by Sue Watson
Described as ‘the mega-talented owner chef’, Dan was clearly flavour of the month in downtown Sydney – his cooking described as ‘fresh, exciting’ and ‘tingling with aspiration and innovation’. The review was overwritten and flowery, but that’s how Dan made you feel when you tasted his food – it demanded superlatives. He loved talking about what he cooked too – the way he spoke to me about food was as comforting as the food itself. His descriptions of Australian fayre were (apart from him) one of the main reasons Sydney was on my living list. I’d longed to taste his promises of the crisp, salty freshness of beer-battered fish and chips in Sydney Harbour, barbecued pork on the beach and chilled golden beers drunk by dying waves in a molten sunset on Bondi. And I felt a sting of sadness that we hadn’t yet shared these longed-for moments together in Sydney after all. In fact, all we’d shared were fraught meetings, baby sick and lemonade.
I couldn’t read beyond the first paragraph of the article declaring his genius – but I couldn’t discard the newspaper either. Perhaps one day I’d be able to read it properly and be genuinely proud and happy for him, but at that moment I felt like I was outside the window gazing in, my palms pressed against the glass, my heart hoping for crumbs.
I put the paper away in a little pocket of my rucksack, realising the only way I could shake this off was to get away. Remembering what Dan had told me about the coastal drive from Sydney to Melbourne, I googled some car hire companies, but just as I was about to call one, my phone rang.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ he said.
‘Hey, I’ve just been reading all about this amazing chef who has a wonderful restaurant on the North Shore,’ I said. My voice was light and smiley, but my eyes were damp, my throat stuffed with unshed tears.
‘Yeah, it’s great publicity for the café, we’re really busy… so many bookings coming in since this morning.’
‘Great,’ I said. How I’d have loved to share all this with him.
‘Are you still thinking of going to Melbourne?’
‘Yes, I fancy taking the coastal road, looks good,’ I said, continuing to fake brightness.
‘So, when are you off?’ It was hardly the response I’d hoped for.
‘Tomorrow perhaps, or the next day. I just need to book a car.’
‘Oh, you should come over to the café before you go. I’d love you to eat here. I talked about it often enough, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, and the whole of Sydney’s now talking about it,’ I laughed, feeling like perhaps his invite was a bit of an afterthought.
‘So, when should I come and see this “sparkling chef” in action?’ I asked, still trying to show the smile in my voice, but not sure I was succeeding.
‘Today? Now?’
‘Oh, okay,’ I said. ‘Give me an hour or so, about three-ish?’
‘Great, yeah, come after the lunch rush so I can give you lots of attention.’
I felt a frisson of excitement – I was going to Dan’s restaurant, something he’d only ever talked about was real. Dreams do come true, I thought as I put the phone down and felt this rush of love, adrenalin and just a little bit of hope.
I had a long, relaxing bath, dressed in my new pink maxi dress, took time over my make-up, tied my hair back and set off. I took public transport to the restaurant and, arriving on the North Shore, I left the air-conditioned bus to be hit once more by that Australian sun beating down.
It was after three o’clock and I wondered at the ‘lunch rush’ as I walked into the still very busy café, teeming with people and smelling of steamy heaven. Within seconds Dan was at my side, taking my arm and leaning into me, whispering, ‘Walk this way.’ His mouth was too close to my neck, I felt his breath and I just wanted to pull his face down to mine and kiss him on the lips. Fortunately, I was momentarily distracted by a waitress carrying a fabulous dessert the size of the Sydney Opera House and was able to resist manhandling the chef.
He showed me outside, to a silver table sitting on pale wood decking. The view was spectacular, and despite my now quite extensive travels, I couldn’t recall anywhere more stunning. It felt right, like I belonged here; I felt so much more at home here than I had in the fancy restaurant with Pierre. The air was fresh, and I looked out onto the kind of open vista of vivid blue skies and water I’d always imagined. The light was different here – brighter, more intense. Or perhaps it was just because Dan was there, pulling up a chair at the table and joining me? He called a waitress over and asked if she’d bring a menu and a bottle of white wine: Australian, of course.
