A Family Recipe

by Veronica Henry

  ‘You have my word.’

  No one looking at Antonia would have realised anything was wrong. After her meeting with James she glided around the office with the most serene of smiles. Anyone might think she had been offered a partnership.

  At lunchtime, her smile disappeared, she slipped on her trainers, bolted out of the door and walked as quickly as she could to Wellington Buildings. She pushed open the door, walking past an electrician up a ladder rewiring the light fittings in the hall, a glazier putting a fresh pane of glass in a window frame, two chippies cutting out a template for a kitchen work surface. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust – brick dust, wood dust, plaster dust. There were three different radio stations blaring, workmen arguing, bantering, whistling. There were flasks of coffee, cans of Coke, Tupperware boxes of sandwiches, bags of crisps perched around the building. It was supposed to be no smoking but she could smell roll-ups and at one point something more suspicious, but she had learned intervention was pointless. You had to let them get on with whatever they wanted to do if you wanted the job done. It was chaos.

  She ran up three flights of stairs until she found Dom. He looked up, startled, as Antonia bore down on him, only pausing for a moment to ascertain no one could overhear. She was a familiar-enough face on the site, but she was fairly certain no one was suspicious. After all, she didn’t look like anyone’s mistress.

  ‘Someone has told someone at Kettle and Sons that we’re having an affair,’ she hissed. ‘I’m not losing my job over this. That would not be fair.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘James Kettle just accused me of knocking off one of my clients. He didn’t name you but who else would it be?’

  ‘Shit. I’m sorry. Did he haul you over the coals?’

  ‘He was not happy. Was it your wife?’ Her tone was hectoring. She hated how she sounded. ‘Was it Laura who told him?’

  Dom frowned.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. It’s not Laura’s style at all. It’s really not.’ That he was certain of. Laura wasn’t a sneak.

  ‘Then someone’s been spying on us. Someone’s been watching my flat.’

  ‘Who, for heaven’s sake? This is Bath. Not Cold War Berlin.’

  Antonia walked over to the window. As always, the view took her breath away, the orange leaves, half still on the trees, half on the ground, adding a layer of bright colour to the landscape.

  ‘I can’t deal with you any more,’ she said. ‘The contracts, I mean. I’m going to have to hand them over to someone else.’

  Fear flittered across Dom’s face.

  ‘No. You mustn’t lose your nerve, Antonia. I need you on the job. I don’t trust anyone else.’

  ‘But this is compromising me.’ She felt near to tears suddenly. She had tried so hard to limit the damage on this. She had been the least needy mistress on the planet.

  ‘If you give the files to someone else, it makes you look guilty.’

  ‘I can easily hand them over. I do it all the time. I always shove stuff I don’t want to do onto my juniors.’

  ‘Don’t give this to a junior!’ Dom felt rising panic.

  ‘I can still oversee it.’

  ‘Just another few weeks and I can get the agents round and get these on the market. Once they’re sold you can close the files and you need never see, hear or speak to me again.’

  Antonia looked doubtful.

  ‘You’ll be lucky if they get snapped up straight away. If you don’t get the prices right it could be weeks. Months.’

  ‘I know. You don’t have to tell me.’ He ran his hands through his hair. She swore there was grey in it that there hadn’t been a week ago. ‘Antonia. I need you.’

  ‘If I lose my job …’

  ‘You won’t lose your job. No one can prove anything.’

  ‘Laura might.’

  ‘She won’t. I give you my word.’ He’d have to phone her. Beg her. Explain the implications. Because if the sales didn’t go through smoothly, Laura was going to lose everything she loved as well. ‘Our home is at stake. You know that.’

  He couldn’t think about it. It had seemed logical and sensible at the time, to use Number 11 to raise the money. Now it seemed rash and foolhardy. What the hell had he been thinking?

  ‘And that’s more important than my job, is it?’

  Dom tried to steady his breathing. He could feel panic rise up, just like the panic Laura had described to him on so many occasions. It was awful.

  ‘It’s not in her interests for you to be fired. Just keep your head and hold your nerve. It will all be fine.’

