by Prue Leith
Orlando then picked up his copy of Peasant Soups and held the cover squarely to the camera. He said, still in his trademark gushy voice, but mercifully less exaggerated now, ‘One of the reasons we have Lucy here today is because you just have to know about her new book. It is sensational! Truly sensational. We will be sampling recipes from Peasant Soups later in the show, and also talking to Lucy about all sorts of stuff. She knows everything! Can’t wait. But wait we must, because first …’
And off they went into the first item, with a clip of very young children making pizza.
And then the three winners of the Under-Six Nationwide Pizza Competition, two middle-class little girls and a black lad from Hackney brought their offerings over to Lucy, shepherded by Orlando. They put the pizzas down on the coffee table, and Orlando, kneeling on the carpet in order to get his face level with theirs, talked to them. Two of them, the boy and one of the girls, were completely unfazed by the cameras and entourage, and were desperate to tell him about their creations. But one of the girls, a tiny little blonde thing of about four, was struck dumb. Orlando did not press her, but instead elicited from the Hackney boy that his favourite food was pizza and he liked them best as his mum made them, with lots of chilli and garlic, and from the more talkative girl that everyone in her primary school was learning to cook and she could make corn muffins too. Then he tried again with the non-speaking child.
‘This looks go-o-od,’ he said, tipping the child’s pizza towards the camera. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m four.’ A just audible whisper.
‘And what is your name?’
‘Lucinda,’ said the little girl more confidently, glad to be asked a question she was used to answering.
‘No!’ said Orlando, affecting astonishment. ‘But that’s this lady’s real name too! How strange is that? But’ – he dropped his voice to a secret-imparting whisper – ‘everyone calls her Lucy.’
The child, her shyness forgotten, said solemnly, ‘I like Lucy best, but Mummy says I must be Lucinda.’
When asked why she liked cooking at school, she volunteered the information that she wanted to grow up and marry Jamie Oliver.
Orlando did not laugh. He bent closer and said, ‘Well, he’s got a rather good wife already, Lucy, so that might not be possible, but why do you like Jamie?’
‘Because he would let me cook. Mummy only lets me lay the table.’
Poor Mummy, thought Lucy. Presumably she’s in the wings somewhere, suffering agonies. But you had to hand it to Orlando – he was good at this.
They tasted the pizzas and dished out the prizes: trips for all three families to Naples, home of pizza, and a free meal at Pizza Express for their whole class at school.
Then there was an item about how disgraceful it was that cereal packs had so much air in them. Orlando asked Lucy’s opinion and she told him she didn’t mind being sold air since she could read the weight on the box, but she bought her cereal in packets from Whole Foods: that way you could see what you were getting and there was less packaging to stuff in the bin.
There was a lot more in the same vein, Orlando competently pushing everyone on without appearing to harry anyone and Lucy providing, she thought, boring, down-to earth, comments. They met a woman who bred pigeons on her roof in Huddersfield and sold them to butchers; a couple of young chefs doing gourmet dinner parties for media stars and hedge fund tycoons; the founders of a restaurant chain selling healthy food for children and making a success of it.
Lucy began to worry they’d have no time left to discuss her book. A chocolate maker was teaching Orlando to make chocolate holly leaves for Christmas. Orlando clowned about and made a mess of his, and let the chocolatier peel his real holly leaves from the painted-on chocolate, revealing perfect chocolate leaves complete with veins and scalloped edges.
Lucy was impressed. She knew Orlando could make chocolate leaves: any cook could. But he was playing the incompetent to provide glory for his guest. It was generous.
And then he was with her. He came and sat on the sofa next to her.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you, Lucy.’
Her heart sank. Her agent had agreed exactly how the slot was to be handled. There were to be no surprise questions and no cooking. He was to question her about her career, her book, Josh’s photographs, her new life in Cornwall, her views on pretty well anything to do with food and cooking. And they would taste some of the soups from the book.
The show was live. She could not object to anything now.
