‘Hey,’ said the bread girl. ‘I should display some of your jars on my stall. They’re so cute. Let’s talk later.’
‘Great!’ Laura felt the warm glow of belonging.
Even if she said it herself, her jars did look wonderful, neatly arranged in serried ranks. The labels had arrived just in time. They were the colour of old-fashioned brown paper, A Family Recipe written at the top, then the individual flavours written in a retro typewriter font, and underneath, slightly offset, a perfect circle cut out to show the product inside.
She laid out some square plates with tasting samples, and had bought a box of disposable wooden spoons. She had a bag of change and some brown paper bags with strong handles in case anyone bought more than one jar.
It was half past eight. Time for the market to open. Customers were already arriving, the hardcore market aficionados who wanted the best choice. There was nothing worse than arriving to find your favourite raspberry friands had sold out.
It was hard work. The cobbles under foot were freezing and Laura made a note to wear thermal socks next time, and maybe even fingerless gloves. Her voice was hoarse from talking. People loved to ask questions about the food they were buying: how it was made, the story behind it. They seemed to love knowing that the plum cheese came from plums in her garden. They even asked her for advice on making their own jam and she wondered if maybe she should provide recipes – it probably wouldn’t stop people from buying from her, but it might just inspire them, and it was all about developing a relationship.
And she sent people to other stalls to buy things to go with her range.
‘This raspberry jam would be perfect on a piece of soda bread.’
‘This relish would go with a chunk of Comté. Or a wedge of Somerset brie.’
‘Try making a Marmalade Martini,’ she even urged one customer, who seemed delighted with the idea.
By two o’clock she had very nearly sold out. She couldn’t believe it.
Bloody hell, thought Dom, standing stock-still in the cold autumn air. He was at the end of one of the little streets that led into Lulgate Square.
He’d been up since six, working at the house, and because it was Saturday and there were no workmen he could actually think. He had gone through the house carefully from top to bottom, making notes on what had been done and what needed to be done. He did this every week, a kind of stocktaking, because it was the only way to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Then he would go back upstairs and put everything into a spreadsheet.
Although it was taking shape, and was a million miles from the dilapidated, crumbling wreck he had purchased, it had a long way to go before people were going to be convinced that Wellington Buildings was the address in Bath. It was a masterpiece in co-ordination, like bringing all the members of an orchestra together for a crashing finale.
It was crucial for the agents to be on board and get the apartments to market in the New Year. There were windows of opportunity in marketing property, and he couldn’t afford to miss this one. That wasn’t an option. The bank had made that very clear.
His snag list today had taken all morning. He was starting to look ahead to the finishing touches, because if he didn’t get them ordered they would get caught up in the craziness of Christmas and wouldn’t arrive in time. And he needed to schedule them in. Things had to be done in the right order. You couldn’t put a new knocker on a front door that hadn’t been painted.
And even the bloody front door had its own to-do list: apart from the new knocker, it needed three new doorbells wired in and the brass plates over the doorbells put up; a period-appropriate boot-scraper needed to be sourced; two trees chosen to go either side of the door in big lead planters – olive or bay? So many decisions …
How the hell was he supposed to do all of this on his own? Never again, he vowed. It was too much for one person. He had to make all the decisions and had no one to delegate to. Not even to go and buy light bulbs. His light-bulb list was enormous. Different watts, different shapes, different sizes, different colours …
By lunchtime he realised he hadn’t eaten anything since a lukewarm pasty the day before. He needed some fresh air, to clear his head, so he’d decided to walk to Lulgate Market and treat himself to a decent coffee and something delicious from one of the stalls.
He knew Laura would be there. She wouldn’t talk to him, but he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life pussyfooting around Bath trying to avoid her. She wasn’t being fair. He wasn’t going to pretend not to exist. As he headed for the market, he felt bullish. He had every right to be there, didn’t he?
But as soon as he saw her there, behind her stall, confident, laughing, interacting with customers, doing something he hadn’t been party to – it took his breath away. His heart was actually aching, he realised. He felt pain, a heavy pain, right in the middle of his chest.
