He gave her a self-deprecating grin.
‘I know, it’s a terrible name. I was under pressure at the time. But you know what? People remember it, and that’s the important thing.’
He handed her a thickly ridged cardboard cup. She could smell South America in its steam, rich and dark and exotic. She sipped at it as she wandered around the stalls. Everyone took huge pride in how their food was displayed. The stalls were rustic, built out of old pallets, but each trader made their stall their own, dressing it with exquisite plates and bowls and baskets, slabs of white marble or polished wood platters. The labels alone were often works of art, with intricate lettering and delicate illustrations.
As well as edibles, there were culinary-themed wares: vintage mixing bowls, crystal glasses, bone-handled cutlery and bundles of snow-white table linen. Picnic baskets. Jelly moulds. A stall full of antique cookery books.
Her mouth watering, Laura bought a flamiche aux poireaux – leeks set in golden wobbly cream in a rectangular tart – a loaf of bread thick with nuts and seeds, a bag of bitter salad leaves and a punnet of pale-gold apricots. She added a pat of creamy butter wrapped in a twist of brown paper and tied with string, and two tiny pots of rich dark chocolate mousse.
When she had visited every stall, she sought out the organiser, Freya, a dreamy girl with long blonde plaits and pink cheeks in a pinafore dress. Freya had started the market three years before with a single stall selling handmade pastries – croissants and pains au chocolat and palmiers and friands, apple turnovers and Portuguese custard tarts – that soon gained cult status in Bath. People made a trip to her stall on a Saturday for their weekend treats and the market had grown from there. She reminded Laura of Heidi – she’d found her childhood copy of the book when she’d cleared out the attic rooms – but she suspected that underneath the winsome image there was a shrewd businesswoman.
She’d read an article recently where Freya had explained the ethos of the market; how the traders were handpicked by a small team of passionate young entrepreneurs who encouraged traditional methods and artistic integrity. They valued stallholders with exacting standards, and in return they offered support which lured a stream of customers with money to burn. The market Instagram feed was renowned for being stylish and aspirational. You could even buy willow shopping baskets stamped with the market’s ‘LWM’ crest to take your wares home with you.
For a moment, Laura felt shy. OK, so she could make jam – but could she make it and present it to the standard expected? All the stallholders looked as if they knew exactly what they were doing. Did she really have the confidence to go and set up her own stall, her own label, her own brand? This was a commercial enterprise, not the school fete, after all. These people were professionals, not kitchen amateurs.
But presumably they had all started somewhere. Presumably they’d all had the germ of an idea, like she had. They would have been nervous about taking the risk.
You can do it, she told herself.
Apart from anything, there was no one else doing jams and pickles. She had to at least try. She smoothed down her hair, turned up the collar of her jacket and approached Freya.
‘I’d like to inquire about renting a stall,’ she told her. ‘Have you got any available?’
‘We’ve got two possible plots left,’ said Freya. ‘We’re nearly at capacity but we’re always looking for exciting new produce. What is it you want to sell? We only have one of each kind of thing – there’s no duplication. So – one cheese person; one sausage person.’
‘Jam,’ said Laura. ‘Jams and pickles and chutney. Basically anything you can put in a jar.’
Freya smiled. ‘Cool! We don’t have a preserve person at the moment. Our last jam girl moved up to London just before the summer.’
‘Great,’ said Laura. ‘What do I need to do?’
‘We do have a strict selection process, I’m afraid.’
‘Of course.’ Oh God. Was she going to fall at the first fence?
‘The best thing is for you to make an appointment and bring me some samples. And a list of what you’re going to sell, with prices. And a visual plan of your stall and an example of your packaging and presentation.’
Laura gulped. She had ideas, certainly, but they weren’t fully formed yet. She was going to have to recruit Jaz’s help again. But it was doable. ‘OK.’
‘And presumably you have your hygiene certificates?’
‘Yes, I’ve got all of those.’ Luckily she had, from selling at the school.