‘Don’t look so horrified,’ said Orlando, and produced a tattered old book, its spine exposed where the cloth cover had fallen off. Lucy recognised it at once and looked at Orlando in astonishment.
‘This is a copy of Simple Suppers – your first ever cookbook, Lucy, published in 1978 – and it belonged to my mother. She gave it to me when I was eight years old. It was the book she used to teach me to cook.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Lucy reached for the book, and turned its pages. They were dotted with stains, and had pencil jottings in the margins: ‘Very lemony. Wicked,’ in a childish hand next to Liquid Lemon Pudding, and calculations for double quantities in a grown-up one, next to the Meatballs in Tomato Sauce.
She said, ‘Only a thousand copies were printed and it wasn’t a huge success. I was completely unknown,’
‘It’s a collector’s item now, did you know?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘I saw a copy advertised for a hundred and sixty pounds recently.’
‘Quick, flog yours then!’ laughed Lucy, but Orlando replied seriously,
‘I’d never do that. It is still the book I use most at home, though I know the recipes off by heart now.’ Lucy noticed that he had dropped his exaggerated telly voice. ‘I think if my house was on fire, this is what I would save as I rushed for the door.’
The rest of the interview – and they had a full seven minutes, a lot for a magazine show – went really well. Orlando talked intelligently about Peasant Soups, gave her time to explain her passion for the origins of recipes rooted in the history and geography of a place and passed down and adapted by generations of women in the kitchen. She said she hoped that the book would be more than a useful tool for cooks but valuable as a historical document: food fashions spread so fast now she thought anyone might be making tomato soup with pesto, or ropa vieja (the Spanish chickpea soup called ‘old clothes’ because you put any scraps you liked into it) with no more idea of their origins than that they came off the internet.
Orlando teased her about using her boyfriend as her photographer, which gave Lucy the chance to protest that he was one of the best food photographers in the world. Orlando held Josh’s picture of French onion soup to the camera. Lucy looked at the monitor and thought that you could feel the heat and smell the melting cheese.
When the show was over, she said to Orlando, ‘That was great. Thank you, Orlando. You did my book proud.’
‘Only because it’s so good.’
He was unclipping his radio mike from his shirt while the soundman unhooked his battery pack, the floor manager patted him on the arm and said, ‘Nice one, Orlando,’ and half a dozen of the studio audience were crowding him for his autograph. He said over their heads to Lucy, ‘Have you got time for a quick one?’
When they were sitting at the bar, drinks in hand, Lucy said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about your mum and Simple Suppers when we were in Cornwall?’
‘I wanted to, but you were a tad unfriendly, and I thought you were so busy I shouldn’t bother you.’
‘Oh God,’ said Lucy, ‘that’s awful. I am so sorry, Orlando. I was a right cow.’
‘No you weren’t, not at all. You were just a bit stiff with me. I thought it was because I was flirting with your friend Rebecca.’
Lucy laughed. ‘No, I might have been cross with Rebecca about that – she is incorrigible. But certainly not with her victims – there are too many to be angry with!’
They discussed Rebecca’s expulsion from Paradise
and Lucy told him about the new plans for Pencarrick and Rebecca being back in the fold and doing a great job on the décor.
‘Would you come down again next summer?’ Lucy asked him.
Orlando said he’d be glad to. He enjoyed the hands-on cooking with the students, the atmosphere, loved the place. Maybe they could do an item on cooking schools on Orlando’s Glorious Food?
They discussed this for a while, then Orlando suddenly said, ‘Actually, I was mildly put out that you didn’t respond to my wow, amazing, what a teacher note. Did you read it?’
Lucy pulled a face. ‘Yes I did. I should have thanked you. I was pleased, and surprised, but the next morning half my students were on about how wonderful you were, and I reverted to my grumpy old woman persona.’
‘Is it because I got your job on the Globe, do you think?’