He wanted to be there, next to her, supporting her. There was a big queue, and she could have done with help, he could see that. He should be by her side, his beautiful wife. He knew how passionate she would be about what she had made, how people would be hanging on her every word.
He should walk over and say hello. Congratulate her. Give her a hug. Why shouldn’t he? If she was feeling confident and uplifted, she might look kindly on him. Perhaps they could have a truce. Maybe he could ask her for a drink later. Or even dinner.
He was about to step into the square when he saw a man come over to her, dark and devilish, and the two of them laughed, and the man gave her a hug, and the pain in his chest turned into something sharper, like a serrated knife slipped in between his ribs. He could barely breathe.
Oh Laura, he thought. What have I done to you? What have I done to us?
32
Laura was as high as a kite when she got back home from the market. She was exhausted, but she was too full of excitement and adrenaline to care.
‘I can lay you a place in the dining room for supper,’ she told Gino. ‘Or you can eat in the kitchen with me and my friend Sadie. We won’t bite.’
Gino laughed. He was reeling from a day spent with his daughter, being dragged around the shops. ‘I’d love to eat with you. I’ll walk down to the off-licence and buy a nice bottle of wine.’
Laura made a face. ‘That would be lovely. But I’ll feel awful charging you for supper. It doesn’t feel right.’
‘No. It’s great. I get it. It’s your business. It’s a bonus, to be made to feel part of the household. Don’t make the mistake of treating your guests as friends. You’ll never make a profit.’
‘It’s a new venture for me. I’m just getting used to it.’ She grinned. ‘And I’m sure I’ll have guests that I don’t want to welcome into the kitchen.’
‘Oh God, probably.’
When he got back from the off-licence, he presented Laura with a chilled bottle of Pouilly-Fumé. Laura passed him the corkscrew.
‘Open the wine and I’ll get cooking. Sadie will be here in a minute.’
Sadie arrived, super-glamorous in a black satin shirt, skinny faded jeans and silver Chelsea boots, clutching another bottle. She swooped in on Gino.
‘Hi, hi, hi, everyone. Hello. You must be Laura’s first guest. What an honour. For her, not you, I mean.’ She laughed. She was nervous, thought Laura. Sadie was never nervous.
‘Oh no – the honour’s all mine. You must be Sadie. I’m Gino.’
Sadie started singing the Dexy’s Midnight Runners hit, then stopped, blushing. ‘God, sorry. I bet everyone does that.’
‘No,’ said Gino, deadpan. Then he laughed. ‘Yes.’
Laura swore afterwards that she could see the zap of electricity that passed between them, a palpable current of pleasure and recognition, almost a white light connecting them. She smiled to herself. She’d been right. They were perfect for each other.
She let them sit at the table talking while she cooked: big fat duck breasts that she pan-fried, a compote made from the last of the plums, little squares of sautéed p
otato and a big pan of spinach.
Once they’d finished their supper and the second bottle of wine, Sadie looked at her watch and gave a mischievous smile. ‘Let’s go to the Reprobate Bar.’
‘But it’s gone ten o’clock,’ Laura protested.
‘That’s the perfect time to go. I’ll get Edmond to save us a table.’
‘What’s the Reprobate Bar?’ Gino was laughing, swept up by Sadie’s enthusiasm.
‘It’s the coolest bar in Bath. They serve absolutely wicked cocktails. You’ll love it.’
‘I’m guessing I don’t have a choice?’
Sadie shook her head with a grin.
‘Not really. Laura, I’ll call Edmond; you call a cab.’
Gino was staring at Sadie in bemused admiration. Laura could tell he was already smitten.
‘Are you sure I’m not going to be a gooseberry?’ she whispered to Sadie as Gino went to the cloakroom before they left.
‘No. You’re coming with us. You need to let your hair down and celebrate your sales.’
‘My profit will be gone after just two cocktails at the Reprobate.’
