by Kris Webb
‘That sounds great,’ David said, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived.
‘I’m cooking some pasta for dinner. Would you like to stay for something to eat?’ I figured some company might help take my mind off my dire financial position.
‘I’d love to,’ David replied. ‘But I’ve got a work dinner I can’t get out of. Actually, I should be there now.’
I tried to suppress my concern that it was the leggings that had put him off and pasted a bright smile on my face. ‘Okay. Thanks for coming around to talk – we can take a raincheck on the pasta.’
‘It’ll have to be a week or so,’ David answered. ‘I’m heading back to the Perth office first thing in the morning and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’ I was mentally cursing the leggings when he added, ‘But I’ll call the moment I’m home.’
‘If you’re back by Friday week, keep it free. A group of us are going out to dinner for my birthday.’
‘Sounds good.’ Looking much happier than when he arrived, David pecked me awkwardly on the cheek and moved towards the door. A thought obviously hit him and he turned back to me. ‘You know, if you do find another buyer, there’s a chance I could help out with some publicity. Do you have anything prepared yet?’
‘I’ve done a couple of drafts. I could email you something once we’ve sorted things out,’ I answered without a lot of enthusiasm, knowing how hard it was to get press coverage for products.
‘Okay, just let me know.’
With a small smile, he was gone.
I sighed, wondering how I was supposed to deal with these abrupt departures of his. Celibacy was beginning to look as though it had some advantages after all.
The phone began ringing as soon as I’d closed the door. Just before the answering machine kicked in, I found the phone wedged down the back of the sofa and hit the button.
‘What the hell does “blanch de-zested lime rind” mean?’ Debbie’s voice had a hint of hysteria.
‘Sorry?’ I asked, trying to figure out what on earth she was talking about.
‘I’ve been buying these damn food magazines for years and the first time I actually go to cook something from one I discover it’s written in some language other than English which I cannot for the life of me decipher!’ Debbie yelled.
‘You’re cooking?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Yes, well, that’s what people do on weeknights if they don’t go out, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so,’ I answered, still stunned by the picture of Debbie doing something in the kitchen other than brew coffee. ‘I didn’t really think you’d be in the mood after today’s news, though.’
‘There’s no point in sitting at home alone moping,’ she answered strongly, making me feel pathetic, given that was exactly what I planned to do.
‘Okay, so take me through this slowly,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
There was a pause and I heard the clatter of saucepans before Debbie spoke again. ‘I’m having someone around for dinner in . . . forty-five minutes and at the rate I’m going I’ll have to throw the lot in the bin and order in a pizza.’
‘Who is this person you’re cooking for?’ I asked curiously.
‘Oh, a guy I met, you wouldn’t know him,’ she replied vaguely.
‘Debbie, aren’t you the person who always says that if you need to try to win a guy through his stomach, you’re doing something seriously wrong with the rest of him?’ I was suddenly worried that Debbie had taken some nasty drugs which were making her delusional.
‘Oh, he’s already well keen,’ she replied and I was comforted to hear the usual Debbie arrogance in her voice. ‘It’s just, you know, I thought maybe a quiet dinner at home might be a nice way to spend a Wednesday night.
‘But I can’t talk about this now,’ she said suddenly, the note of hysteria back in her voice. ‘I have a total crisis on my hands.’
‘All right, what’s the situation?’ I asked. I figured it must indeed be serious if she was resorting to calling me for cooking advice and bit back the questions about her sudden domesticity and why she hadn’t mentioned this dinner earlier today.
‘Right,’ she replied in an efficient voice. ‘This guy is a vegetarian, so I thought zucchini soup to start, spinach and ricotta tortellini in a tomato sauce, and then pineapple with lime caramel sauce for dessert.’
‘You designed this menu, did you?’ I asked disbelievingly.
‘Of course not. Do you think I spent the day trawling through cookbooks? The recipes are all in this month’s Food, Food, Food,’ she said, referring to a popular magazine she never read but always bought, figuring it looked good on her coffee table.
