Wash and dry the tomatoes and put in a bowl with the vinegar and thyme leaves, stirring thoroughly to coat. Then tip them into a 23cm baking tin and sprinkle over the sugar. Roll out the pastry on a floured surface into a circle a tad wider than the tin. You can, if you like a cheesy finish, sprinkle some grated Parmesan over the pastry at this point and run over it with the rolling pin to bed it in. Lift the pastry and place it carefully over the tomatoes, tucking the edges firmly in. Bake in the oven for 25 minutes, remove and cool slightly then invert the tarte tatin onto a plate.
AND TO ACCOMPANY …
Here are a few salad suggestions that will go with all of the above recipes – a good mixture of flavours and textures. They all serve 4.
Roasted tomato and mozzarella orzo salad
This is a little more exotic than the bland flaccid pasta salads of my childhood – pasta bows mixed with mayonnaise and sweetcorn! The roasted tomatoes give it a real depth of flavour, and orzo is perfect if cooked with just a little bite.
1 tbsp olive oil
1 garlic clove, grated
300g cherry tomatoes
200g orzo
1 tbsp pesto
1 × 250g tub bocconcini, halved (if you can’t get bocconcini then tear a large mozzarella ball into smaller pieces)
1 × 175g tub chargrilled artichokes
1 bunch fresh basil, leaves torn
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Preheat the oven to 220°C/fan 200°C/gas mark 7.
Whisk the oil with the grated garlic and drizzle over the cherry tomatoes with a scattering of sea salt and put in the oven to roast for 20 minutes.
Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil. Pour in the orzo and cook until al dente, about 10 minutes. Drain and refresh under the cold tap, then stir through the pesto.
Remove the tomatoes when they are just beginning to char. Let them cool then tip them into the orzo, scraping out all the juices. Add the bocconcini. Cut the artichokes into smaller pieces and add to the mixture. Stir through until it is all evenly coated, then scatter over the basil and a grinding of black pepper.
Punchy crunchy slaw
Who doesn’t love a slaw? While it’s tempting to pick up a tub from the supermarket, the flavour and texture is so much more interesting when you make it yourself, and it’s rather therapeutic to slice and dice and chop. This is colourful and vibrant and zingy and will add bite to any picnic.
½ small red cabbage
2 large carrots, peeled
2 celery sticks
1 bunch spring onions
1 red pepper, deseeded
6 radishes
1 tsp cumin seeds
2 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp honey
3 limes
1 garlic clove, minced with ½ tsp sea salt
1 fresh chilli, minced
1 bunch fresh coriander, chopped
Sea salt, to taste
1 tbsp pumpkin seeds, lightly toasted
Finely dice and slice all the vegetables as thinly as you can. You can grate the carrot but very fine matchsticks add extra texture if you can be bothered.
Lightly toast the cumin seeds in a frying pan to release the flavour. In the bottom of the bowl you are going to serve the salad in, whisk the olive oil, honey and the zest and juice of 2 of the limes then stir in the garlic, chilli, cumin seeds and half the coriander until all the flavours are mingled. Tip in the slaw mix and toss until everything is coated in the dressing. Add sea salt to taste. Sprinkle the pumpkin seeds and the rest of the coriander over the top, then squeeze over the remaining lime.
Celeriac remoulade
Whenever we go to France, I buy tubs of celeriac remoulade and live off dollops of it with slices of Bayonne ham. I love the nutty celery flavour and the firmness and the sharp mustardy edge.
1 medium celeriac (about 600g)
100ml mayonnaise
100ml crème fraîche
1 tbsp grainy mustard
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Cut the celeriac into wedges then peel it and coarsely grate the flesh – this is the time-consuming bit and I can never get it as uniformly beautiful as the bought tubs, but this will be more rustic! You may have a food processor that will do the job for you. Mix the mayo with the crème fraîche, mustard and lemon zest and juice then fold in the grated celeriac until evenly coated. Season to taste.
Smashed cucumbers
I’m crazy about these – crunchy, sweet but sour, fresh, super-easy yet somehow exotic and as far removed from an unimaginative side salad of slightly dried-out sliced cucumber as you can get.