‘I know it sounds strict but it’s why the market brings in so many customers. Because everything looks and tastes better here than it does in the supermarket or on the high street. We’re all about quality and individuality.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry. I’ll get off my soapbox. But we’re really passionate.’
‘I know. And that’s what I love about the market,’ said Laura. ‘I’d love to be part of it.’
Freya gave her a card and told her to call her later in the week to make an appointment.
‘It’s not just me you have to impress.’ She pointed over at the El Beano coffee stall. ‘It’s Herbie too. He’s the real stickler. He was the one who came to me with the idea for the market, when he bought a croissant off me once.’
Laura eyed him from afar. He was talking to a customer, and once again she was struck by how he stood out. ‘He looks like Poldark.’
Freya rolled her eyes. ‘It has been said,’ she grinned. ‘But don’t be fooled. He’s not just a pretty face. He won’t accept anything except the very best. He’s one of the reasons why this market is such a success.’
Laura looked over at Herbie again and put Freya’s card in her pocket.
‘I’ll call you,’ she said, and felt a tingle. It would be a challenge, but she was bloody well going to do it.
Tucked away in the corner of the square, in a crooked little building with wonky wooden floors and bow windows with glass so thick it distorted everything, was the Reprobate Bar. Laura wasn’t sure quite how she ended up standing outside at three o’clock in the afternoon, but it had a certain Alice in Wonderland allure. It drew you in when you least expected and made you do things you shouldn’t. Edmond had bought the building, with its renovated flat above, off Dom, who had free drinks for life as a consequence.
It had been one of Dom’s favourite projects, restoring the building and wondering what it might become, and they all agreed Edmond had been the perfect owner. That was one of the problems with walking around the city. Everywhere she looked there was a building Dom had worked on. She wasn’t allowed to escape him even if she wanted to.
She decided on impulse to go in for a drink. Edmond was probably in there, and she wanted to thank him again for being so encouraging about the Airbnb idea. At least, that was the excuse she gave herself. Secretly, she wanted to do something she would never normally do, to celebrate the new Laura. Laura the entrepreneur. Laura the jam queen.
Inside, the Reprobate was decorated like a Dickensian bordello crossed with an opium den. It had teal blue wallpaper covered in erotic drawings, wall lights in the shape of enormous clam shells, shelves stuffed with risqué vintage books and taxidermy: ravens and peacocks, and rats and kittens dressed up as pirates. The chairs were deep and squashy and covered in soft velvet, and the tabletops were foxed mirrors so everything was reflected back at you yet seemed slightly blurred – or was it the drink that made you feel like that? The Reprobate was naughty, fun and immensely popular, not least because of its list of potent and imaginatively named cocktails.
And there was Edmond, the eponymous reprobate, wearing his trademark velvet suit. Today’s was midnight blue, almost black. Edmond loved the latest luxuries and always introduced you to something that would make you swoon, a scent or a drink or a taste. Last time he had fed her salted caramel chocolates drenched with passion fruit. He was like a deadly cocktail of the Mad Hatter, Byron and Bowie – and just the person she needed to give her an excuse to behave completely out of chara
cter.
‘Laura!’ He smiled as he saw her and looked her up and down. ‘My God, I am loving the leather jacket and the red lipstick. You look positively Parisienne. What can I get you? I’m thinking Marmalade Martini. Something very pure but with a comforting kick – just a dollop of Frank Cooper.’
‘That sounds perfect. And very appropriate.’
‘How so?’ Edmond dodged behind the bar and pulled a frosted glass out of the fridge and a bottle of vodka from a bucket of ice, then set about making her Martini, mixing up the vodka, lemon juice, Cointreau and ice.
‘I’ve just pitched to sell my preserves at the market. I’ve got to jump through a few hoops but I’m really hoping they’ll have me.’
‘Well, they’d be mad not to.’ He looked up from his handiwork. ‘And how’s my Willow? I miss her terribly, so you must.’
He was so sweetly concerned, and quite genuine. He was a self-proclaimed sybarite, but he understood the importance of family.