‘I’ve made the zucchini soup, which actually looks edible, but I’ve just realised that I put chicken stock in it. What do you think, will I go to hell if I lie and say it’s made with vegetable stock?’
‘Hmmm, tough one,’ I mused. ‘But I really think that feeding chicken bits to a vegetarian has got to have some pretty bad karma associated with it. Don’t think you can do it.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I figured you’d say that and have already given up on the soup. Main course is easy, even I can fry some onions, garlic and canned tomatoes, and I bought the pasta from the deli.’
Thank God for small mercies, I thought.
‘But dessert is a disaster. It looked really easy in the magazine. The recipe said to boil the sugar and water until it turned a caramel colour. But I’ve been boiling it for thirty minutes now and it’s still pure white and starting to look very solid. So I decided to ignore that for a bit and do the rest, but I didn’t read this far down the recipe before and I have absolutely no idea what “blanching” or “de-zest” mean.’
‘Debbie, where does the magazine say the recipe came from?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied impatiently. ‘Hang on . . . Okay, it says that a chef from Angie’s Restaurant contributed it. Their food’s great, so what’s the damn problem?’
‘Ah, Debbie, you have fallen into the food magazine trap,’ I intoned darkly.
‘Sophie, my dinner date is now coming in thirty-five minutes, what the hell are you talking about?’
‘Do you think the chef from Angie’s wants you to be able to cook sensational lime caramel pineapple for your guests?’ I asked. ‘Of course not. If you could, why would you ever go to his restaurant? A lot of these supposedly simple recipes turn into the world’s greatest disasters. I’m sure that the chefs leave out a vital ingredient or step to ensure that your take on their signature dish is a debacle.’
‘So you think my sugar’s not going to turn into caramel?’ she moaned.
‘Not a chance,’ I replied. ‘Ditch it, smother your pineapple bits in Cointreau and stick it in the fridge until you want to eat it,’ I instructed, describing my standard dessert when I couldn’t avoid cooking. ‘Please tell me that the pineapple’s not from a can?’ I pleaded as an afterthought.
‘Of course not,’ Debbie replied haughtily, as if her entire home cooking career to date hadn’t been performed with a can opener in one hand.
‘Good. Do you have any oranges in the fridge that are younger than Sarah?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Hmmm, I’m not sure,’ Debbie said doubtfully. ‘I think you actually bought the ones that are in the crisper.’
‘Okay, forget the oranges, just feed him the pineapple and Cointreau, and if you have any, stick some ice-cream or sorbet on top.’
‘You’re a genius, Sophie, thanks,’ she gushed before hanging up the phone.
‘You’re welcome,’ I told the dial tone, distractedly wedging the phone back between the sofa cushions as I tried to figure out exactly what was going on with Debbie.
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. Opening the door I saw Max standing there. What on earth was it about these leggings?
‘Sophie. Hi,’ he said. ‘Sorry to drop in unannounced but I was nearby and I thought I’d stop and say hello.’
I ha
dn’t seen or heard from Max since the picnic at Bondi two weeks before and my feelings on seeing him were just as confused as they had been then. Irrationally I had a rush of guilt as I thought of David and was glad that he and Max hadn’t crossed paths – that was one complication I didn’t need at the moment.
‘For someone who lives in San Francisco, you seem to be spending a lot of time in Sydney,’ I commented.
‘Yeah, well, I don’t actually think I’ll be living in San Francisco much longer,’ Max replied.
‘Really!’ I stopped still, wondering how that would affect Sarah and me. ‘Come in, anyway,’ I said, realising we were still standing on the doorstep.
Max followed me into the kitchen.
‘Do you want a glass of wine?’ I asked. I knew I should be angry at him, but didn’t have the energy.
He nodded. ‘That’d be great.’
‘So what’s the story?’ I asked as I pulled a bottle of white wine out of the fridge.