Lucy twirled her wine glass round and round by the stem, not looking at Orlando. ‘I guess so,’ she said at last, ‘only it wasn’t just that. It’s worse than that, and more unfair.’
‘I don’t think you could be unfair,’ he said, a little hesitantly.
‘Yes I could. You see, I came to think of you as a kind of embodiment of everything I really hate about the food world just now.’
Orlando was still smiling, but the eyes that met hers were anxious. ‘I didn’t know I was that important!’ he joked. ‘Tell me more.’
Lucy looked into his face. ‘Orlando, I simply misjudged you. Or rather judged you unfairly on no evidence. I’d hardly read anything you’d written …’
‘I’m a rubbish writer. You were right there …’
‘No I wasn’t. I’ve been reading your pieces lately and they’re good. A bit flowery for me but absolutely right for the new readers. You have far more of them than I ever did.’
Orlando politely demurred, but Lucy continued, ‘And then, even though I’d never seen Glorious Food at all, I’d decided it was just the usual mindless telly-on-the-cheap. But it’s not. The items are well researched and interesting. And informative. And you’re really, really good at it.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Orlando dropped his head in a mock bow.
‘Mind you,’ said Lucy, ‘that quiz show really is rubbish!’
‘Isn’t it just?’
Chapter Thirty-Four
I’ll say this for Elaine, thought Joanna as she explored the nether regions of Stewart’s garden, she must have been a formidable gardener. The potting shed, compost heaps, frames, stores, bays for gravel and sharp sand, and workshop were still ordered, clean and ship-shape. Presumably her influence on the gardener lingered on.
Joanna unlocked the tool room door and saw ranks of gleaming hand tools, the spades and forks oiled and shiny, hanging in rows on the wall. Larger tools were on shelves.
She was looking for a hedge trimmer, but when she found it she decided Elaine could not have trimmed the hedges herself. The machine was a monster, a huge electric thing that she could barely lift. Instead she chose a satisfyingly sharp, light pair of shears.
Joanna could no longer kneel to plant or to weed, so she had elected to trim the box hedges on the formal terrace in front of the house. It was a lovely day for gardening and she could do this without her knees objecting.
She liked clipping hedges. There was something predatory about the darting forward jab of the shears, the way they snapped to snatch a mouthful of box, the tiny shredded leaves falling like green snow onto the terrace.
She looked up to see Stewart emerge from the French windows and walk purposefully towards her. She thought he would congratulate her on her nice straight edge, or maybe offer to sweep up as she trimmed. Instead, he said, ‘Do you think of us as a couple? As committed to each other?’
Joanna looked at him over the little hedge and lowered the shears.
‘Of course I do. Don’t you?’
‘Yes. Definitely. But I want you to marry me. And move in here.’
‘All the time? And give up my Chelsea house? And Pencarrick?’
‘Well, yes. I love it that you are so independent, and clever, and brilliant at business. I really do, darling. I admire you so much. I’m really proud of you …’
‘But?’ Joanna liked the praise of course, but it was obviously going to end in a ‘but’.
‘Well, if we are together, we should be together.’
‘What has brought this on?’
‘Nothing. I was watching you out of the window and thinking how much I love you, and how tiresome you are being about doing the most obvious thing. So I thought I’d deal with it. Have another go at persuasion.’
Joanna wanted to laugh. Stewart was so controlling. And his idea of persuasion was to keep hammering away. From anyone else it would have grated, but it was so typical of him to want to get things straight, tackle the issue, ‘deal with it’ as if it was a business problem. She put the shears down and went round to his side of the box hedge. She held his head and looked into his eyes, feeling the familiar tug of desire.
‘Darling Stewart, I would be no good in Elaine’s shoes …’
‘Who said anything about Elaine’s shoes?’
She pushed him away a little so she could see him better. ‘You did, in a way. But I don’t want to take her place, live here, tend her garden, gingerly make modest changes to the décor.’
