Food Fight

by Anne Penketh

  “Honestly, don’t worry about it. Of course I was disappointed and hurt, but really, that’s all in the past now. We’ve got to stick together so that DeKripps doesn’t get away with murder. And you’ll have to be careful too. You can be sure they’ll try to intimidate you after what they did to me.”

  She set down her tea cup, more heavily than she’d intended.

  “Anyway, hopefully, in a few months it’ll all be over,” she added. “You don’t know anyone else who might help, do you?”

  “I’m working on it.” Ellen got up to leave and embraced her warmly. “You look good, Susie.”

  “I’m watching what I eat of course. Diabetes.”

  “What, you’ve got it?”

  “Afraid so. Type 2. The self-inflicted type. Or not self-inflicted at all. Maybe I should sue DeKripps myself.”

  Susan led the way to the front door. Standing on the doorstep to say goodbye, she called out, “So is Obama going to win the election?”

  Jed turned round, still holding the two boys by the hand.

  “It looks tight,” he said in his Texan twang. “But it’s Obama’s to lose. Romney just makes one gaffe after another.”

  “He was just here in London, and he said something stupid about the Olympics. He said the preparations were rubbish. The mayor got his own back though.”

  Jed turned his cheeks into a taut smile. “But we’ve still got the conventions to come, and that’s when people start to make up their mind.”

  He probably wasn’t an Obama supporter, Susan thought as she closed the door. Physically, he resembled the ruggedly handsome Republican challenger, or at least he used to.

  She logged onto her emails and saw a message from Mark, asking her to ring him. He picked up straight away, as though waiting for her call.

  “They’ve nailed Stella.”

  “I know. We’ve already discussed that.”

  “No, I mean, really got him.” She waited for the explanation. The police had been going through the bank accounts of his Seattle commune, and they came across a $100,000 transfer to the scientist’s account from DeKripps.

  “So that means—”

  “It means that DeKripps paid him off to gag him,” said Mark. “That’s why he took the Fifth.”

  “And guess what?” he added. “The investigators found that the unsigned confidential document about Project Candy was written on his computer.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  They had their backs to the giant granite cross atop the green swathe of Tennyson Down, and gazed towards France, buffeted by the sea breeze.

  “Can we see Brittany from here do you think?” Lily asked.

  “No way.”

  “Even on a clear day like this?”

  The wind whipped the white horses at the foot of the cliffs.

  “You must miss Serge. I do,” said Lily.

  “Of course. I think about him every day, even now. He’s here,” she said, touching her heart. “But it gets easier, or at least less painful. And having Meadow around makes a difference. I think it’s given Mimi and I a new focus.”

  Lily was on form. She seemed more positive. She’d obtained a restriction order against the stalker who’d disappeared from one evening to the next. The police had found him thanks to the credit card he’d used at the box office. She also confided that she’d sought professional help for stage fright. “Inspired by the new flute, actually.”

  “I’m so glad,” Susan said, wishing she’d persuaded her to consult an expert years ago. Who knew where her musical career might have taken her?

  They sat down on the grass in front of the monument. “Want to play Name that Tune?”

  “Only if I win.” She stretched out her arm for Lily to start tapping.

  It was one of their last outings before Susan’s departure for Washington. They’d taken the Isle of Wight ferry and raced to catch the open-topped bus to the Needles. She led the way upstairs, and didn’t warn Lily about the hairpin bends as the bus rumbled towards its destination. They both screamed like teenagers on a rollercoaster, seemingly on the point of plunging into the turquoise sea with every lurching bend. All it would take would be an unexpected gust of wind. A group of American tourists seated behind them were clinging onto the seats in front, looking queasy.

  “More fun than a Segway,” she said to Lily. They thanked the driver on the way out. “The brakes work after all,” he said, with a grin.

  After the long climb to the top of the down, they traipsed back to Yarmouth along a disused railway line. They walked in silence for a while along the footpath framed by wild flowers.

  “By the way,” said Lily. “Daniel rang me the other day. He wants a divorce.”

  “Oh no. How do you feel about that now? Has he got someone else?”

  “I feel alright, actually. So much time has gone by, and I hadn’t even given him any thought in the last few months. That has to be a good thing, right? I think he wants to get married again, but to be honest, I didn’t even ask. I heard from one of his friends at the BBC that he’s with a jazz singer.”

  “Well you’ve had other things on your mind, such as getting rid of a stalker,” she said. She caught hold of a tall blade of grass and began sucking it between her teeth.

  “Is he still making documentaries?”

  “Last thing I heard, he had a commission on whales.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ve told him I’d think about it, but I want to make a clean break. Do you agree?”

  “Definitely. But what does your Father Confessor say?”

  “Not seen him for years. I suppose you could say I’m a lapsed Catholic now, like everybody else our age.”

  “Yes, Serge said the same thing. In fact, I don’t think he would have chosen a religious funeral. How anyone can be a practising Catholic these days, in the knowledge of how the church abused its own faithful, is beyond me.”

  “Don’t confuse belief with worship, Susie. Being lapsed doesn’t mean that you don’t believe in God. You need a values system bigger than yourself. What about your moral compass?”