‘I’ve had a few discussions with the old guy who owns that farm and I flew back yesterday so I could have a look around. I spent the day there,’ Max said. ‘The place is fantastic and the potential to turn it into a real money-earner seems huge.
‘So,’ he took a deep breath. ‘I made an offer to buy it.’
I paused with the wine bottle suspended over a glass. ‘Are you serious?’ I asked, seeing immediately that he was.
‘You certainly don’t waste any time,’ I continued, unsure what to say in response to this unsettling news.
‘I know I should probably think it all through a bit more, but it feels so right,’ Max replied, taking the bottle of wine from my hand and filling two glasses. ‘My boss in the States has said he’ll arrange for a transfer back to Sydney if I really want it – although I did have to threaten to resign if he didn’t.’
Max had always been impulsive. It was one of the things I’d loved about him.
‘I really hope it works out,’ I said and if Max noticed anything wrong with my tone of voice, he didn’t comment on it. Although it had never been more than a pipedream, the idea of owning a place in the country was something we’d talked about together, and if I was honest with myself, the fact that Max was making it a reality without me kind of hurt.
‘Do you mind if I have a quick look at Sarah?’ he asked suddenly.
I shook my head and he tiptoed up the steps.
When he returned, he swirled the wine around his nearly empty glass before looking up at me. ‘Actually, Sophie, I wasn’t just in the neighbourhood, I was on the other side of town, but I really wanted to see you and had a suspicion that you might put me off if I called first.’
‘I’m trying to be fair. It’s just . . . hard.’
He nodded. ‘I know.’
An uncomfortable silence fell and we both took a mouthful of wine.
‘Would you like to stay for dinner?’ The words were out of my mouth before I had thought them through and I instantly regretted them.
Max replied before I had a chance to say anything else. ‘Sure, dinner would be good. Did you have any plans or would you like me to get some takeaway?’
‘I wasn’t planning anything too fancy. Just some rocket and tomato pasta. We can get takeaway if you prefer.’
‘Nope, pasta sounds good. Can I help?’
Accepting his offer, I smiled as he instantly took control in the kitchen, chopping and cooking the components of the sauce and putting the water on to boil. Falling into the old familiar pattern we’d developed over the years, I wandered into the lounge room, chose a CD and then sat up on the bench to watch him work.
After many fierce arguments, we’d come to the conclusion that this was the only way we could cook together – one of us actually cooking, the other one keeping the wineglasses full and the music going. Despite everything that had happened, the scene suddenly seemed very familiar and comfortable. I quickly reminded myself things had changed dramatically.
My mind wandered and I began to worry again about what I would do if we couldn’t find anyone else to buy the baby books. I was strongly tempted to tell Max everything that had happened. But I knew that would mean a discussion about money and Sarah, and I decided that was something I could do without for the time being. One thing I was sure about was that I wasn’t going to borrow any money from Max, even if he had some spare at the moment, which I seriously doubted.
Max dished up the pasta and we carried the plates to the table. When we had finished our meals, Max glanced at his watch and did a theatrical double take.
‘Do you realise what time it is?’ he demanded.
I shook my head and looked at my watch. He’d stayed for almost two hours but I didn’t think it was that late.
‘What’s happened to you, woman? ER is on in exactly four minutes. What were you thinking?’
A passion for ER, which had survived George Clooney’s departure, was another thing we had shared, although since Sarah’s arrival, I had got out of the habit of watching it. When Max and I had been together, Wednesday nights had been a ritual. We always planned to be home at either flat and made sure there was a tub of Sara Lee Pralines and Cream ice-cream in the freezer.
We moved into the lounge and turned on the television.
‘Why don’t you sit there?’ I suggested, gesturing towards the armchair.
