A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  A SERVING OF SCANDAL

  ALSO BY PRUE LEITH

  Leaving Patrick

  Sisters

  The Gardener (originally published as A Lovesome Thing) Choral Society

  A SERVING OF SCANDAL

  PRUE LEITH

  New York • London

  © 2010 by Prue Leith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to Permissions c/o Quercus Publishing Inc., 31 West 57th Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10019, or to permissions@quercus.com.

  ISBN 978-1-62365-365-1

  Distributed in Canada by Random House Publisher Services

  c/o Random House, 1745 Broadway

  New York, NY 10019

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  For Daniel and Emma

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Ever since my first novel had my hero fishing on the Scottish bank of the Tweed on a Sunday and a surprising number of fly-fishermen had the pleasure of pointing out my mistake, I’ve been neurotic about factual errors. I check all sorts of things that really don’t need to be accurate in a work of fiction, but I can’t help it.

  I am no habitué of the Westminster village, so am grateful for help with the protocol and practices of government departments from Lords Malloch-Brown, Hurd and Chadlington, from Danny Kruger, Derek Wyatt, MP and Anne Power.

  Sarah Seabright gave me help on antique Yemeni jewellery; Jo Darke and Philip Ward-Jackson on the sculptures on Hyde Park Corner; Katherin Townsend on the etiquette involved in vaulting on horseback; Helen Smith on the Wolseley Restaurant; Nat Moser on Russian expressions; Jo Jennings and Charlotte Arnold on the furnishings and layout of Hampton Court Palace; Vivien Bedford on commercial flower buying at New Covent Garden; Hilary Knight on how much a newspaper might pay for a juicy kiss-and-tell; Pelham Ravenscroft and Martin Chown for locating an Anthony Trollope quotation about politics; Jonathan Sankson for how banks lend money, and Paula Hudson on pre-teen culture such as the likelihood of ten-year-olds saying ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist’. (Answer: they wouldn’t.)

  And then, once again, I must thank Jane Turnbull, my agent, for liking my writing and putting energy and commitment into selling it, and my editor Jane Wood for excellent suggestions on improvement which I hate getting but end up acknowledging as dead right: e.g. ‘Your favourite word is “O” (which by the way should be spelt “Oh”) and at least fifty per cent of them should go.’ And I want to thank Lucy Ramsey in advance, in the hopes that she will do as brilliant a job on publicising and marketing this novel as she did on Choral Society.

  Enormous thanks too to my PA, Francisca Sankson, who has read the book like a policeman doing a finger-tip search. She’s the one who tells me that so-and-so’s eyes where brown in Chapter X, so how come they are blue now; that if it’s June, why is it snowing? Writing without Francisca’s intelligence, beady eye, and general confidence that all will come right in time would be very hard.

  A SERVING OF SCANDAL

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Are you waiting at table then? You can hardly do it in chef’s whites.’

  The voice was not friendly. Kate turned from the sink to see Dennis, the Foreign Office butler, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed behind his designer frames. Hell, she thought. Why him? Why couldn’t I have had Tom, or Rodrigo? Dennis was the head butler and a pain. Reaching round her back for the dishcloth tucked into her apron to dry her hands, she said, ‘Hello, Dennis, I didn’t know you were here. It’s only a working lunch isn’t it?’

  ‘This is One Carlton Gardens,’ he replied, ‘and the official residence of the Foreign Secretary. We have standards to maintain.’

  Kate, knowing she must work with the man, said evenly, ‘And I will not let you down, don’t worry. But I did clear my waitressing with Julian, and I’ll wear a black apron over the top. It’ll be fine.’

  Dennis gave his head a little shake of disapproval. He did not like the facilities manager, to whom they all reported.

  Kate said, ‘Of course if you want to do it, that would be wonderful, but as it’s such a tiny job I said I could manage on my own.’ Better lay it on thick, she thought, and added, ‘I’m sure you’ve got much more important stuff to see to.’

  ‘I have, as it happens, though I do not like to leave the Secretary of State unattended, even for a small working lunch.’

  She shrugged, pulling her mouth down in an ironic moue. ‘Everyone, even the government, is trying to save money. The budget is so tight, I’ll be lucky if I cover my costs. Julian seemed to think I could do it for the price of the food.’

  ‘What do you mean? You make a fortune.’

  ‘I wish. I do OK, but not on a job for four. If it was anyone other than the Foreign and Commonwealth Office I’d have turned it down, but I’ve got to impress the new boss.’ She picked up two sauté pans and shoved them upside down onto the pot rack.

  Dennis, leaning against the fridge, was inspecting his nails, which irritated Kate. She’d have liked him out of her kitchen. Only it wasn’t her kitchen.

  ‘You won’t get the catering contract here, you know,’ he said. ‘We have our own chef and he’s really good.’ He shrugged and turned to study his reflection in the shiny chrome fish kettle. ‘Only he’s sick today, so needs must.’