  Lily had hit a nerve. “That’s something I thought about at DeKripps. But the sense of doing right didn’t come from believing in God. Although obviously we’re inculcated with Christian values.”

  They made their way along the path, negotiating puddles, clinging to overhanging branches. “Being a whistle-blower certainly made me think about good and bad. It was worse because I know I’m telling the truth and I’ve been maligned by these smears.”

  They walked on in silence, their eyes on the trail ahead.

  Finally Susan took the blade of grass from her lips and said: “It’s strange, you might think that when Serge died it would have restored whatever faith I had. But in fact it was the opposite. I could see that when I went to identify the body at the hospital. When I kissed him, he was stone cold. He was dead, and that was it. It was the same at the funeral, when the priest was talking about the glory of God and the life everlasting. I knew that it didn’t exist. I’m not saying it was any harder or easier to come to terms with, but Serge was the first dead body I’d ever seen. As far as I was concerned, there was a finality I’d never expected. That’s also what made it so hard to endure.”

  “That’s what the rituals are for though, aren’t they? Even if you don’t have faith, they help you get through it by giving you some kind of structure. The priest in Dingy was doing his best.”

  They reached Yarmouth as the sun was setting. Susan loved the ferry journey back to Lymington on calm summer evenings, the burnt orange sunlight glinting on the Solent, Hurst Castle silhouetted in the distance. It could be Venice, the water was as smooth as glass. How lucky she was that her mother had settled in Lymington, after bouncing around the stockbroker belt with husbands one, two and three.

  They arrived in time for dinner in one of the quayside restaurants, where they cracked open a bottle of Chardonnay with their crab salads.

 
; “What are you going to do about the house?” Lily said.

  “Why, are you interested?”

  “Not me. It’s too big for me.”

  “That’s what Mimi said too. She says it’s not convenient for work either. Too many memories as well, I expect. So I’m going to rent it out again. But I think that when I come back, I’ll probably sell it and downsize.”

  “When, or if? What if The Most Ethical Lawyer in the World surprises you?”

  “I don’t see how his scruples would disappear. He was pretty firm the last time I saw him. Anyway, cheers,” she said. They raised their glasses and toasted “DeKripps is Krap.”

  “What about the trial?” Lily said.

  “What about it? There’s still no date. The various strands are still being investigated. The FDA, the police, they’re all on the trail. I don’t know whether it’s taking longer than it should but sometimes it gives me butterflies in my stomach. And apparently DeKripps have offered another settlement as they don’t want it to reach court.”

  Lily didn’t seem surprised. “Remember Big Tobacco. They’re risking big bucks.”

  She accompanied her friend back to the station and headed back to her mother’s, where Nellie was being taught to roll over and jump through a hoop. The Yorkie refused to jump for Susan, even for a chocolate biscuit.

  Usually in the evenings in Lymington, she had only Nellie and the television for company while her mother was out at bridge. So she tried to focus on her life post-DeKripps and the preparations for law school. She’d brought some books for her university course, which she attempted to read, until one morning she came downstairs to discover that Nellie had flung soggy pages of An Introduction to Criminal Law and Procedure all over the sitting room. She smiled to herself, thinking: The dog actually ate my homework.

  She heard voices in the kitchen. Was Mimi here? Then she caught the low burr of a man’s voice, followed by her mother’s gentle laughter. She cleared her throat, feeling like an intruder. They were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea and looked up sharply as though they’d been caught in the act.

  “Morning darling, I was just telling Malcolm about our experience with the paparazzi, living behind closed curtains for weeks like lab rats,” her mother said. “Malcolm, Susan, Susan, Malcolm. Did I mention that he’s my bridge partner?”

  He stood up, ramrod stiff, to shake her hand. He was tall with a moustache and the rakish look of a retired army captain, cravat tucked neatly into a striped shirt. “Please sit down,” she said, before making herself a cup of coffee and escaping upstairs.

  She’s done it again, Susan thought. Husband number four, coming up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was time to leave. Susan was waiting downstairs for Mimi, her two large suitcases side by side at the front door. When she’d left Hackney after Serge’s death she’d taken a flight to a place of darkness, uncertainty and gloom. This time, she knew exactly where she was going and what she wanted. She’d survived.

  She wandered through the house in the early daylight, checking that everything was off: the lights, the gas, the electricity and water. She had her head stuck round the downstairs loo, checking the stopcock, when Mimi rang the doorbell. She opened the door and spontaneously hugged her. Mimi hugged her back before helping her to the car with her cases. Meadow, in a pair of dungarees, was seated in the back.

  “Can we go past the church on the way out?” Susan wanted one last look at St Peter’s church in the square where she’d taken Serge to Christmas carols when Mimi was young. Yellowing leaves were sprinkled at the foot of the tall tower where the clock’s gold fingers announced ten past eight. An orange plastic bag, filled with somebody’s rubbish, was slung over the railings.

  They drove in silence to Heathrow. At one point she’d considered inviting Mimi to join her for the trial in Washington, but that was out of the question because of her immigration violation. Anyway, it would be unfair to expect Josh to take care of Meadow alone.