Apprehensively I eyed the designer Italian sofa. I’d paid a ridiculously large amount for it when I’d first moved to Sydney, but it had recently begun disintegrating and I was never quite sure which part of it would give way next. My friends had all been sucked into its spring-studded depths often enough to learn to avoid sitting on it at all costs, and I was becoming quite adept at steering visitors towards the other chair, so my current plan was just to ignore the problem.
‘How about a neck massage?’ Max asked slyly.
I knew he was throwing down a challenge. A neck massage had been another of our rituals but, as we were both only too aware, a ritual that had more often than not ended up with us in bed.
At least it solved my dilemma of where to sit and, determined not to show my feelings, I sat down in front of him, trying to relax as his hands ran up and down my neck and shoulders.
As the opening credits rolled I asked him to fill me in on the most recent developments. Max couldn’t believe that I didn’t know what had been happening. ‘What planet have you been living on?’ he exclaimed.
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been looking after a baby. That kind of mixed up my priorities!’ The words came out more sharply than I had intended and his hands were suddenly still on my neck.
‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I was only joking.’
We watched the television in silence. Max resumed his rhythmic massage and I tried to concentrate on what was going on. When his lips pressed into the back of my neck, it wasn’t entirely unexpected but it still sent jolts of alarm through me. He traced a path of kisses towards my shoulder and then down the top of my spine.
Slowly I turned and our lips met. ER was forgotten. Even Sarah was forgotten as the kiss deepened into something that neither of us wanted to stop. All I could think about was that this felt so good. All the reasons Max and I had separated seemed to disappear.
He slid down so that he was beside me on the floor, his hands still stroking my arms, my throat.
Suddenly an image of David flashed into my mind, how he’d touched me in the same way less than a week earlier. Guilt flooded through me and I stiffened and pulled away.
‘Max . . . I can’t. Please stop.’
Reluctantly, Max pulled away and I managed to sit up straight.
Neither of us knew what to say and we turned back to the television wordlessly, avoiding each other’s eyes.
As soon as ER had finished, Max stood up and stretched. ‘Well, I guess it’s time for me to head off,’ he said half-heartedly, no doubt hoping for an invitation to stay.
Half an hour of thinking while I was staring sightlessly at the televisi
on had given me time to get my feelings straight again. Things were different now and a night with Max wasn’t worth the consequences. I had Sarah to think about and I wasn’t going to throw away my chances of something good with David.
Max kissed me briefly on the lips as he left and then was gone.
Ten minutes later, when I was changing into my pyjamas, I heard another knock on the door. My heart sank. Whoever it was, I didn’t want to talk to them. All I wanted was my bed, and the oblivion of sleep where I didn’t have to think about money or men.
Reluctantly, I headed back downstairs and pulled open the door. On the doorstep was a tub of Sara Lee Pralines and Cream ice-cream.
TWENTY-THREE
With the twin motivations of Debbie’s determination and my desperation, the two of us contacted all the big department and home furnishing stores in the country over the next couple of days.
Given Handley Smith’s interest, I had been holding out hope that one of the other big chains would snap up our books, but none of them seemed remotely interested. Almost every response was the same. ‘We think it has potential in theory, but our buyers have already completed this season’s range. We’d be interested in looking at any other products you develop.’
‘That is the business equivalent of “I’ll respect you in the morning”,’ Debbie fumed. ‘I’d like them more if they just said, “Hate it – can’t use it.” Why can’t anyone see the potential here?’
‘I don’t know, Deb, maybe we just got it wrong. Maybe people do want their baby books traditional,’ I said miserably.
Next we moved on to smaller retail outlets. However, after contacting every store in New South Wales that could conceivably have been interested in our product, we had interest for a grand total of eighty books.
Things were looking so bleak that Debbie started talking about the need to find another job. As for me, I’d even thought about asking Dad and Elizabeth for help. Dad always insisted that he was ‘as fit as a fiddle’ but I could hear the tension in Elizabeth’s voice whenever we spoke about his health. The last thing I wanted to do was to give him something to worry about, so I decided to keep my money problems to myself.
