by Prue Leith
Kate looked from Talika to Amal and decided that she would veto Australia. These were such wonderful friends. A lot more important to her than Chris.
Talika’s contractions were increasing in frequency and depth, and conversation became more disjointed. Talika caught Kate’s eye and Kate said, ‘Sanjay, suppose you and I go and explore this hospital and see if we can find a drink and a biscuit or something. Then we’ll go home and get some sleep, and come back to see Mummy and the baby in the morning. Shall we?’
Talika, whose brow was beginning to have a fine sheen of sweat upon it, said, ‘Sanjay darling, give Mummy a hug and a kiss. Next time you see me you’ll be kissing your new brother or sister too. So I want a proper kiss while I can have you all to myself.’
Sanjay half climbed onto the bed and wrapped his arms round Talika’s neck and kissed her. ‘Yuk,’ he said, ‘you’re all sweaty.’ He put his ear to his mother’s belly. ‘Hey, baby,’ he said, ‘see you soon, OK?’
Sanjay fell asleep in the taxi back to Amal and Talika’s house. Kate pulled his trainers, jacket and trousers off and tucked him, floppy as a rag doll, into bed without benefit of pyjamas or washing. She looked at his face, innocent and vulnerable as all sleeping children are, and thought, poor little chap, you’ve no idea of the serious competition for your Mummy’s attention you are going to have to put up with.
She lay, still dressed, on top of Amal and Talika’s duvet with the coverlet over her, and stared at the invisible ceiling. She so badly wanted another child, but not with Chris. She wanted the father to be someone like Oliver. No, not someone like. Oliver. She wanted Oliver’s child. Would that not be the answer to everything? If Oliver loved me, I would surely love him.
She felt a tear slowly running across her temple into her hair, and then another on the other side, while she gave in to longing – longing for Oliver. She let herself, for the first time, simply dream the impossible: that Oliver would fall in love with her, leave Ruth, marry her, have a baby with her and live happily ever after. It was the most trite of fantasies, the most banal of ambitions. Unworthy and impossible, but how could she help it?
In the morning Kate shook her head in disbelief at her tears and dreams of the night before. Oliver did not love her. The best she could hope for was that he’d stay her friend. If he and Ruth divorced, he would need a friend, a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on. Maybe she could go on being his confidante, his understanding mate. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was something.
As she woke Sanjay and dressed him to meet his new-born sister (her arrival announced by text sent at three a.m.), she knew she would not settle for marriage to Chris, not even for Toby’s sake.
When Kate got home from delivering Sanjay to his family in the hospital, Chris had his coat on and was champing at the bit.
‘Christ, Kate, I’m meant to be in the City, cooking for Roger. I’d forgotten and he’s going ballistic.’
‘Roger?’
‘Yeah, that Aussie guy with the gastro pub. Anyway, I’m off. Bye.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘No idea. See ya.’ He gave her a grin and a hug and rubbed Toby’s head, and he was gone.
It was as typical as it was irritating. He was all over the place. He was hopeless at communication, seldom told her where he was, or what time he’d be back. No news is good news, he said, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. He gets blown about by wind or whim, she thought. It’s sad, but I’m about to blow him right out of here too.
In fact Chris was back in two hours. And in a filthy temper, thought Kate, as she heard him slam the door and throw his backpack against the wall.
She and Toby were cuddled up on the sofa, watching children’s TV, and Toby was so absorbed he didn’t look up. Kate went out to Chris and closed the door behind her.
‘Arsehole,’ he said, ‘that bloody Roger sent me home. Said I should have been there at eight. Wouldn’t even cough up for the taxi fare.’
‘You took a taxi? When you’re barely on the minimum wage?’
‘Had to. I was late.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were working today?’
‘Because I bloody forgot, woman. I told you. Do you want to hear it again?’ He gave his backpack a kick. ‘I forgot. I forgot. I forgot.’
Kate felt dismay more than anger. She shook her head and turned away.
‘Anyway,’ said Chris, quieter now, ‘I had to babysit your precious son, didn’t I?’
‘Not your son then, Chris? Well, I’m glad of that, because this isn’t working.’