  He could feel his heart pounding from the pressure. He had to get this house finished so it looked perfect: three aspirational apartments that combined Georgian splendour with twenty-first-century luxury. Right now, it looked like a bombsite.

  He was never going to do it. It just wasn’t possible.

  28

  Laura had done six different samples for the market to try: the original plum cheese that had been the inspiration; bramble jelly, from the tangle of berries at the bottom of the garden; black butter, a delicious dark concoction made from apples and cider and black treacle; and hot and sweet chilli jam, using the last of the tomatoes. Then two marmalades: grapefruit and Campari, which gave a delicious bitter edge to your morning toast, and endlessly useful caramelised onion – Laura lobbed a spoonful of the last into almost everything savoury to give it a kick.

  She included a list of more adventurous and unusual recipes, as well as some suggestions for Christmas. It was the beginning of November so it was only round the corner. Strawberry jam with golden glitter. Mincemeat drenched with Cointreau. Port and cranberry relish – you could put a spoonful of that in gravy or in with your slow-cooked red cabbage …

  She’d lined a wooden crate with dark-purple tissue paper. Nestled inside were half a dozen jars and a folder full of drawings showing the artwork she was going to use if she got the go-ahead. Again with help from Jaz over FaceTime, she’d scanned the logo from the recipe box, and she’d mocked up some labels that perfectly captured vintage nostalgia and modern graphic design. If they said yes, she could order the labels over the Internet and they would be there in three days, ready to stick on the jars.

  As well as that, the rooms were now up on the website and live on Airbnb. It was just a question of waiting for the first booking. If it all took off, she wondered if she was going to manage. If she had the market on a Saturday and guests arriving, how would she juggle that? For a moment she felt daunted, then told herself she’d have to get help. It was all possible, but she had to take it one step at a time. She hadn’t got a booking or the market stall yet.

  Her phone started ringing just as she was about to pick up the box and leave. It was Dom. She ignored it. Eventually the ringing stopped but the phone rang again straight away. She frowned. Which part of her not wanting to talk to him did Dom not understand? She pressed ‘decline’ and picked up the box, but it rang again. She sighed. She supposed she should answer it. It was irresponsible not to. It might be important.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Did you tell James Kettle about me and Antonia?’ Dom blurted out.

  ‘What? No!’ Laura almost laughed. ‘I told you. I don’t want anyone knowing. We’re supposed to be keeping it a secret, remember? So the girls don’t find out.’

  ‘Yes. I know. I just thought maybe …’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Laura tucked the phone under her ear as she looked for her car keys. ‘Unless I was about to undertake divorce proceedings, I suppose. Then I might tell him.’

  ‘You’re not, are you?’ Dom’s voice was shaky.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, someone’s told him. He called Antonia into his office.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll keep it to himself. It’s his job to be discreet.’

  ‘She might lose her job because of it.’

  ‘My heart bleed
s.’ Was he honestly expecting her to give a damn?

  ‘Not that we’re in touch any more,’ Dom added hastily. ‘She messaged me to ask if I knew who it was.’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re in touch or not.’ She tried to keep any trace of emotion out of her voice. But it was hard.

  ‘Laura, can’t we talk? Please? I miss you and I want to explain and see if we can—’

  ‘I haven’t got time. Sorry.’

  She rang off. She stood in the middle of the kitchen. Hearing Dom’s voice unsettled her. It was so familiar. It was part of her. The voice she had listened to for more than twenty years. He was still her husband. Her Dom. And she could tell both Kanga and Sadie thought it was time to take action.

  But she couldn’t get past what he had done. She couldn’t face hearing about it. Just him mentioning Antonia made her nauseous. He was obviously still protective of her. She was his primary concern, clearly. He was only worried Antonia would lose her job.

  She felt shaken. This was not what she needed today. She needed to feel confident when she went to see Freya and Herbie. She needed to be knowledgeable and enthusiastic about her product and persuade them she was worthy of a stall at the market. Instead she felt vulnerable and wobbly and on the verge of tears.