‘This is just beautiful,’ I sighed. His eyes were on me, and I tried hard not to look back at him, because they would draw me in and I’d be lost.
He was silent, just looking at me as I looked out at the view. I made some small talk about ‘sights’ but he just kept staring at me.
‘I’ve seen Sydney and I love it,’ I said, trying not to lunge over the table at him.
‘No, you haven’t,’ he said softly.
‘I’ve seen the Opera House and…’
‘Yeah, yeah. But you were supposed to see Sydney with me. You haven’t seen all of it, there’s stuff us natives keep secret.’ He ran his hands along the table like he was checking for imperfections. ‘There’s still so much more I want you to see.’
My heart was melting and when the chilled bottle of white arrived and he poured us both a glass I gulped down half of mine to try and calm myself. I felt like my internal organs were on fire. It was either love, lust or a menopausal flush, what Sue would call a ‘Tropical moment’. Either way, it wasn’t pretty and I just knew my armpits were wet, which wasn’t a good look.
I clamped down my arms and tried discreetly to lift my glass without showing them, which made me look weird.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, laughter in his eyes.
‘My armpits… you don’t want to know.’
‘No, I probably don’t,’ he smiled. ‘Then again, some men might see armpits as a sexual thing?’
‘Not mine at the moment,’ I said awkwardly, my upper lip now covered in beads of sweat. I hoped to God I wasn’t going to vomit again. This would be quite the spectacle on scrubbed decking surrounded by beautiful people in designer shades eating chi-chi sandwiches. ‘So, I am very honoured,’ I said, finally giving in to the armpit situation and lifting my glass, before wiping my upper lip with my napkin. ‘Look at me, dining with the boss.’
He pulled an ‘awkward’ face.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I’m here and I’m going to spend as much time with you as I can, but I’m working. I tried to get the night off, but we’re short-staffed.’
This was how it was going to be, and if I wanted Dan this would be our lives. And I was okay with that, because I’d realised since I’d been here that I’d rather have a bit of him than nothing at all.
‘I’m fine alone – I’m a strong independent woman, remember?’ I smiled. ‘I’ll just order and enjoy the lovely view,’ I added, glancing at a rather good-looking man walking past.
Dan laughed and pointed both fingers to his eyes and back at mine. ‘I may not be at the table, but I’ll be watching you,’ he teased. ‘And cooking for you.’
I sipped my wine slowly, going for ‘sophisticated allure’, but I think my overheating body was probably blowing my cover and betraying me with the sweat and mottled red décolletage.
I remembered the first time Dan had cooked for me – he’d made fragrant chicken infused with Italian herbs and cooked with tomatoes on the vine. Then we’d made love on the kitchen table. I blushed now, thinking of it. He brought out the worst and the best in me, I was so liberated with him, by him, and I longed to be like that again, back in the place we’d once been together. The funny, irreverent comments, the childlike excitement, the pillow fights… the wonderful nakedness. I dragged myself away from my thoughts, they weren’t helping my menopausal thermostat.
‘Remember when I cooked for you the first time?’ he asked, echoing my thought
s.
‘Mmmm… the dessert was a little surprising,’ I smiled, and he knew exactly what I was talking about.
‘But also delicious,’ he said, huskily, his fingertips now touching mine on the table. I wanted to take each one in my mouth but resisted and gently pulled my hand away.
He finished his glass of wine as he went to return to the kitchen, telling me he would send me the best on the menu.
‘No pressure, no special treatment,’ I said, as he got up to go.
He slowly moved around until he was standing behind me, his fingertips on my shoulders. It was gentle, but I could feel them so intensely, like we were sharing blood, flowing into each other. I was helpless to move, paralysed in my chair, the view ahead, blue upon blue with splashes of white, his fingers gentle, my legs empty of bone and muscle. I turned to see him, and he looked down at me slightly, just a glance, but it was enough to tell me I was going nowhere for the next few hours. I’d only had one glass of wine, but I felt drunk, almost unable to form words. I knew if someone had asked me to stand up I’d have fallen.