‘What do you mean?’ She saw the flash of fear in his eyes. God, she thought, this is going to be horrible.
‘Come into the kitchen, Chris. We have to talk.’
She walked ahead of him. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ Delaying the inevitable. He shook his head.
She went up to him thinking he might put a hand on her shoulder and they could do this with affection. But he stood before her like a chastened schoolboy, his arms hanging by his sides. She took his wrists in her hands and looked into his face. ‘Chris, you have to go. I’m sorry.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Kate, why? We’re great together. It’s wonderful.’
‘In bed, yes.’ She didn’t tell him that now even that only worked because she pretended he was someone else. She said, ‘You’re a terrific lover, Chris. But we don’t love each other. You don’t really, really love me, do you?’
‘I do. Of course I do.’ He had a trapped look, which triggered a memory of this very conversation, many years ago. He doesn’t know how to love, she thought. ‘And I think you love me,’ he went on, ‘as much as anyone—’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she cut in, ‘and maybe I’m a fantasist. But I want much more than sex and affection. Maybe it’s a female thing. Women, I think, want their men to be stronger than they are, better at everything than they are. They want to respect and admire their men. They want to trust them. They want them to be better people than they are. They want to idolise them. Most of all they want to be looked after.’
Chris yanked his arms out of her grip and swung away from her, then back to face her. ‘That’s such bollocks, Kate. You are always going on about equality and women’s rights and all that feminist crap, and now you sound like some simpering romantic. If you don’t want me, have the courage to say so.’
‘I didn’t say it was reasonable. I don’t think women are always reasonable. In fact I think most marriages hit the rocks because of women’s unreasonable expectations. They want equal rights, they want to be the boss in the office, they want the top jobs, but they are far too picky about a mate. Men have no problem marrying the air hostess, or the cocktail waitress. They’re always marrying their juniors or underlings. They quite like having non-competitive stupid wives. But women want to marry the boss. They don’t want a tasty bit of beefcake with a six-pack and a nice bum and nothing between the ears. They want equal rights AND they want to marry Mr Darcy or Rhett Butler.’
Chris’s voice was very bitter. ‘So I’m brainless beefcake, is that the problem?’
Suddenly Kate realised how much too far she had gone. In expounding her little theory she’d almost forgotten she was talking to a man she was in the process of dumping. A man with a heart, and feelings.
She shut her eyes. ‘I’m so, so sorry. Of course I didn’t mean that. I was just banging on about something I’ve thought a lot about. This is far more about my unreasonable demands than any inadequacies of yours.’
‘Yeah,’ said Chris with a little snort, ‘I bet. So let’s have your list of my inadequacies.’
‘What is the point, Chris? Let’s just say I want more, in the way of responsibility, money, seriousness, looking after, than you can give me or Toby.’
‘Well, that’s pretty clear then.’ He looked at her and she saw his eyes were wet and his face flushed. She steeled herself and said, ‘And I want you to go because your presence will prevent me ever finding that chap, if he exis
ts, which of course I doubt.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Relations between Oliver and Ruth were a little less strained since the terms of their divorce were now agreed and the world knew that they were separated. The Londoner’s Diary had carried news of the petition and a few lines of speculation, with a mention of Oliver’s long lunch with Kate, but his hide had been toughened over the last year and he shrugged it off.
One Saturday afternoon, towards the end of November, Oliver and Ruth took the girls to the National Theatre to see War Horse. A pre-Christmas panto was a family tradition and Oliver was determined not to abandon the ritual now he and Ruth were no longer together.
The children were mesmerised by the giant horse-puppets, and genuinely interested in the First World War. Oliver and Ruth spent most of the interval explaining about trenches and barbed wire, about the transition from horses to tanks, about shell shock and the numberless dead on both sides.
‘Aren’t they taught any history?’ asked Ruth.
But they all loved the play, and Oliver was glad of the improbably sentimental ending. He’d feared realism, and consequently tearful daughters.
Ruth and the girls went to get their coats from the cloakroom, and Oliver waited for them by the lifts. He felt a tentative tap on his shoulder and turned to see Kate and Toby.