  She flumped down into a chair and put her head in her hands. She couldn’t do it. Who was she trying to kid, that she was some sort of kitchen-table entrepreneur who was going to make her fortune out of jams and pickles? Prove to the world that although she had done bugger all for the best part of twenty years, she was a formidable businesswoman? Yes, she could slop a few old tomatoes into a saucepan and make a nice chutney. But anyone could. She was nothing special.

  She wouldn’t bother. She’d phone Freya and tell her she’d changed her mind. She’d stick all the jars on a shelf in the larder. They wouldn’t go to waste.

  Then she looked up and saw her grandmother’s recipe box, sitting on the dresser. She thought about the Blitz and everything Kanga had been through. Losing her parents. Looking after that family. Her friendship with Ivy that had kept her going all through the war. Kanga hadn’t ever given up. She’d faced up to all the hardship and forged ahead. And still had the grace to face heartbreak with dignity. Kanga was never self-pitying. Kanga never gave up.

  She was pathetic, thought Laura. Falling apart just because a phone call had rattled her. Where was her bloody Blitz spirit? She wanted to do this. She wanted a stall at the market, to be part of that vibrant and exciting food scene. To share what she had made with people. To imagine her little jars of goodness winging their way into people’s pantries and onto their tables. Putting her jam on their crumpets, her chutney on their cheese toasties, her relish in their sandwiches.

  She picked up the box, threw back her shoulders and swept out of the front door without a second thought.

  29

  ‘We’re not going to bite,’ laughed Freya. ‘Don’t look so terrified.’

  The preserve-tasting was held in the back office of a café in Lulgate Square. Freya supplied them with pastries and Herbie supplied their coffee, and the café saw the market as something that would enhance their reputation and get them new customers, so they supported the enterprise and provided the office free of charge whenever Freya and Herbie needed it.

  Freya had lined up a row of saucers with a blob of each of Laura’s preserves and two spoons.

  ‘I don’t know where Herbie is,’ she frowned. ‘I told him three, but he’s a bit of a law unto himself.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up,’ said Laura. She was surprised how nervous she was. This really mattered to her. She eyed the saucers critically – did everything look as inviting and delicious as it could? She thought so. All the preserves had kept their colour and were a good texture. It was so easy to overcook things or for them to be too runny … She tried to snap her attention back to what Freya was saying.

  ‘There’s only one more stall available now – we are nearly at capacity. There are a couple of other people who’ve applied, so we won’t be able to let you know straight away.’

  ‘Oh.’ Laura felt increasingly nervous now she knew she had competition. And that made her want the stall even more.

  Suddenly the door burst open and Herbie appeared. Up close Laura was all the more aware how attractive he was, with a kind of wild-boy dishevelment to him; more Che Guevara than Poldark, perhaps. He looked as if he’d been up all night, with his dark hair all over the place and a fair bit of stubble. He smelled of bitter coffee and burnt oranges.

  ‘I’m really sorry. I put some beans on to roast at lunchtime and I couldn’t leave them. The roaster is like something out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and I don’t trust it not to burst into flames the minute I turn my back. Hi. You must be …’ He pointed at her, trying to remember. ‘Either the dried fruit lady or the jam lady. You’re definitely not the oyster man.’

  ‘I’m the jam lady,’ Laura smiled, utterly beguiled. ‘Otherwise known as Laura.’

  ‘You’re late, Herbie,’ Freya chided him.

  ‘I’m always late. We know this. I’m glad you’re jam, Laura. I’m a sucker for a good marmalade.’

  ‘Well, it goes well with coffee, I suppose,’ said Laura, realising she was simpering and hating herself for it.

  ‘Yes. We’re very symbiotic.’

  The thought of being symbiotic with Herbie made her blush.

  ‘Shall we start?’ asked Freya, used to the effect Herbie had on even perfectly sensible women.

  Herbie grabbed a spoon and looked at the six saucers.

  ‘So what have we got?’

  Laura tried not to stammer as she ran through her selection. She felt as if she was on a television show, being judged in front of millions of viewers, as Freya and Herbie tried each sample and asked her questions. It was worse than an exam. Far worse, because she never remembered caring about exams and this mattered to her very, very much.