‘Willow’s great. Really great. Every time I speak to her she’s off to another party or club. I’m not entirely sure she’s getting any work done.’
‘Isn’t that what the first year’s about?’
‘I suppose so. The main thing is I don’t think she’s had an asthma attack.’ Laura held up crossed fingers.
He added in a spoonful of marmalade, then held a match to a circle of orange zest, squeezing the burnt oil into the glass. Then he held the glass out to her.
‘Has something happened to you, Laura? You really are looking … I don’t know … a bit scary. In a good way. You’re not having an affair?’
She had to laugh at the irony. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Good. You’re my favourite couple. I couldn’t bear it.’
For a moment she was tempted to confide in him. She wanted sympathy and consolation, and there was something beguiling about Edmond: he would say the right thing and make her feel better about herself.
‘It’s the red lipstick,’ she told him, and went to get her purse out.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he said. ‘It’s on the house.’
He watched her as she sipped.
‘Laura,’ he said. ‘I’m not buying into your story. Dom’s been in here a few times. Drinking more than a happily married man should do on a week night.’
She coughed as she swallowed down a bit too much of her drink. ‘He works late and he likes to wind down.’
Edmond reached out and took her chin, turning her to face him. He stared at her.
‘If you want to talk, darling.’
She shook her head. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she lied. ‘And guess what? I’m going to be ready to rent those bedrooms out in a fortnight or so. So thank you for encouraging me.’
‘Neatly dodged,’ said Edmond, his eyes burning into her. ‘Do you know, Dom says exactly the same. Everything’s fine. But I don’t believe either of you.’
He leaned towards her and she looked into his grey eyes. They were caring and sincere.
‘Talk to me if you want to,’ he said. ‘I won’t judge. I can’t judge! I’m lots of things but I’m not a hypocrite.’
Laura took another sip of her Martini. It was dulling the edges of reality. Maybe if she had another, she could forget about everything altogether.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to concentrate on my business plans at the moment.’
Edmond’s eyes were shrewd but he didn’t press her. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But I’m here if you need me.’
Two Marmalade Martinis later, Laura wandered back out into the street in a slight blur. She was going to cut through a nearby square and walk up the back way, via the park, but then she remembered: that would take her past Kettle and Sons. She wanted no reminder of Antonia Briggs. So she went back the way she’d come.
Several shots of neat alcohol on an empty stomach made the journey back up the hill quite arduous. She felt a little unsettled by Edmond’s suspicions. If he had noticed, had other people? Probably not – most people in Bath were too wrapped up in their own stuff, and Edmond was particularly eagle-eyed about these things.
She tried to bat the conversation out of her mind and focus on her new projects. There was an awful lot to get done, she thought, recalling Freya’s brief. She wasn’t just playing shop. She’d need a business plan as well as everything else. She realised she had no idea about pricing. She couldn’t just pick an arbitrary amount to charge for a jar of jam. She had to work out her costs and her profit margins.
She had a mental image of Dom surrounded by quotes and bills and estimates, working out his next building project. He did that kind of thing all the time. He’d be able to help her. He’d know about other things too. Insurance. She’d need insurance.
And reassurance. Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted Dom’s encouragement. She could imagine his voice. ‘Darling, you’ll be brilliant. They’ll be queueing round the block.’
But Dom wasn’t here and she couldn’t call him.
Oh God. What was she letting herself in for?
19
Kanga pulled up to the care home in Frilmington with a heavy heart. Not just because she suspected that she wasn’t going to like what she found, but because she had no idea of what to do if that was the case. It was a difficult situation, and delicate. And Beverley, she knew from Ivy, could be tricky when faced with a reality she didn’t care for. She was going to have to be firm with her from the start. Beverley was not a coper. She was a panicker.
Beverley was waiting for her in the entrance hall. The home had been converted from a sprawling Victorian house with a sweeping staircase and high ceilings.
‘It’s nice and airy,’ said Beverley doubtfully.