‘I… I… You must get to work,’ I blurted. ‘I’m hungry.’
I looked up at him again and our eyes met and for one moment the blue world stood very still and I thought he might just lean down and kiss me. I closed my eyes and waited, wanting it more than I’d ever wanted anything, but when, after a few seconds I opened them, he’d gone.
Over the next couple of hours, he showed me his love in a different way, and it was almost as wonderful as I know that kiss would have been. He’d been gone about twenty minutes when a young waitress arrived and put before me a large, white bowl and I knew immediately what this was. It was a dish he’d cooked for me on Santorini – white aubergines with olive oil, garlic and lemon juice. ‘The Greeks call it the Apple of Love,’ he’d told me then while feeding me hot, sweet, juicy forkfuls in our huge double bed. It was just as good this time around and though we weren’t in a double bed, surprisingly this felt just as intimate. Even with all of these people around me, I knew this was just for me.
A little later, he arrived at my table with a second plate. This time it was the first dish he’d ever cooked for me – fragrant chicken. I felt the blood thrum through me as I remembered how that evening had ended, and allowed myself to think about the two of us together again. In a big double bed. Dan came over and sat with me, serving us both from the large plate, adding a fresh green salad and fluffy rice. I looked down at my plate, then back at him; I didn’t know what looked more delicious, Dan or the food. I picked up my fork, knowing his heart was on that plate, and with each mouthful I think I loved him just a little bit more. I didn’t speak, just ate slowly, savouring every mouthful, watching him watching me and remembering the first time.
‘Good?’ he asked, when we’d finished.
‘As delicious as I remember,’ I said provocatively, and he smiled. ‘Dan, I’m so proud of you,’ I said, though it felt wrong, possessive. Was he even ‘mine’ to be proud of? Whatever, I wanted him to know how I felt, how he impressed me so much. ‘The flavours, the way you put simple things together and turn them into magic, I’m in awe,’ I added.
‘Well, I think you provide a sprinkling of inspiration,’ he smiled. ‘Our snatched weekends in Europe, our time on Santorini – all the dishes are here, the menu reads like us.’
I was so touched by this, I didn’t know what to say as he leaned over and grabbed a menu from a passing waiter and handed it to me.
Opening it was indeed like looking at our story, from the very first meal he cooked to garlicky, salty moules et frites – the last meal we’d shared together in Paris, delicious, yet bittersweet.
‘Is there anything here you don’t like?’ he asked.
‘No, nothing…’ I said, and I wasn’t just talking about the menu.
I knew our time together meant a lot to him, but I’d never imagined he’d base a whole café around our love story.
‘Just like the Med and the Greek Islands, we can get the freshest fish from the market, and the fruit and veggies are the best here. I even have a kitchen garden out the back – remember that was part of the plan?’
I remembered.
‘The cucumber was grown by my fair hand – organic, sweet…’
I just smiled and listened, basking in his sunshine.
‘You know, Faye,’ he said, leaning on the table, his hand propped under his chin, his face thoughtful, ‘I’ve thought about you every single day, sometimes every hour, since we parted. And there have been days when I’ve just wanted to jump on a plane and be with you.’
I was clutching the menu to my chest, it felt like the most wonderful love letter anyone had ever sent.
‘But then I’d look at Clover, and I’d think about the café. I’d think about home and how bloody wonderful it is to live somewhere the sun shines and I can earn a living from cooking all day and I knew the only way I could be with you was to remember our story through cooking.’
‘And it’s quite wonderful,’ I said, leaning forward, eager to get close to him, to let him know how happy this had made me.
‘How could I leave you?’ he asked, like he was simply talking to himself.
I looked away from him and gazing into the early evening sky, I said, ‘You did the right thing, you came back for your brother – and then this happened,’ I gestured around the tables at the café. ‘And then Clover and you did the right thing again.’
‘I had no choice with my bro and I miss him every day.’
‘You did have a choice – and you didn’t run away, you stayed for your brother, and now you’ve made a life for yourself and your little girl. You wouldn’t have any of this if you’d been with me, traipsing round Europe, staying in the grey UK, where the sun never shines. You’d always have wondered what might have been.’
