Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  My eyes flew to the food. All that effort, all his favourite things which over the weeks through careful, sneaky listening I’d gleaned like a mole, like an FBI agent, and now here they all were, following one another in quick succession. What would he think? Well, he’d either think it was an incredible coincidence or he’d think I was passionately in love with him, that’s what. Oh God, was I? I went hot. Was I in love with him? I sat down for a moment. Felt my forehead. I didn’t want to answer that question. I was his tenant, for heaven’s sake, and he was married, it was unthinkable that he’d even consider me of course but even if he did it was such a betrayal of trust and – oh, bugger the trust, what was I going to do about the sodding food! I wrung my hands miserably over the asparagus and quails’ eggs. I could, I supposed, squirt tomato ketchup over the lot and douse the guinea fowl in vinegar to put him off the scent, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Professional pride wouldn’t let me. I swallowed hard. No, the food would have to stay immaculate but I, meanwhile, had to look as dishevelled and undesirable as possible. That was my penance. I had to look as if absolutely nothing could be further from my mind than a romantic little evening à deux. Hastily I messed up my hair till it stood on end, found some chewing gum I’d confiscated from Toby, popped it in and chewed hard. Yuk. I knew I had a spot brewing on my forehead so I gave it a quick pick – there, that should flare up nicely. Then I zapped on the television, turning the volume up sky high, and flopped down in front of it, swinging one leg over the arm of the chair in an attitude of oikish nonchalance. I was just wishing I could fart to order like Toby to pep up the ambience when in walked Joss.

  ‘Hi. Sorry I’m late. Hope you weren’t waiting for me.’ He went to wash the dust from his hands in the sink.

  ‘Eh?’ I turned bleary eyes on him, chewing gormlessly, as if totally brain-damaged by Brookside. I blinked.

  ‘Oh, hi, Joss. No, not at all.’

  ‘Mmm, that’s a smell I recognize. Chanel, isn’t it?’

  My rotating jaws froze. I flushed to my rumpled roots. ‘Um … yes. Yes, it is.’ Bugger.

  ‘Very pleasant. Are we eating in here then?’

  ‘Er, yes. I mean, where else?’

  ‘Well, why don’t we take it through to the hall? It’s so unbearably grim in here with this God-awful overhead light. Here, grab one end and I’ll take the other.’

  He pushed open the side door with his bottom and stood poised at one end of the table. Dumbly I stood up and took the other end. Together we carried it through. He’d lit the fire, I noticed, and as we set the table down in front of it, all at once, with the golden walls, the red carpet, the books and the antiques, it became a rather cosy dining room.

  He looked around, frowning. ‘D’you know, it’s funny, I could have sworn there was a table lamp on that chest over there, I wonder where –’

  ‘Oh, I know where it is, I was – borrowing it!’ I flashed back into the kitchen and returned with it triumphantly.

  ‘Excellent. Now. Candles d’you think?’

  ‘Why not?’ I gasped, feeling a bit of knee tremble coming on and smoothing my hair down a bit.

  ‘I wonder where –’

  ‘I know!’ I almost screeched, and scampered off to retrieve the candles like an eager old spaniel on the scent of his master’s slippers. I found them in the kitchen drawer where I’d flung them. They were still hot. Bit like me. Calm down, Rosie, calm down. I breathed deeply. And don’t pant.

  I hastened back. He took them from me and lit them. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Yes, much!’ My voice was squeaky. I cleared my throat. ‘Much,’ I growled. I looked around. Blimey, this was an even more seductive atmosphere than the one I’d created in the kitchen.

  ‘Kitty and I used to eat in here when we could be bothered,’ he explained matter-of-factly as he sat down.

  ‘Ah. Right.’ I dithered stupidly for a moment, then hastened off to the kitchen to get the food. ‘But – you don’t with Annabel?’ I ventured bravely as I came back in.

  He grinned and poured the wine. ‘It might have escaped your notice, Rosie, but Annabel doesn’t exactly eat. Oh, she might nibble a raw lentil if she’s bingeing, but that’s about the extent of her calorific intake.’