2 large cucumbers
100ml sunflower oil
1 tsp sesame oil
50ml rice vinegar
1 tbsp light soft brown sugar
½ red chilli, diced
1 tbsp black poppy seeds
1 bunch fresh coriander, finely chopped
Slice the cucumbers down the middle and scoop out the seeds with a teaspoon, then slice them again down the middle. Take a rolling pin and bash them flat, then cut on an angle into pieces about 1cm thick. Mix together the oils, vinegar, sugar and chilli and pour over the cucumbers, making sure they are evenly coated. Sprinkle over the black poppy seeds. Finish off with a handful of the chopped coriander.
Treats and Snacks
The Deadline
Forty thousand words. Forty thousand words to write in less than a month. It made her feel ill when she thought about it. Nowadays, if she could manage five hundred words a day she considered it an achievement. And she didn’t even write every day either. She needed her weekends off.
She was going to have to up her word count to two thousand a day at least. She had already moved her deadline three times. Her editor was being incredibly patient and understanding.
‘It’s not quite gelling,’ Caroline told her, trying not to sound desperate. ‘It will, because it always does. But I need a little more time.’
‘Of course,’ soothed Marisa. She was always calm, measured, professional. The best editor Caroline had worked with: even though Marisa only looked about twelve years old, she seemed to have a lifetime of knowledge about the human condition, as well as a deep understanding of the creative process, which was not always the case with editors.
But even Marisa couldn’t buy her any more time. The end of this month was the last possible date for Caroline to deliver if the book was going to be published this Christmas. There needed to be time to edit, polish, copy-edit and proofread; fine-tune the cover and the copy; get it off to the printers – and then begin the process of reaching out to magazine and newspaper editors, book bloggers and influencers to make sure the book got into everyone’s Secret Santa sack and Christmas stocking. Even with this schedule they were cutting it fine.
Luckily a novel by Caroline Talbot was usually a guaranteed success. She had hit that sweet spot. ‘Well-written nonsense’ was her trademark. She was a literary icon, even if she was never going to have literary acclaim. The Booker Prize had never been within her reach, but she didn’t mind. She was no intellectual snob.
Besides, The Misadventures of Tuesday DeVille had done very nicely for her. This Christmas was going to be the thirtieth misadventure of the plucky, sparky, sexy private investigator who unravelled the murkier goings-on of pop stars, politicians and public figures in Swinging Sixties London. There was a big marketing budget waiting to be spent: posters at tube stations and on the sides of buses. But they needed a book first …
And there were plenty of other authors that money could be spent on. Plenty of young talent waiting to wrest Caroline’s crown from her. She was the reigning queen – the number one spot had belonged to her at Christmas for the past eight years – but she could easily be toppled.
Caroline had reached an impasse, though. Something deep inside her wanted something different for Tuesday; something more than stake-outs and honeytraps. Her heroine’s age ha
d stayed similar, a vague thirtysomething, in all the years she had been writing, and her readers seemed to accept that time stood still for the blonde in the white leather mac. In the last book, however, a grateful client had taken on greater importance than Caroline had anticipated. She knew she wanted Tuesday to fall in love with Angus Buchanan and his rambling mansion on the banks of a loch in the Scottish Highlands.
But that would mean the end of Tuesday’s career. And perhaps, by association, Caroline’s …
‘I think,’ said Calypso, her agent, over their last lunch at J. Sheekey, ‘it’s time for the Sin Bin.’
Caroline had looked down at her sea bass, her heart thumping. The Sin Bin was a beach hut on Everdene Sands, where Calypso sent clients who were struggling to write. Everyone knew the pressure was on for authors to deliver their very best, year after year, and sometimes it was hard. Sometimes the words didn’t flow, the ideas didn’t come. Calypso had bought the hut fifteen years ago, when there had been a flurry of sub-standard manuscripts from authors who were blocked and burnt-out. It had turned out to be a shrewd investment.