‘This is only the beginning, darling. You are going to be on every table in the country. Trust me.’
Sadie’s eyes were glittering. There was no stopping her when she was on a high. God help Gino, thought Laura, then thought – no, he’s going to love it. He could totally handle Sadie.
He shouldn’t have started on the Scotch. He knew it was going to make him feel terrible. He’d bought it because it was so bloody cold in Wellington Buildings and he put a nip in his coffee just before bedtime. But once Dom had started on it, he couldn’t stop.
And three shots in, he suddenly felt the need to call Antonia. For reassurance. As ever. She always gave him reassurance when he needed it, so why not now, when he felt utterly wretched about the mess he’d made of his life?
It hadn’t given him the nerve to call Laura, although that’s what he’d wanted it to do.
Antonia would do instead. He fumbled for his phone, then felt his chest tighten again. It had been doing that on and off all evening. He thought it was the bloody awful takeaway he’d had on the way back from the market. He hadn’t had the nerve to go and browse the stalls, so he’d wolfed down a saveloy from the chippy instead.
He lay down on the blow-up bed and pressed Antonia’s number. Ouch. He knew saveloys were made of all sorts of awful things but he wasn’t sure he deserved this amount of pain for resorting to junk food for once in his life …
The Reprobate was heaving by the time they got there. It catered for an older, more sophisticated crowd than some of the bars in town, so it was full of Bath’s movers and shakers, glamorous and beautiful and out for a good time. Sadie pushed her way through the crowds towards the bar with Laura and Gino behind her. She waved furiously at Edmond, who beckoned them over to a table for four right in the corner. Laura could see people looking at them, wondering what made them so special: tables were at a premium.
They settled into the crushed-velvet banquettes. Edmond sent them over Violet Femmes, with gin and egg white and crème de violette.
‘Maybe I could get used to this single life after all,’ said Gino, raising his glass to the two of them. ‘It’s been a rough few months.’
‘Don’t look back,’ said Sadie, chinking her glass to his.
Laura bit her lip before taking a cautious sip of her drink. This was kind of crazy fun. She hadn’t been out like this for years. Sometimes at Christmas she and Dom came into town, but they usually hung out at home. It felt weird. But it felt good too, she told herself. She wasn’t too old for a night out on the town with the beautiful people.
After two cocktails, Laura’s head was spinning a little. She thought she’d go to the loo and step outside for some fresh air. As she pushed her way through the crowds, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She gave a little shiver as its warmth rippled through her. She turned.
‘Hey.’
He was leaning against the wall, holding a glass with a dark amber liquid swirling in the bottom.
‘Herbie!’ She felt a rush of pleasure.
‘Do you come here often? This den of iniquity?’
‘Not very often.’
‘Have you got a drink?’
‘Yes. But thanks. I’m at a table over there.’ She grimaced. ‘I feel like a bit of a gooseberry, to be honest. I think my friend’s hitting on my B & B guest. Though it is my fault. I pretty much set them up.’
They looked over at Sadie and Gino, who were locked in conversation, oblivious to anyone around them.
‘Well, talk to me, then,’ said Herbie, and hooked an arm round her shoulder, pulling her in towards the wall.
Laura swallowed. She wasn’t used to this level of intimacy. Herbie felt warm and smelled gorgeous. She knew she was drunk and she was pretty sure he was too. She leaned into him.
‘What are you drinking?’ she asked.
‘A Sazerac.’ He held the glass to her lips and made her drink. It burned her throat.
‘Oh my God,’ she spluttered. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Rye whisky, bitters, absinthe. And now you’ve drunk it, it will make you do terrible things you shouldn’t.’
He was looking at her mock-seriously. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Somewhere, deep inside her, a pulse began.
‘Like what?’ she asked. She was asking for trouble. He was trouble. The crowds were pushing them closer together. Her chest was against his. She could almost feel his heartbeat through his shirt. She smelled coffee and burnt orange again, and the tang of his sweat. He leaned in closer and she put her head up. Their mouths were almost touching. Just two millimetres and she would be able to taste the remnants of the Sazerac on his lips.