  ‘I wish it was mine,’ I sighed as I put the starter down in front of him. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever nibbled anything, as my hips will testify.’ Oh, well done, Rosie, really, well done. Did you really want to draw attention to your bottom so early on in the evening? And of course he glanced down.

  ‘Looks all right to me.’ I cringed and sat down smartly. ‘You’re designed like a woman, that’s all. If you didn’t have hips you’d be a man.’

  I wondered momentarily where this left the twig-like Annabel, but Joss was raising his glass, so I seized mine, anxious not to be left behind.

  ‘Your health. The New Year, a new beginning, whatever takes your fancy.’ He took a sip and winced. ‘Oh God, this is poison, Rosie, where in the hell did you get it?’

  ‘Oddbins,’ I said defiantly. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t quite run to the claret.’

  ‘Oh okay, don’t tell me, I haven’t paid you enough for your help. Well, there’s no need to run to anything as a matter of fact, we’ve got a cellar full here, crazy not to use it.’ And so saying he got up and disappeared. He returned a few minutes later brandishing something that at least had a cork, and which he declared infinitely more drinkable.

  And so the evening progressed. We ate, we drank, the conversation flowed, and on the odd occasion when it did fall winded to the table on account of one or two of my more nervous efforts, he picked it up again, carrying it forward smoothly, effortlessly. He talked about the exhilaration of suddenly becoming sought after, after years of struggle, and of the pressure he felt to always produce good and innovative work. But he didn’t just talk about himself. Without getting too personal he asked me about myself, how my business was going, whether I enjoyed being in the country, if I was lonely, or if I was secretly relieved to get out of London. I found myself telling him about Harry, too, about the dreadful time when he’d threatened to take Ivo away from me, and I discovered it helped to talk, to get it off my chest. Gradually, by the time we got to the pudding, helped by the wine, the food, and the heat from the fire, I’d learned to relax. I sat back, replete, and looked around, wiping my mouth.

  ‘This is a lovely room.’

  ‘You’ve said that before.’

  ‘Have I? God, how moronic.’

  ‘No, but surroundings matter to you, don’t they?’

  I thought this over. ‘Yes, I suppose they do. I certainly couldn’t live in a complete tip like you do.’ Clearly I was emboldened by the wine. ‘But then I suppose you don’t notice things like that,’ I said with a slight smile, ‘being on a higher intellectual plane than the rest of us earthlings and all that.’

  He laughed. ‘Kitty used to say that.’ He looked around. ‘She was happy with this room too. Felt she’d accomplished something here. Yes, this room and her attic.’

  ‘I’ve been up there,’ I said quietly.

  He looked up sharply.

  ‘I – thought I’d better mention it,’ I said nervously, watching his face darken. ‘Only Toby found me up there, so I thought he might say something. I suppose – well, I suppose I just wanted to look.’ I flushed. ‘Nosy, you might say.’

  He shrugged. ‘You might.’ He played with the stem of his glass. ‘So what did you think?’

  ‘Well, I …’ God, what did I think? What did I think of a man who kept a room virtually untouched since the day his wife died? Privately, I thought he still mourned her, and was still deeply in love with her, but I didn’t say so.

  ‘I think it’s a way of keeping her spirit alive. Of hanging on to her memory. And that’s nice. I certainly got a sense of who she was.’

  He nodded. ‘You think I’m a sad old git.’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  He sighed wearily. ‘Last summer,
Annabel chivvied and bullied me about it to such an extent that I damn nearly got around to clearing it out. But then I mentioned it to Toby and he didn’t speak to me for three days.’ He shrugged. ‘Somehow it never happened.’

  ‘Toby’s still very young. In a year or two he’ll come round. Maybe you could do it together.’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe.’ He set his spoon down and looked bleakly into his empty pudding bowl. ‘Well now, Rosie. That was really very, very disappointing.’

  I started.