‘Maybe… Look, I know things aren’t quite how you thought they’d be, how we thought they’d be. But don’t be put off by all the extra baggage I seem to have acquired,’ he smiled. ‘My life’s better with you than without you.’
I sighed, looking up at him, meeting his eyes.
‘It is what it is – I love having you in my life,’ he shrugged and stood up suddenly. ‘Dessert?’ he asked, swiftly moving on.
‘A rhetorical question, surely?’ I laughed, glad to stop talking about us and moving on to something loaded in chocolate and sugar. I watched him walk away and thought about how tough things had been for him, dealing with loss and then an unexpected arrival. And now me, turning up in his new life expecting him to be preserved in ice, waiting for me, unchanged. A lot had happened, everything was different – but I loved him just the same.
A little while later, as the sun began her orange descent into the water, a waiter brought me a plate with a dome of lemon sponge topped with passion fruit parfait. Drizzled with lime and rum cream, with a coconut tuile sail and a scattering of lavender, it looked so beautiful. The first mouthful took my breath away – it was tart, yet sweet, an explosion of fruit in my mouth, followed by the crunch of coconut. This was ‘our’ lemon cake, a deconstructed Australian version, but lemon cake nonetheless.
Dan’s food was everything he’d talked about and more. He’d always been able to cook, but here it was as though he’d finally found himself. The fragrant lavender was probably from his kitchen garden, the lemon sponge so light and airy and so obviously made with his mother’s secret ingredient – love. And underneath it all there was no denying that there was us. Even though he’d flown across the world and I’d told him let me go, even though he’d found Saffron and welcomed Clover, I’d been in his heart and in his food all along, just like he’d been with me. But that didn’t mean that things weren’t still beyond complicated.
*
I’d been alone for almost an hour and was just wondering if I should offer to pay and leave. Dan was at work and I might be in the way. We hadn’t yet confirmed my status as girlfriend or ex or wannabe and until we did, I wasn’t sure where I fitted i
n. I tried not to think too much about where Saffron fitted in either – according to Dan she was his ex and they’d never really been together properly. But I was aware I was in denial; I didn’t ask too many questions, I didn’t want to meet her – that way I could pretend none of this had happened. I was whisked away from these rather unwelcome thoughts when Dan suddenly appeared at my side. I looked up expecting to see another chapter in our story, but instead he was holding a sleeping Clover, wrapped in a fondant pink baby blanket. I guess she was the final chapter.
‘Oh, you’ve brought me petits fours?’ I smiled, and he rolled his eyes and smiled back.
‘Saff’s just announced she’s got to go to Canberra for a few days, so has handed me this surprise bundle.’ He looked down and his face softened. ‘I don’t mind though, I miss this little one when I’m not with her.’
‘Oh, Saffron’s been here?’ I said, slightly uneasy to think she might have seen me, but I hadn’t seen her. Another reminder that she existed, that this ‘limbo’ situation existed between us, the outgoing girlfriend, the incoming ex – it all felt so weird.
‘Just. She had to rush off – her friend was waiting, he’s driving her.’ He sat down, still holding the sleeping Clover. She looked gorgeous: baby cheeks, a soft mop of black curls beginning on her head.
‘Good job you weren’t fraternising with me when she arrived,’ I said, unable to resist a little probe into the situation. He was trying to pull out a chair while clutching Clover and I gesticulated for him to hand me the little pink bundle. ‘She’s definitely gone?’ I asked, before taking Clover from him. ‘I don’t want to upset her by holding Clover. Does she know I’m still here in Sydney?’
‘Of course she does.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure she’s okay with you seeing me?’
He nodded and, pulling his chair next to me, we both looked down at Clover as I stroked her hair.
‘Oh God, I bet she hates me. I would if I were her,’ I continued.
He nodded again, which didn’t reassure me. ‘I guess she’s always seen you as a threat. I talked about you a lot, but then again she’s not jealous, she doesn’t care enough to be jealous.’