  ‘Wow. The Campari is perfect in the marmalade.’ Herbie wagged his spoon at it. ‘What a stroke of genius. You can get drunk at breakfast without anyone knowing. Stealth boozing. I love it.’

  ‘I’m afraid the alcohol cooks off during the process,’ laughed Laura. ‘So it won’t get you drunk.’

  ‘The membrillo is delicious,’ said Freya, giving the pronunciation a very Spanish flourish. ‘I’m definitely taking some of that home.’

  ‘Actually, I call it plum cheese. Strictly speaking, membrillo is made from quince.’

  ‘Well, it’s all bloody delicious.’ Herbie chucked down his spoon. ‘Laura’s in as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘We can’t say that,’ panicked Freya. ‘We haven’t seen the other candidates yet.’

  ‘I don’t think prunes and sultanas are going to do it for me. And I think Laura will go down a storm. Her stuff complements so many of the other stalls. You need jam with bread, pickle with cheese, relish with sausages …’ He spread his hands. ‘It’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I agree, but it’s a bit naughty when we haven’t seen the others.’

  ‘Just let me know,’ said Laura. ‘Honestly. I can wait until you’ve seen them.’

  ‘There’s no reason why we should. It’s up to us to decide who we have.’ Herbie was trenchant. ‘I think you should start straight away.’

  ‘Herbie, you are a nightmare.’ Freya turned to Laura. ‘I’m so sorry, this is really embarrassing. The market’s not really run like this. We’re very professional.’

  ‘This is professional. It’s saving us from having to chomp through bits of rubbery old dried fruit. This is a great product with great packaging.’ Herbie looked at Laura’s artwork. ‘It’s totally what we are all about. I’m in, as they say.’

  Freya held up her hands. ‘Well, I can’t say no, then, can I? You’re a monkey, Herbie. Luckily, I happen to agree with you.’ She turned to Laura. ‘Can you start as soon as possible? Say next Saturday? There’s loads of paperwork, I’m afraid. And you’ll need public liabilit
y insurance. I’ll give you a welcome pack with all the bumph. It’ll make you lose the will to live but we have to follow the rules.’

  ‘So I’m in?’

  ‘Welcome to Lulgate Market, Laura,’ said Herbie cheerfully. ‘You’ll be part of the family in no time.’

  ‘Just call me if you’ve got any questions,’ said Freya.

  ‘Wow.’ Laura looked down at her jars, thrilled to bits. ‘I better start brushing up on my mental arithmetic. Thank you both so much. I’m really delighted.’

  Herbie looked at his watch. ‘It’s a bit early, but we could go for a drink to celebrate. The Reprobate’s open.’

  ‘Count me out,’ said Freya, picking up her bag. ‘I’ve got yoga tonight. I need a clear head.’

  Herbie looked at Laura, raising one eyebrow in question. She felt her pulse quicken. Something inside her longed to go for a drink with him. It would be lovely to have a celebratory glass; to feel that reckless warmth that afternoon drinking always gave you. But Edmond would be in there, and what would he think if he saw her with Herbie? They could explain they were celebrating her joining the market, but she knew she would look guilty. What she was thinking deep down inside would be written all over her face and Edmond would know – he was terrifyingly perceptive.

  ‘I better not,’ she said. ‘I need to get back.’

  She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. There was nothing and no one to get back for. But she had a feeling Herbie might lead her astray and would add yet another ingredient to the slightly toxic cocktail of emotions she was already feeling.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought you were going to be fun.’

  ‘I am fun,’ protested Laura. ‘Just … not today.’

  She picked up her box and walked away, feeling slightly regretful but nonetheless certain she had made the right decision turning him down. She’d have to make do with a few more episodes of Suits on Netflix for her thrills.

  30

  The house was quiet and dark when Laura got home. She felt a curious mixture of elated and deflated. Elated because she was thrilled to be starting the market next week, right in at the deep end, just as everyone was beginning to gear up for Christmas.