  He grinned. ‘Don’t be silly, it was absolutely delicious. The best meal I’ve eaten in years, and let me tell you I’ve parked my backside in some so-called swanky places recently. You don’t need me to tell you that you are one extremely talented cook, so why aren’t you doing anything about it?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, Martha tells me you trained with that pan-chucking, enfant terrible of the cookery world, Jean-Philippe Whatsisname. You don’t suffer for your art like that unless you’ve got some kind of end in your sights, so what’s the end?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said vaguely, getting up and clearing the plates. ‘There’s the pub, of course, and I thought I might cook a few dinner parties while I’m here, make up batches of lasagne for harassed housewives, that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Well, it is now, yes. I mean years ago, hell no, I had all sorts of plans, but I’ve got to cut my cloth accordingly. I’ve got Ivo, I’m a widow, I –’

  ‘What sort of plans?’ he cut across me.

  ‘Oh well, then it was to have my own restaurant of course.’

  ‘What kind of restaurant?’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Yes, of course I know,’ I said slowly. ‘I know exactly. I know down to the design of the menu, the colour of the tablecloths, the paint on the walls, the type of flour I’d use to bake the bread, the sort of pastry, the flowers – of course I know. It’s been my dream, my sanctuary, since I was eighteen. We all have a place to go in our heads to hide, that’s always been mine.’

  He took the plates from me. ‘Leave those. Sit. Tell me.’

  And so I did. I sat down and told him exactly. About how it would be a country restaurant attached to a farm shop and how fresh produce would go from there into the restaurant every day and how anyone coming to eat in the restaurant would be encouraged to visit the farm shop to buy for themselves. I told him that in order to get to the restaurant, diners would have to walk right through the kitchen, along a glass partition, so they could see the food being prepared. I told him that having gone through this ultra modern, state-of-the-art preparation area, they’d find themselves in a light, airy, traditional dining room and not the operating theatres so beloved in London, all chrome and glass, and ghastly overhead spotlights. Its deep, parchment walls would be lined with oil paintings, water colours and groaning bookcases, a log fire would be blazing in the grate, and mahogany tables, set not too close together, would lead to two sets of French doors, thrown open in summer and issuing on to a terrace. Here there’d be a few more tables, and around them cottage garden plants would spill out of ancient urns. The herb garden would come right up to the terrace, the sun releasing its heady scent in the summer, and beyond that would be a vegetable garden sloping down to an orchard and then up the other side to a vista of hills beyond. I told him how only the very best, the very freshest ingredients would be used in the restaurant and how the emphasis would be on home-produced English food like hare, pheasant, fish and seasonal vegetables, and not the tarted up pasta and polenta that was so fashionable in restaurants nowadays. It would be back to our roots, but without the overcooked heaviness so often associated with English food. I told him about the wine list, about the prices I envisaged, I even told him my idea of getting a string quartet, perhaps from a local music college, who might be persuaded to play in the evenings for some pocket money. In short, I told him my dreams. I must say, he listened very politely. When I’d finished, he cleared his throat.

  ‘So why haven’t you done all this?’

  ‘What with, chocolate buttons?’

  ‘Well, I’m not suggesting the money’s going to fall out of the sky, but I believe the received wisdom is to go to one’s bank manager with a business plan, pretty much like the one you’ve just presented to me, borrow the money and gradually pay it back.’

  I gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, Joss, have you got any idea how many aspiring restaurateurs do that every year? How many people borrow, open, cook, struggle, fail, close, go bankrupt, collapse, get therapy and end up at the funny farm? I just can’t afford to take risks like that!’

  ‘Okay, so don’t.’

  I stared at him. ‘Oh, it’s all right for you, isn’t it? All your dreams ever involved was fiddling about with bits of rock, or torturing a lump of iron with a blow torch. Not much outlay there, not much loss of sleep on the loan repayments, not many salaries to pay at the end of the month, not much loss of face either really, because who’s to know if your Greek gods don’t come up to scratch in the privacy of your own studio?’

  ‘Is that what bothers you then? Loss of face?’

  ‘No, it isn’t actually and – my God, you’re beginning to sound just like my brother!’