She looked over her shoulder as he whispered in her ear.
‘Come home with me.’
A thrill bubbled up inside her as she laughed. ‘I bet you say that to all the stallholders.’
‘No.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got a paying guest.’
‘Give him a key.’
‘He’s a stranger.’
‘Let me come back with you, then.’
She felt something dangerous unspool inside her and stepped away from him.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a respectable pillar of Bath society.’ She put on her best Jane Austen air, but she was smiling, unable to tear her gaze away.
‘No, you’re not.’
He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. His eyes were teasing. She swallowed. She looked across the room to Sadie and Gino and as she did she caught Edmond’s eye. He was looking at her, his eyebrow raised. Was his disapproval directed at her? She gathered her thoughts for a moment, trying to grip on to reason through the blur of wine and cocktails.
What the hell was she doing? She was mad, flirting with Herbie in public. It might be irresistible right now, this second, but she was still married to Dom. She felt a tug inside her. Despite the intoxicating pull, what she really wanted was to feel safe. Not out of control. Her head was spinning; her conscience was needling her. Maybe she should leave the bar and walk home, before she got herself into big trouble.
She felt her phone ring in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was Dom. She smiled. Maybe he knew she was in trouble. Maybe he would rescue her. If he was at Wellington Buildings he was only a few minutes’ walk away. Maybe it was time for them to talk.
She answered the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Antonia.’
She could hardly hear. ‘What?’ She pushed her way through the crowds to go outside.
‘Antonia. I’m on Dom’s phone. I think he’s had a heart attack.’
Laura could barely make out what she was saying. Had she heard right? She pushed the door open and stepped out into the square. ‘He’s what?’
‘He’s had a heart attack. He called me about fifteen minutes ago because he felt ill. I called an ambulance. I’m going to follow him
to the hospital.’
‘Oh my God!’ Terror gripped Laura. ‘Is he … is he OK? Is he …?’
‘I don’t know. The paramedics were working on him.’ Antonia sounded tearful.
‘Shit. I can’t drive. I’m way over the limit. And I’ll never get a cab.’ Laura put her hand to her head, looking wildly around for help.
‘Where are you? I can come and get you.’
‘Would you really? I’m at the Reprobate. Lulgate Square.’
‘I’m five minutes away. Wait for me outside.’
Laura’s own heart was pounding as she tried to make sense of what Antonia had told her. A terrible sick fear flooded through her. For a moment, she thought she might puke on the pavement as adrenaline swirled with the cocktails. She tried to go back over what Antonia had said. What did she mean? Did she mean Dom was dead? That the paramedics were resuscitating him? She couldn’t call her back. She’d be driving. Oh God. If he died, what then? He would die thinking she’d hadn’t forgiven him. Thinking she hated him. She had to get to him.
She pushed open the door of the bar, tears blinding her, elbowing people out of her way, stumbling through the crowds until she reached Sadie and Gino. They looked up.
‘We thought you’d pulled,’ Sadie began to say, then saw Laura’s face. She stood up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Dom. He’s had a heart attack. Antonia’s just called me.’
Gino stood up too. He put his arm round Laura and moved her through the crowds until they got outside.
‘OK, now what do you want us to do?’ He was very calm and kind.
‘Antonia’s coming to get me. We’re going to the hospital.’
‘Do you want us to come with you?’
‘No. I’ll go with Antonia.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ Sadie frowned.
‘It’s fine.’ It was odd. Somehow Antonia felt like the person who should be in charge.
‘We’ll go back to Number 11 and wait to hear from you,’ Sadie told her, and hugged her tight.
Laura felt strangely disconnected from the situation. She had thought the worst had happened. But this was far worse. The thought of losing Dom altogether was terrifying. She gave a choked sob. It was her fault, for being so bloody stubborn. She should have talked to him when he came home, when the girls were back.
A Family Recipe Page 27