‘Draughty,’ said Kanga. ‘Imagine it once it gets colder. We haven’t had a cold snap yet.’
She wasn’t fooled by the grandeur of the entrance. She could see out-of-date posters on the wall and dust on the skirting boards.
‘I’ll get someone to show you round,’ said the receptionist. ‘But it’s a busy time for us.’
‘We do have an appointment,’ Kanga pointed out. ‘We were hoping to see the manageress.’
‘She’s with the governors today.’
Kanga frowned, unimpressed.
They waited fifteen minutes before someone got hold of a care assistant. She was extremely young; still in her teens, plump and bespectacled. Her name badge announced her as Lia.
‘Have you worked here long?’ asked Kanga as she led them down a long corridor.
‘Three months, since I left school,’ said Lia.
‘And do you like it?’
Lia looked at her in astonishment. Then realised that she probably wasn’t supposed to tell the truth. ‘Yes,’ she said, not very convincingly. ‘I love old people.’
‘How would you feel if your granny was to move in here?’
‘You can’t ask her that,’ said Beverley.
‘Why not? It’s a fair question.’
Lia shrugged. ‘I dunno,’ she said cheerfully. ‘My gran’s dead.’
Ivy and Beverley exchanged glances. Piped music blared out, as if the notes could cover up the fact that the carpet was rather worn and the paintwork grubby. Occasionally they passed an open door, but there was no time to look inside properly.
‘I’ll take you to look at Mrs Graham’s room,’ said Lia. ‘It’s the same as the one you’d be having.’
‘This isn’t for me,’ said Kanga. ‘It’s for my friend. Ivy.’
‘My mum,’ said Beverley, but Lia didn’t seem to care who it was for. She tapped on a door and opened it.
‘All right, Mrs Graham?’ Lia sang out. ‘Got some visitors to have a look at your room.’
Mrs Graham’s room was tiny, with only just room for a single bed. Mrs Graham gazed at them blankly from under her duvet, her hands gripping the edges. There was hardly any space for the visitor’s chair. Next to that was a sink with a lone toothbrush sticking up out of a glas
s. The carpet was corded and grey and needed hoovering. There were no pictures on the wall, and no sign of Mrs Graham’s personal possessions.
‘Doesn’t she have any things?’ asked Kanga, sotto voce.
‘She doesn’t like clutter,’ said Lia. ‘Do you, Mrs G?’
There was no response.
On Mrs Graham’s bedside table was her lunch, on an institutional green plate. Two slices of processed meat, pinky beige, impossible to tell what it was. And a dollop of baked beans roughly the same colour, clumped like baby mice in a dried-up orange sauce. No vegetables. No potatoes. No greens. Next to it was a bowl with a splat of wrinkled custard covering a square of sponge.
‘Isn’t someone going to feed her?’
‘I’ve got twelve patients and there’s only me. Sorry – guests. We’re not supposed to call them patients. I’ll be back along to feed her in a minute.’
‘What do you usually serve for breakfast?’
‘She has Rice Krispies. Don’t you, love? Or there’s toast.’
‘And supper?’
‘Bread and jam and cake for tea. Then soup and sandwiches for dinner. They have their main meal at lunch.’
‘There seems to be a lot of bread.’
‘Well, it’s easy, isn’t it? Fills them up.’
‘Thank you, Lia. We’ll leave Mrs Graham in peace. I think you should give her her lunch.’
‘Don’t you want to see the lounge? There’s entertainment in the afternoons. Music, dancing, cards, crafts …’
‘I think we’re fine,’ said Kanga. ‘Unless …?’
She looked at Beverley.
Beverley shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I think I’ve seen enough.’
Afterwards, the two of them stood next to their cars, which were parked together in the car park.
‘Well, Mum can’t go there. And that’s that,’ said Beverley.
‘I’m so glad you think so.’ Kanga looked relieved.
Beverley looked surprised that Kanga might have thought she would think otherwise.
A Family Recipe Page 18