  ‘Ah, so I’m treading a well-worn path, am I? With the famous film director, who I gather knows my wife, incidentally.’

  I glanced at him quickly, but his face was impassive. I nodded. ‘Yes, well, Tom says much the same. About how I’m afraid to compete, afraid to stick my head above the parapet. Fear seems to be the number one driving force in my character actually,’ I said cheerfully. ‘My main asset.’

  He smiled. ‘Not fear. Just lack of confidence.’ He got up and went to the bureau. ‘Glass of Madeira?’

  ‘Please.’

  I thought this over. Yes, I supposed I did lack confidence. I watched as Joss poured the drinks at the sideboard and caught sight of a photograph of his wife at his elbow. Unlike her, of course. It was a black and white studio shot, chin resting on hand, mouth full and pouting, moody eyes straight to camera. Oh yes, she had confidence, she had it in spadefuls. Bucketfuls, in fact. I looked into her direct, smouldering gaze and wondered if you were born like that, came out of the womb zinging with self-assurance, or whether you became that way because everyone just fell at your feet the moment you entered the room. Beauty was so easy, wasn’t it? It made life so incredibly simple. A bit like falling off a log.

  ‘I hope she hasn’t been giving you too much of a hard time.’

  I came to, sharply. Joss was sitting opposite me again, following my eyes.

  ‘N-no. No, not at all,’ I faltered, reaching for my glass.

  ‘It’s just her way, I’m afraid. You mustn’t take it personally.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I said, thinking yes, well, rudeness could be my way too, but clearly I don’t have the ‘confidence’.

  I picked up my spoon and idly smeared the last traces of ice cream around my plate with the back of it. Suddenly I felt miserable. ‘She’ll be back soon, I imagine.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, first thing. She could only get a night flight, unfortunately.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘I mean for us. I’m afraid the Red-Eye tends to make her a bit irritable.’

  So what’s new? I thought bleakly. ‘Is she … very successful?’ I heaved this up from somewhere, wondering how on earth I’d managed to steer the conversation so disastrously around to his wife.

  ‘Oh, sure she is, in her field.’

  What’s that, anything with a dollar sign in front of it? I wondered bitchily.

  ‘Which is why she sometimes comes across as being rather,’ he hesitated, ‘well, difficult. It’s the stress that comes with success, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Must be dreadful.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s just her way, Rosie. She’s used to being something of a star and there’s a tendency to overstep the mark without really realizing it. I gather
she summoned you up here to run errands at Christmas. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s all right. I don’t mind doing a bit of shopping for her, although I might draw the line at buying your contraceptives in future.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Oh – nothing.’

  ‘What contraceptives?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just – she asked me to get some condoms.’

  He frowned. ‘We don’t use condoms.’

  I stared at him. I think it dawned on us simultaneously.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he drawled, ‘so that’s her game now, is it?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Well, whaddya know.’

  I gazed down at my plate. Jesus Christ, they hadn’t been for him. So – was she having an affair? I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. Oh God, how awful. How could I have said that? And I must look like the arch bitch too, just casually dropping it into the conversation, but it simply hadn’t occurred to me they might not be for him.

  There was a terrible silence. Above the fireplace the clock ticked slowly. A log shifted in the grate. I glanced at the clock. In a few more seconds it would be midnight. Joss’s eyes swept up just as the hands met vertically.

  ‘Twelve o’clock,’ he said grimly. ‘Happy New Year, Rosie.’

  ‘Happy New Year,’ I muttered.

  He raised his glass. ‘To auld acquaintance,’ he said bitterly. ‘Lest they be forgot.’ He knocked his wine back in one and set the glass back on the table. Stared at it bleakly. ‘For the sake of auld lang syne … yeah, auld lang syne …’

  I stared at him. He seemed to have gone into a trance, staring fixedly at a spot on the table just beyond his wine glass. I bit my lip. He was clearly devastated. And I’d wreaked that devastation. I remembered his inscription in the poetry book and I remembered Alex telling me how crazy they were about each other. We sat there in tortured silence. Then a cry rent the air.