‘I can’t afford to lose a single manuscript,’ Calypso told Caroline when she revealed her plan. ‘This little hut will be the perfect retreat. There’s nothing there but the sea, so there’ll be no distractions. I’ll arrange to have it stocked with each client’s favourite food so they won’t have to lift a finger while they’re staying there. They can get away from it all, clear their heads, have a chance to stand back from their work. And then get some bloody words down so I can get my ten per cent.’
It had worked brilliantly. Dozens of her clients had taken advantage of the idyllic retreat, and the beach hut itself had doubled in value. Caroline had prided herself on never being banished there. Until now. This time she admitted defeat.
‘I think you’re right,’ she sighed. ‘But you’re not to tell anyone.’
‘It’s always confidential. You know that,’ said Calypso, signalling for the bill. ‘You’re not on any ridiculous diet, are you?’
Caroline raised an eyebrow and looked at her. ‘No marzipan; no pickled eggs.’
Calypso laughed. ‘I think we can manage that. I’ll have everything ready for you.’
So here she was. And she had to admit that Calypso’s retreat was the perfect place for a stressed-out writer. The hut was set slightly back from the others, protected by the undulating dunes. The sand was soft and golden; the sea crept in and out, switching from silver to turquoise to rose gold depending on the strength and position of the sun. The sunsets were breathtaking.
Inside, it was furnished with the last word in luxury. Everything was decorated in cream and pale turquoise – the agency colours. A desk stood at the window with the most comfortable ergonomic chair on the market. The bed on the mezzanine was a cloud of soft blankets and pillows, and above the bed was a shelf of classic beach reads, from The Godfather to The Shell Seekers. The fridge was packed with food that needed no preparation: bowls of homemade hummus and baba ghanoush; crab cakes to dip in chilli dipping sauce; fat golden pasties and jars of chutney. There were piles of fluffy beach towels and fleecy blankets. Noise-cancelling headphones. A sound system tuned to ambient music for maximum concentration. And, on the desk, a tin full of biscuits in the shape of beach huts, iced in blue and white.
But Calypso was no fool, either. There was no wi-fi, no television and no alcohol in the fridge. It was the most luxurious of prison cells.
Caroline set up her laptop at the table and laid out her precious notebook. She had a new one for each book – bright yellow leather, filled with featherlight paper and engraved with her initials – and in it she wrote all her ideas for characters and locations and plot twists, accompanied by pen-and-ink drawings. They were lined up on a bookshelf in her office at home, and she fancied that one day after her death they would be sold at auction for an eye-watering sum.
This notebook, however, was worryingly empty but for a drawing of a large Gothic mansion in front of a stretch of water. And pages of tartan. And a ring with an enormous sparkling blue sapphire. And a pair of deerhounds.
What on earth was the matter with her? The sketches were usually of E-type Jaguars, cocktail shakers, murky Soho coffee shops and strip clubs; record players and ashtrays; lipstick-stained cigarette ends and empty glasses. This was the world her readers loved: London in the 1960s. David Bailey, the Beatles, Twiggy, Profumo. High-energy, hard-edged, decadent. Brimming with criminal activity and sexy exploits. And, at the heart of it, the cool, calculating and classy Tuesday, pistol and lipstick at the ready in her handbag.
She felt a lurch of panic. If she didn’t get her act together, there would be no book this Christmas and publication would be postponed. It would mean no money for another year. The more she thought about it, the more she panicked. It was a horrible feeling. Her brain felt muzzy and foggy. She would type two sentences and then come to a grinding halt. She was drowning in uncertainty. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Caroline Talbot never felt uncertain.
There had always been rumours that she was difficult. That she refused to let anyone interfere with her work. That she would demand the covers of her books be changed umpteen times. That her name had to be in letters twice the size of her title. That when she was on tour, she insisted on south-facing views and Ruinart champagne in her hotel room, and that any car picking her up had to have leather seats.
There was a grain of truth in the rumours. She would only let certain people have access to her work, and if a copy editor tried to change anything, they would get very short shrift.