He felt a flush of pleasure. He’d been meaning to ring her. ‘How wonderful to see you, Kate. Have you been somewhere hot and sunny? You look brown.’
She shook her head. ‘Straight out of a bottle,’ she said.
‘It smells horrible,’ volunteered Toby. ‘She puts it on her legs too.’
They both laughed. Kate said, ‘What a coincidence to see you here. I sent you an email today. But maybe you haven’t read it yet?’
‘I did, and thank you. I thought we might—’ He was interrupted by the arrival of Ruth and the girls.
There were slightly awkward introductions all round. Ruth said, ‘Yes, I remember. We met at Kew,’ as if there had been no other connection, and Oliver was embarrassed for Kate. Oliver asked Toby if he remembered him, and Toby turned shy and shook his head in silence.
Oliver was aware that poor Kate was bewildered. Her email, which he had read just before leaving to collect the family from the station, was a brief condolence.
Just seen the Evening Standard. Damn Jarvis Stanley. Divorce is such a brutal word. But I know you love the girls too much to let it affect them unduly. Don’t fret. It will all come good. Kate. P.S. And I owe you lunch. Any day during the school holidays?
The next day, Oliver telephoned her. The phone rang and rang and he was about to abandon it, when Kate’s voice answered with a slightly breathless Hello.
‘Kate, it’s Oliver, I was about to give up.’
‘Yes, sorry. I was making apple crumble with Toby and we both had sticky hands.’
‘Mmm, delicious, I love crumble.’
‘Oliver, I’m so sorry about my email. I thought you and Ruth were getting divorced. I felt such an idiot. Ruth must have …’
‘Kate, that’s why I rang. We are divorcing, but we’re trying to do family things. Like the theatre.’
‘Ah.’ There was a short silence, then she said, ‘It was good, the play, wasn’t it?’
They talked briefly about War Horse and then Oliver said, ‘Kate, you said lunch in the school holidays. Are you still up for it?’
‘Of course I am. I can’t take you to the Wolseley or anything half as grand, but …
‘You could make me apple crumble. I miss your cooking. And if it was supper or at the weekend it could be in term time and I could see young Toby too.’
She said, her voice a little higher, excited. ‘You could come to lunch today if you like. But I guess you’re in the country?’
‘No, in fact I’m not. Ruth has taken the girls to her parents and I guess she thinks I had my ration of seeing them last night, so I stayed in London. I’ve been Christmas shopping. There are all sorts of things I’m learning. Christmas shopping is one, and I don’t like it. I’ve retreated to a coffee joint in the Westfield shopping centre. This place is heaving. It’s horrible. And on a Sunday in the middle of a recession.’
‘Would a rather late Sunday lunch help? It won’t be ready till two-thirty. That might give you time to go back into the fray and buy those presents.’
Oliver felt his spirits lift immediately. Lunch would be perfect. He wanted to see Kate, but didn’t want it to feel like a date. He would not have to eat on his own in one of these sterile trendy cafés. He could stop shopping. And he could give Toby the kite he had bought for Andrea. He’d loved kites as a child and this was such a beautiful one, like a bird with a long swooping tail. Only one problem, the Aussie partner, Chris, would be there. But if Kate didn’t see a problem, why should he?
Oliver arrived precisely at two-thirty, and was relieved to find another couple and their children already there. Chris could hardly be aggressive with other guests in the house. The couple turned out to be the Indian pair he remembered Kate talking about, her best friends who had taken over her business. Their new baby was the centre of adult attention, while Toby and their son hung about waiting to be released.
Oliver gave Kate the white poinsettia he’d bought in the shopping centre, and handed the huge kite to Toby. The lad’s excitement, and that of the other boy, Sanjay, was gratifying, but he quickly realised he’d made a mistake. The boys were desperate to fly the thing, but there wasn’t time before lunch to go to the park, and it would be dark by the time they were finished. Kites should be a summer present for flying on long warm evenings.