  Kate had to make an effort not to rise to this. ‘Dennis, come on … you know all I’m after is keeping my place on the approved list of party caterers for the department. Oliver Stapler has a reputation as something of a foodie and he might just have a pet caterer of his own. I don’t want some Chelsea girl with connections shoe-horning me out.’

  Dennis gave a dismissive little snort. ‘That’s all gone now. Government jobs have to be awarded after a proper selection process. You were lucky you got in before the rules changed.’

  Thanks very much, thought Kate. But she kept her tone pleasant as she laid out her starter plates on the worktop and switched the subject back to practicalities.


  ‘Are you doing the drinks or do you want me to? The starter and pud are cold, so I can easily manage it.’

  ‘No, of course not. A sommelier’s job can’t be done by any Tom, Dick or Harry.’

  What a tosser, she thought; they’d only drink water anyway, but she was determined not to give him any ammunition so she smiled and said, ‘Well, at least I am none of those.’

  ‘I’m more concerned about you doing the waiter’s job,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Since you’ve decided to do it yourself, I’m prepared to run you through the do’s and don’ts.’

  Kate would have liked to punch his self-important paunch, but said, ‘It’s fine, Dennis. I was a waitress long before I was a cook, and I can still carry a row of plates up my arm – and serve from the left and clear from the right. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’

  She watched him glide out of the kitchen with an almost imperceptible sway of his hips, his nose very slightly in the air and his hands held a few inches away from his body. He wore the regulation butler’s uniform but always managed to look infinitely smarter than the others: his striped worsted trousers perfectly cut, starched white cuffs just visible under his tailored jacket, the tie of thick black silk, shoes (even the heels) polished like new. And he always smelt expensive.

  I bet he shaves that bald head, thought Kate. And wears silver hoops in his ears – she’d noticed they were pierced – when off duty. She had a sudden vision of Dennis dancing in a gay club, kissing the neck of a young lad. She shuddered. Well, at least there was no danger of his pushing her up against a storeroom door.

  Kate walked confidently and purposefully about the kitchen but she was anxious. As she ground coriander into the spiced potatoes, and turned them carefully in the pan, her mind stayed on Dennis. She really did not like him, and she was unused to disliking people. Also, she was made uneasy by Dennis’s obvious dislike of her. Why did he try so hard to get up her nose? Surely it was easier and pleasanter to get on with your colleagues? He was charm itself to the clients, nothing too much trouble: Yes, Sir; Certainly, Minister; At once, M’lady. And he was very good at his job, which no doubt accounted for his rise to head butler. But below stairs he was poison, a master of drama. His staff never quite knew if they were in favour or out, and he certainly had it in for all outside contractors – especially the females.

  All she could do was take no notice, tread carefully, and give Dennis no cause for complaint. She was as conscious as he that one word from him to the facilities manager and she would not be hired again.

  Very soon, in the stress-free enjoyment of such a simple job, Kate had forgotten all about Dennis. She laid the table with care. The silver, china and linen were provided by the Foreign Office and, to Dennis’s credit, everything sparkled. She was pleased with herself for bringing a bunch of snowdrops as a centrepiece. The department did not run to extra flowers for internal or inter-departmental events, and though the main rooms would have flowers or plants, the dining table would not. That she and Toby had been out in the garden last night, picking the flowers, was a thought that cheered her. It had been almost dark, but the snowdrops had glowed bright white and the five-year old had dashed from clump to clump, filling his plump hands.

  The raw peeled beetroot for the goats’ cheese starter went through the Robot Coupe in a single long push, and the fine red julienne strips snaked into the bowl below like magic. She sprinkled them with lemon juice and sea salt. She’d have liked to add fresh mint but it was January and, over the years, she’d become ever keener on sticking to seasonal produce. She made four neat piles of beetroot in the centre of each plate and surrounded them with chunks of goat’s cheese and fresh walnuts, then garnished each with a few young beet leaves (poly-tunnel grown, but at least English). All they needed now was a drizzle of good olive oil before serving.

  Rather than risk disturbing the look of her salads with plastic wrap – which she hated wasting in any case, as well as feeling guilty that it was non-biodegradable – she covered each plate with an upended soup bowl and left them on the side. She wanted the cheese to soften slightly to develop its flavour.

  Kate liked cooking on her own. She was fast and methodical, constantly wiping her boards as she used them, washing up as she went along, putting things away. She swung round the kitchen now, tossing debris into the bin, stirring a pot here, flicking salt into a pan there, slamming the bread rolls into a hot oven. She cut deep slashes through the skin of the sea bass fillets, noticing with approval how fresh and thick they were. The fish was wild and had cost a bit, but it was worth it; farmed sea bass were so often skinny and tasteless. She lay the fillets on the greased grill pan. Once she’d got the first course in front of the diners, she’d brush them with melted butter, salt them and bang them under the blazing grill. Seven minutes should do it, then she could whip them off and let them settle while she cleared the first course.