And the demands weren’t demands, they were preferences. If she was on tour, she liked things to be just so. If it was impossible, it didn’t matter, as long as an effort had been made to please her. She was not unreasonable. She worked hard. And she always went the extra mile to be charming to her fans, who adored her. She remembered the names of the ones who turned up year after year. She was happy to chat endlessly to them. She was a consummate professional, so why shouldn’t she have her favourite champagne at the end of a long evening? She only asked for a half-bottle, after all.
If she didn’t get this book finished, she wouldn’t be asking for champagne ever again. If she failed to deliver, her fans would find another source of reading pleasure and their memory of her would fade. She mustn’t lose her nerve.
‘Focus, Caroline,’ she told herself sternly, staring at the screen and the flashing cursor.
Perhaps she would go for a swim? She couldn’t remember the last time she had got in the sea in England. Perhaps as a small girl with her family? The water shimmered in front of her, a deep inviting blue, but it wouldn’t have the warmth of the Caribbean where she was used to bathing on her annual holiday to St Lucia. Calypso had urged her to pack her swimming costume nevertheless.
‘It’s invigorating. You never come out feeling worse than when you went in. Of course, it’s cold to start with, but you get used to it.’
She pulled out her polka-dot swimsuit. It had a skirt on it to hide her tummy and her thighs. Sitting at a desk for ten hours a day had done nothing for her figure. For a moment, she had a mental image of herself as a plump lady from a seaside postcard, spilling out of her costume. She’d go for a walk instead. Stretch her legs after the long drive.
She opened the door to find a young man standing on the step outside, about to knock, two bags at his feet.
‘This is hut 72, right?’ he said. He was slim, with messy shoulder-length blond hair and tortoiseshell sunglasses, wearing faded jeans, a striped long-sleeved t-shirt and baseball boots. And a gorgeous scent, redolent of moss and rain.
There was something familiar about him. Caroline frowned.
‘Have you brought a delivery?’ No doubt Calypso had thought of something to tempt out the muse.
‘No. I’m supposed to be staying here. Are you the housekeeper?’ He had a husky voice with a laconic northern accent. She couldn’t quite identify which region but it wasn’t unattractive.<
br />
Caroline drew herself up. ‘I am not. I’m staying here. You must have the wrong hut.’
‘I don’t think so. Turquoise and white, I was told.’
‘By whom?’
He blinked. ‘Calypso Jones?’
‘Oh dear.’ Caroline sighed. ‘Well, I’m afraid she must have double-booked. Calypso is marvellous but admin isn’t her strong point. I’m so sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
He looked mutinous. ‘I’ve got a deadline. She sent me to finish on pain of death. You’ll have to go.’ He looked more closely at Caroline. ‘Wait a minute. You’re Caroline Talbot.’
‘Yes.’ Caroline felt pleased that he had recognised her. She supposed she was quite distinctive, with her mane of blonde curls and blingy dress sense left over from the eighties. ‘And you are?’
He looked surprised. ‘Radar Mulligan?’ he replied, in a tone that implied he never had to reveal his identity.
‘Of course!’ She recognised him now. He’d written the biggest hit of last year. The pretty boy whose gritty urban thriller had sold over half a million copies and was about to be made into a movie. She smoothed down her kaftan, turquoise, covered in hundreds of little mirrors. ‘Oh dear. What are we going to do?’
‘Well, I can’t go home. I’ve come from Manchester, by train and taxi. I’ll never get back tonight.’
Caroline checked her watch with a tut.
‘I’ll get Calypso to send a car for you. This is her fault for being so bloody disorganised. She’ll have to sort it out. I’ve already unpacked.’
He took off his glasses and pushed back his hair. She saw his eyes: grey, with a dark ring around them.
‘You don’t understand. This is a crisis.’ He indicated the laptop bag at his feet. ‘My first draft’s due in two weeks and it’s a mess.’
He almost looked as if he might cry. Overnight success was, of course, a terrible strain. And following up a debut smash hit was an awful burden. There was nothing more inhibiting than a meteoric rise. He looked so crestfallen that Caroline relented.
A Day at the Beach Hut Page 5
