for a while, being spoilt.' He smiled at Jo in the conspiratorial way of parents.

  She smiled back. 'Eventually the roles reverse and now Karen's spoiling me.’

  Karen glanced from one to the other. 'Do stay for dinner, Dad. I've made loads.’

  He looked at Jo a little diffidently. 'Yes, stay,' she said, her love for her daughter overflowing to her father for a moment, 'I've bought a bottle of malt.'

  ‘I thought you couldn't get duty-free stuff unless you went outside the EU,' said Karen, taking her arm.

  ‘No you can't, but they do have good offers and I've got some wonderful chocolate.'

  ‘You should see what I got you!' said Karen. 'A Touche Eclat for one thing.'

  ‘Darling!'

  ‘Well, I always felt guilty about stealing yours. And I suppose you do need a concealer a bit more than I do.’

  Jo laughed and hugged her daughter. 'Cheeky!’

  Philip said, 'Let's go in and have a drink.’

  *

  'This is quite like old times,' said Karen, putting her fork straight on her plate and screwing her napkin into a ball.

  ‘Yes,' said Jo, who was slightly dizzy through a com bination of excitement, alcohol and a lack of sleep. She didn't feel she could add jet-lag to that – the journey was only about an hour – but she did feel it made its contribution to how she felt. She took another sip from her glass which Philip had filled while she hadn't been looking. 'The three of us together.' It was surprisingly easy, although Jo couldn't help wondering briefly what Marcus was doing and if he was thinking about her too.

  Philip sighed with satisfaction. 'That was a lovely meal, darling.' He got up and kissed his daughter on the top of her head. 'You've inherited your mother's cooking skills.'

  ‘I'm glad you liked it, Dad.' Karen got up too and returned her father's kiss before gathering the plates. 'Are you staying the night?’

  There was a moment of stillness before he said, 'Better not. I'll come and see you again though, if that's all right,' he added to Jo.

  ‘Of course it's all right. This is your home, not mine.'

  ‘It's your home too, Jo,' he said and kissed her cheek. He left the room, leaving the two women still at the table. 'What does he mean, it's my home too?' muttered Jo, tired and confused.

  ‘Oh never mind that,' said Karen dismissively. 'Let's open the chocs you brought and go into the sitting room. I think there's something good on.'

  ‘Yes. This spindly little table is no good for real conver sation – there's no room for elbows.’

  *

  The following morning Jo remembered what it was like to be taken in hand by her bossy, adored daughter.

  ‘Mum, your hair, it needs a really good cut and colour,' she said as they ate some disgusting breakfast product Karen had found in the cupboard. It seemed to be a combination of pet foods, predominately parrot, but it promised such amazing rejuvenating effects that Jo chewed it stoically. 'You have let yourself go a bit.'

  ‘I'm sure if we planted this, we'd get some interesting hallucinogenic plants.'

  ‘Don't change the subject. Your hair.'

  ‘I'll make an appointment-'

  ‘No, not lovely Joy in the village. I know you adore her but she's been doing your hair in the same way for years. You need a new look.’

  Jo sighed, accepting the inevitable. 'Where then?’

  ‘In town. A place Janet told me about.'

  ‘Who's Janet?

  ‘A friend from uni. She's moved to the area and so I got some info from her. You need a leg wax and a St Tropez, I think, although you do have a nice colour. Oh, and definitely some new bras.'

  ‘Darling, are you giving me a make-over?'

  ‘Absolutely!' said Karen, getting up and clearing the table. 'We're going to make you the most glamorous perimenopausal woman on the planet.'

  ‘I didn't know you knew words like that,' said Jo, rather wishing her daughter wasn't so well informed.

  *

  A day later Karen and Jo stood outside the shop in Knightsbridge. There was a security guard outside.

  ‘Look,' whispered Jo, 'they check you're posh enough to buy bras here, and I'm not!'

  ‘You look great! You've had your hair done now, and those highlights work really well. No trace of grey any more and your skin is looking fab after that facial.’

  Jo had to admit she did feel a lot more human again. She couldn't help wondering if Marcus would like the new, improved, less woolly Joanna.

  ‘Come on, Mum,' Karen chivvied.