  The leeks were cooked and delicious, the spiced potatoes ditto, the plates warm. The dessert was finely sliced pineapple with a thin dusting of five-spice powder and castor sugar, and the thinnest of ginger thins, made to her grandmother’s recipe. No cheese, just coffee, and exactly four perfect chocolates, filled with brandied cherries. Her friend Talika made those and they cost a fortune.

  The Secretary of State was late, of course, but they sat down straight away. Dennis unfolded their napkins and laid them reverently on their laps (a carry-on that always amused Kate – surely grown men could open out their own napkins?) and she went round with the hot bread rolls, then put the beetroot salads in front of them.

  She had time for a good look at the new Foreign Secretary. He had presence, no doubt of that, and he was good looking in an elegant old-fashioned way. ‘Patrician’ the press called him. He sat straight in his chair, very still, his hands in his lap, and yet he looked as relaxed as his colleagues who leant on the table or lounged back in their chairs. He did not acknowledge her.

  His hair was prematurely grey – at forty-five he was one of the youngest members of cabinet – but it suited him. She could see why the tabloids had him down for a snob and a toff in spite of his Labour credentials. His stillness and silence were unnerving. He listened, nodded, seldom commented, and when he picked up his knife and fork to eat his first course, or his glass to take a sip of water, he did so with no unnecessary movement. His stillness made Kate notice how the other guests pushed their food about the plate, ran their fingers up and down the goblet stem, shifted back and sat forward in their chairs.

  When Kate served the Foreign Secretary’s sea bass, it struck her, as it so often did, that well-brought up people with apparently impeccable manners could not spare the time for a quick glance or a thank you when their food was put before them. Besides, she thought crossly, that fish dish was faultless: the skin was crisp and brown, the flesh plump, moist, glowing white through the cuts in the crusty skin, the fillet sitting on a perfect round of chopped young leeks in a cream sauce. And to the side, a delicate castle (she had used a mould to get a perfect shape) of crumbly, golden, spicy potatoes. And it smelt like heaven. Even he, living off the fat of the land, could not get lunch that good every day. You’d think he’d not seen the plate before him, but since he promptly set about eating it, he obviously had.

  Dennis deigned to serve the coffee but disappeared as soon as the guests had gone, leaving Kate to clear away and wash up alone. She didn’t mind. If it had been one of the other butlers she would have liked the help and the chat – butlers always knew all the political gossip, true and false – but she’d rather have no help at all than that of the petulant Dennis.

  By three o’clock everything was done, grill and cooker-top cleaned, floor mopped, rubbish bagged. As Kate picked up her handbag, a smartly suited young man with dark hair and glasses appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Kate McKinnon? I’m Sean, PPS to the Foreign Secretary. He sent me to have a word.’

  Kate’s heart sank. ‘Was something wrong?’

  ‘No,
no, not at all. He was delighted. He said to tell you he has seldom had a better lunch, and do you do private dinner parties?’

  ‘Whew, that’s a relief.’ She fished in her bag for a business card. ‘Yes, of course I cook private dinners. Love to.’

  ‘Well, he’s got a dinner arranged for next Thursday at his own house in Lambeth, but the chef here was to have done it and, as you know, he’s ill. I was about to appeal to Government Hospitality to find us another, but since he likes your food …?’

  Kate nodded, ‘I’d be happy to step in, but I’ll have to check my diary. I’m pretty sure it will be OK, though.’ It will have to be, she thought.

  Sean looked at her card. “Nothing Fancy.” He smiled. ‘He’ll like that. I’ll be in touch.’

  Kate picked up her handbag and ran her eyes over the kitchen one last time to make sure there was no smudge of grease or crumb on the floor that Dennis could complain of. Then she hurried down the corridor to the cloakroom.

  She stopped at the sight of herself in the mirror, unused to the black apron. She usually wrapped a white chef’s apron round her middle, its multiple folds round her waist giving her a dumpy look. At five foot three and nine stone plus she would never be tall and thin, but the long black apron down to her calves and wrapped tightly round her waist made her look slimmer and taller than she was. And the white of her jacket set off her Celtic colouring, right now heightened by the kitchen heat. She did not wear a chef’s skullcap or toque because it was a struggle to stuff her mop of dark curls into them. She knew she was meant to, but no one had ever challenged her and, as yet, no customer had found a hair in the soup. Her other non-regulation touches were her gold earrings, chunky little hoops which she wore all the time, even in bed or the bath.

  She gave her reflection a brief nod. Bravo, she told herself, a very good day. Everything worked, cooked lovely food, managed not to fight with the poisonous Dennis, impressed the boss.