  Mimi had never been one for airport farewells and Susan she was surprised she’d offered to accompany her. She was even more surprised when they reached the terminal for her flight and Mimi announced she was parking the car. The three of them made their way inside the building, Mimi pushing Meadow in a stroller, and Susan dragging her suitcases into the hall. She turned to Mimi. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. You must go. Don’t forget to keep in touch with granny.”

  Mimi stepped forward. “She’ll be alright. She’s got company now.”

  Again, she hugged Susan, and said “I love you, mum.”

  “I love you too, Mimi. Don’t forget to email me that beetroot risotto recipe.”

  She gave her daughter a last embrace and quickly turned away, the tears springing into in her eyes. When she looked round again from the bag drop queue, they’d already left the terminal.

  She’d loaded up her e-reader with plenty of thrillers for the next few months to keep her mind off her own drama. Josh had emailed her links for a ‘best of” Serge’s articles on Camus, which would save her combing through the entire collection. But she couldn’t concentrate on reading during the flight and found herself flicking through the online films in search of distraction. Her thoughts were beating ahead of her to Washington.

  She’d dressed quickly that morning for the flight, and now regretted not having taken more care with her appearance. As the plane turned over Gander with a few bumps and flew down the eastern seaboard, she felt a mounting anxiety and knew exactly why.

  Mark had said he would try to be at Dulles to meet her. But would he? It would mean he would have to take the afternoon off work. By the time the plane banked for its final descent, swinging through the clouds towards Washington, she was clinging to her safety belt and silently praying he would be there at Arrivals.

  The plane was full. It seemed to take an age for the engines to be switched off, and everyone sprang to their feet at the same time. She grabbed her khaki jacket and laptop from the overhead locker. She waited to disembark behind a group of passengers jabbering in a foreign language she couldn’t identify but who seemed to be worried about a connecting flight. The mobile lounge was waiting for them. She knew the drill, and tucked herself in at the front in order to be among the first to escape.

  “Welcome to Washington,” said the elderly driver. He adjusted his glasses and locked the doors before the vehicle began lumbering towards the immigration building.

  She switched on her phone as they swayed along. No messages or missed calls. She looked at her watch and noticed it was still on London time, so she put it back five hours. They still hadn’t arrived at the docking bay. She looked out of the window impatiently. The sun was shining, the temperature was a pleasant 70 degrees, she heard someone say. Finally, with a bump, they arrived and the passengers were released.

  She walked as fast as she could down the escalator to immigration, looking across the vast hall. Her heart sank. The queue for non-US citizens was interminable. There were flights from China, the Gulf, and Mexico ahead of them. They inched forwards. Why were there so few agents on duty at this time of day when they know that so many flights arrive at once? By the time she reached the front of the queue, she was irritable and overcome with tiredness.

  The immigration officer, a woman with a heavy Hispanic accent, looked at Susan with barely concealed disbelief.

  “So, Ms Perkins – you’re a – student?”

  “That’s right.” Susan stared at her right in the eye.

  The agent quizzed her at length about her study plans in the US. She had a brand new F-1 visa in her passport so all was above board. But the woman wanted to know why she kept coming back to the country.

  “I had quite a few things to tidy up after leaving my job,” she said, leaving her answer vague. It must have been too vague, and the questions kept coming.

  “What kind of things?” she demanded.

  “I left some clothes with a friend and had to come back to pick them up.” It was
a white lie but a lie nevertheless. The woman was obviously unconvinced. Did she really suspect her of being an illegal alien?

  “You weren’t working?” she said, her lip curling.

  “Of course not.” Susan held her breath, expecting the agent to ask for her contacts in DC. But the question never came. After one last stare with unblinking eyes she stamped her passport and asked her to hold up her hands, and look into the camera, for the final screening.

  She had been waiting so long to pass immigration that the luggage from her plane had been left on the floor beside the carousel. She sighed. It took her ages to locate her second suitcase, lying apart from the rest.

  Then, she faced another queue to get through customs. She decided to head to the restroom first to freshen up and looked nervously in the mirror. Would she stand up to scrutiny? Her face was flushed, and her hair was a mess. Her freckles stood out like Belisha beacons. She examined her hands as she dried them. On impulse, she slid off her wedding ring, squeezing it gently over her finger joint, and zipped it into a handbag pocket. She fished out some face powder and did the best she could to cover the beads of sweat on her nose. Then she made her way to the customs line, the final obstacle before the exit.

  “Have a good one, Ma’am,” the agent said as he took the blue card from her.

  The doors swung open into Arrivals. He was the first person she caught sight of, and was grinning broadly. He was a head taller than the people next to him and gestured to meet him round the corner.

  They flung their arms round each other, and kissed. It was a long, hard kiss on the lips. It was a Hollywood kiss, the sort that has people applauding because it goes on so long. Mark brushed coils of her hair out of the way with one hand.

  “Let me look at you.”

  She nuzzled his cheek, which was soft and warm. They gazed into each other’s eyes, smiled, and then kissed again languorously, this time pressing their bodies against each other.