‘I’d never object …’
‘Of course you wouldn’t, darling.’ She stroked his cheek, soothing the indignation. ‘I’m sure if I wanted to change every room in the place, you’d probably be delighted, see it as my acquiescence in this Yorkshire life.’
He put his arms round her neck. ‘Well, it’s true I long for you to acquiesce. To properly live with me.’ He kissed her. ‘You smell of you,’ he said.
‘Does that mean I smell of sweat?’
‘No it does not, silly. It means you smell warm and sexy and not of perfume or talc or anything.’
‘Stewart, I don’t think I can just move in here.’ She so wanted him to understand. She thought maybe he did understand that this question of where they lived was more complicated for her than for him, but he could not understand why. She went on.
‘I don’t think men get the importance of place. You think of this lovely house – and it is lovely – as just a house. Yes, it’s where you and Elaine have been happy, where you brought up the children. But, all the same, to you it is primarily a building that provides what buildings should: shelter, safety, comfort, etc. Isn’t that so?’
Stewart frowned at her, trying to understand. ‘And isn’t it?’
‘No, to me this is Elaine’s space. And yours of course. I’m more than happy to spend time here. But I don’t feel about this house as I would if we had bought it and furnished it together, or as I do about my London house, or about Pencarrick.’
He was silent for a moment then said, ‘I could move to London I guess.’
She was touched by this, especially since she knew he was unaware of the reluctance in his own voice. It’s because, she thought, he’s a true Yorkshireman. He may not care about the actual house, but he won’t be happy in London, or indeed Cornwall. At least not yet.
The proximity of Stewart was getting to her. She undid the buttons of his shirt, half expecting him to back off in case someone came past. But he stood still. She slipped her hands around his body, which felt warm and familiar, kissed the bit where his collarbone gave way to the smooth hollow of his neck.
‘Darling, it’s all too soon,’ she said her voice muffled against his throat. ‘Let’s go on spending odd weeks in Yorkshire or in Chelsea. And please, my love, come more often to Pencarrick. But let’s not decide yet where we live.’
He addressed the top of her head, breathing into her hair. ‘We’ve got to decide sometime. We’re seriously over-housed. Four houses between us if you count my chalet in St Moritz and your interest in Pencarrick.’
‘Pencarrick is more Lucy’s than mine,’ she said, pulling away a little, ‘but I love the place. I couldn’t bear to lose it.�
�
But Stewart wasn’t listening any more. His breathing was faster and when he spoke his voice had dropped.
‘Could we adjourn this discussion, my darling? I’ve got another, more important, agenda.’
Joanna marvelled at Stewart’s sensitivity in bed. She didn’t know how he managed to be so passionate and demanding, and yet somehow accommodate her painful knees. There are all sorts of contortions that do not come easily to women with damaged knees, she thought, and there are the dozens of daily actions that have become a trial to me.
Waiting for them to heal themselves had gone on quite long enough. She needed to get them fixed.
Joanna looked round the Harley Street waiting room and thought that it was exactly like the dozens of Harley Street waiting rooms she’d been in over the years. They were all the same, tastefully decorated in faded colours but dull, good furniture in less than perfect condition, slightly foxed mirror over the Adam-style fireplace, coffee table offering of out-of-date copies of Country Life and The Field.
She flicked through pages of country estates, well-groomed horses, over-furnished living rooms with improbably posed families grouped on the sofa. She pushed them aside, hoping for something with more meat in it. Surely some of the patients were from the City and would like the Economist or the Spectator?
Joanna gave up on the magazines, picked up the Daily Telegraph and sat on the arm of a fat Chesterfield. She did not dare sit down on the sofa for fear of having to ask for help in getting up again.
Her mind went back to her conversation with Rebecca yesterday. They had been having breakfast at Joanna’s house before Rebecca set off for Cornwall, laden with more swatches and fabric samples and extremely heavy boxes containing sample door handles. Why they needed new door handles Joanna did not know since every door had a working pair, but she had promised to button her lip until Rebecca presented her final plans for the rest of the house to Lucy and her.