Kate ruffled Toby’s hair and said, ‘Darling, we will fly it next weekend, I promise.’ The boys, clearly disappointed, were persuaded to play tennis on the Wii in the shed, bequeathed to them by Chris who had bought it in one of his bursts of extravagance with Kate’s money.
‘Oh Kate,’ said Oliver as soon as they were out of the room. ‘I’m so thoughtless. Kites need an adult, at least if you’re learning. You’ll have Toby badgering you for weeks, but you’ll not be able to do it. Maybe Chris …?’
She looked directly at him before she answered. ‘Chris has gone back to Australia. It didn’t work out.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry …’ But he didn’t feel in the least sorry.
‘Don’t be.’ She flashed him a grin. ‘There are no secrets here. Amal and Talika did not approve of Chris. Nor did Toby, though I’m keen he should have a good relationship with his dad. As for me, I think I was mad to let him back in my life at all. In fact this lunch – we don’t have good roast beef every Sunday, I assure you – is by way of a celebration. Two actually. The first visit of baby Aliana to the house, and the departure of Chris from it, though I have not said as much to Toby. Chris going is, I must say, a huge relief.’
Oliver was slightly taken aback by her frankness, but impressed by the way she said it all with such lightness and charm.
‘The kite will be great fun,’ she said. ‘It will get me out to the park, and I could do with that. Not that I have ever flown a kite. If I follow the instructions, will it work?’
Amal was examining the kite. ‘This is an absolute beauty,’ he said, ‘and I know about these things. I grew up with kites, mostly made out of bamboo and brown paper on the kitchen table. Although I confess we have a bought one now. Not as good as this, though.’
Oliver said, ‘I used to make them too. That was half the fun. I’ll challenge you to a making-and-flying contest, Amal.’
Kate suddenly said, ‘Look, is anyone absolutely starving? If we can all hold out for another hour, you could fly the kite now, and we could have lunch when you get back. It’s a perfect day, and I can see you two are itching to fly the thing. More than the boys, I suspect.’
‘But won’t the dinner be ruined?’ asked Oliver.
‘Ah,’ said Kate, ‘you are forgetting you’re talking to a caterer. We have ways.’
Oliver had not had so much fun for years. Amal had
ducked back home to fetch their kite and he and Sanjay flew it with great confidence. Toby learnt fast, and quite soon could keep the great blue bird from its tendency to suicidal plunging.
When they got back, cold and hungry, they sat down at once. The baby slept in a sling at Talika’s side.
‘This is delicious,’ said Oliver, ‘I’d forgotten what an expert you are. I was sure we’d get overcooked beef and rock-dry Yorkshire pudding as the price for being an hour late.’
‘Well, you’ve got luke warm beef instead. It’s been out of the oven for an hour and a half. But I comfort myself in the knowledge that lukewarm food has the most flavour. I read somewhere that the nearer to our body temperature food is, the better taste buds operate.’
‘It’s perfect, but so is the Yorkshire, and the spuds, and the veg. All as if just cooked. Explain please, ladies.’
Kate grinned at him, amused and pleased with herself. ‘Tell him, Talika,’ she said.
‘The Yorkshire hadn’t gone in yet when you arrived. So it didn’t go in until half an hour ago,’ said Talika. ‘And those are sauté potatoes, which stay happy for ever, not roasties which go leathery, and Kate pre-cooked the veg and dunked it in cold water to set the colour. Then nuked it in the micro at the last minute.’
‘OK, OK. You are brilliant, Kate.’
Oliver looked across at Kate, confidently carving the beef into neat slices, scooping up the juices, instinctively arranging the food attractively on each plate: two slices of overlapping pink beef, shiny from its libation of boiling hot gravy, a clump of bright cabbage and carrots, a slice of Yorkshire pudding, a crunchy potato, crumbly at the edges. She worked fast, but it seemed without needing to give the job her full attention. Her focus was on the children, on Talika, on him. No doubt about it, at home Kate was a softer, more relaxed and happy woman. He hoped the departure of Chris had something to do with that.
Oliver spent the Christmas holiday in his flat in the country. He offered to buy and cook the Christmas lunch for the family in the house, which would allow the girls and Ruth to go riding in the morning.