  ‘But my underwear-'

  ‘Is fine. After all, you'll take your bra off.'

  'Why don't you come too?'

  ‘Way too expensive for me, Mum. I'll meet you here in half an hour. If you come out sooner than that, ring me.' Bravely, Jo smiled at the security guard and went into the shop. A well-dressed woman in her fifties asked her if she'd ever been before, assuming the answer was no. Admitting this was the case (was this omission so obvious?) she was ushered to the counter where there was a queuing system.

  ‘Please take a number and wait until you're called,' said the woman, who was wearing what appeared to be a designer suit.

  ‘What, like at the cheese counter?' Jo asked before she could stop herself.

  The woman smiled – slightly. 'That's right, but as we're not busy this young lady will help you.’

  Feeling as if she was going for a dentist's appointment where they would tell her she didn't floss enough, or the doctor's where they'd tell her she was overweight, Jo duly followed.

  ‘In here please, madam.’

  Jo couldn't help noticing the signed photograph on the wall. It was of the young Queen with her husband, children and corgis. Prince Philip was looking particularly dashing. Having them gazing down at her did not give her confidence.

  ‘Strip to the waist, madam, and I'll see what size you are. We don't use tape measures here.' The young woman was from some mittel-European country that had possibly been a police state. Jo was wearing a dress and duly stripped, grateful that she'd had the forethought to put on a slip, so her knickers, which, while perfectly respectable and fairly new, would not be on show. There are some embarrass ments not even childbirth can prepare you for.

  Her upper body was peered at by the young woman. Jo had always felt fairly happy with her breasts, but now she wondered if she was more than averagely lopsided, or if Marcus's fingerprints were somehow visible. She pulled her shoulders back a fraction. At some point she was going to have to tell Karen about Marcus.

  ‘Wait here, I will be back.’

  Although she was alone, Jo crossed her arms over her breasts as she stood before the picture of the Queen. It seemed disrespectful to do otherwise. Of course, Karen was grown up now, but Jo sensed she really wanted her parents back together again. What child wouldn't, whatever their age? With Samantha out of the way, and despite the baby on the way, Karen might well be thinking that getting back together was possible. Even without Samantha, Jo wouldn't want that now, she realised. She would just have to make that clearer to Karen as gently as she could.

  The woman returned, her arm loaded with bras. 'Which colour would you like?’
>
  Jo tried on a black one. Her pants, under her slip, were black, and she thought it would be good to be matching. It was terribly tight.

  ‘What size is it?' she asked. When told the answer she opened and shut her mouth a few times. 'I haven't worn that size since I was married, and as for the cup – well, I never want to be that far down the celebrity list.’

  The young woman, whose English was not really colloquial, ignored this sally. Fitting a bra was not a matter for flippancy. She tugged at the straps and hoiked Jo's breasts a little nearer to the sky.

  ‘Now look.’

  Jo looked. 'Wow,' she said, and then, 'Where's my cleavage?' Where she was accustomed to seeing a deepshadow was now a gaping hole, big enough, it seemed, for a small boulder.

  ‘You heff netural cleavage,' said the woman. 'Put your dress back on to see how it looks.’

  It looked, Jo was forced to admit, fabulous. 'Oh my goodness, I'll have to have it.'

  ‘Would you like it in another colour? White or cream, perhaps?'

  ‘Oh yes please,' she said getting into the spirit of things. 'Try on another.’

  Jo got into it. She tried on bras she could wear under low-cut dresses, bras she could go to the gym in and not bounce and the sexiest black number with velvet straps and little bows. It made her feel like a cross between a courtesan and a painting by Monet. She loved it. She chose three. It was only when she was waiting to pay that she realised that she hadn't asked how much they were. The final amount caused her to reel in shock.

  ‘I'd better go back to being a kept woman,' she muttered as she handed over her credit card, grateful that her expenses had been minimal lately.

  Karen was waiting impatiently outside the door.

  *

  It was two days after Dora and Tom had been out for tea and Dora was washing up the breakfast things when Karen rang her mobile.

  ‘Hi! Dora! It's me! OK to talk?’

  Karen had always assumed the person on the other end of the phone would know who she was, and in Dora's experience they always did. 'Yeah! I'm washing up.'