FORTUNE COOKIE

by Bryce Courtenay

  With Willy Wonka’s departure I was stretched to breaking point. We replaced him with Sarah Ping, a shy and retiring widow in her forties with two teenage children, who’d worked since the age of eighteen in the government translation office. She was diligent, translated well in all the required languages and was always polite. She showed no interest in advertising or selling and worked nine to five and no more. I desperately needed an English copywriter but Sidney simply wouldn’t pay for anyone from Hong Kong or Australia. I’d always put in a fairly long day but it was now stretching into twelve and even, on occasions, sixteen hours at the agency and then most nights I was taking work home. While Mercy B. Lord was patient and loving, I could sense she was getting thoroughly pissed off, and we’d had a couple of rows that had been essentially my fault.

  Then, at one of our regular monthly Singapore luncheons, aware of my urgent need, Elma Kelly recommended Mrs Sidebottom, the wife of a civil construction engineer who was being transferred from Hong Kong to Singapore. In Elma’s forthright manner, her recommendation came with a warning: ‘She has a pathological fear of the dentist, my dear. You don’t want to get too close – simply frightful breath. She could buckle a brass spittoon at twenty paces! Ha ha! Useful gal, though. Once worked for Marks & Spencer in London and we used her for retail advertising for Lane Crawford, a department-store client.’ Elma paused. ‘Absolutely no hesitation in recommending her to you, Simon. Damned hard worker. She won’t tell you, but she was in Intelligence during the war, Bletchley Park gal. Best to have her working from home. Poor woman’s an insomniac, and she’s very self-conscious about her teeth.’

  I confess I looked somewhat sceptical. ‘Sorry, Elma, but if her teeth are so bad, why doesn’t she have them all out? Fix her breath as well!’

  ‘I told you, fear of the dentist, nothing the poor dear can do about it, so be sure not to let her anywhere near your clients.’

  ‘Does Mrs Sidebottom have a first name?’ I asked.

  Elma’s head jerked backwards. ‘I say, how very curious. It never occurred to me to ask. I mean, what can you possibly add to a name like Sidebottom? Topsy? Ha, ha, Topsy Sidebottom, not bad, what?’

  I was desperate for help, bad breath notwithstanding. We were about to pitch for the Singapore Tourist Promotion Board, and while you can do a fair bit with pictures and headlines, I needed an English-language copywriter for the ads, brochures and direct response shots (ads with coupons) – what is known in the lingo as ‘body copy’. I discussed the matter with Dansford, who approved, and the following day I phoned Mrs Sidebottom and suggested we meet for lunch at Raffles.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Koo. Elma Kelly said you might be calling. Raffles? Lovely.’ Her voice was beautifully modulated, whereas, I can’t say why, I’d expected it to be broad and probably cockney. To me, Sidebottom just didn’t sound like a posh name. On the other hand, it wasn’t unusual back then for lower-middle-class English people sent out to the colonies to fly the flag for Mother England to return home with an acquired accent several rungs up the social ladder from the accent they’d had when they’d left Blighty.

  Mrs Sidebottom, pointed out to me by the concierge, was waiting in the foyer when I arrived. She didn’t react when I approached. No doubt she wasn’t expecting a short, solid, ugly Chinese bloke after hearing my Australian accent on the phone.

  ‘Mrs Sidebottom?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied tentatively.

  I stretched out my hand, smiling. ‘Simon Koo.’

  To my surprise she ignored my outstretched hand and scrambled to her feet. A half-sucked peppermint dropped from her mouth as she said, ‘Oh, oh, I do beg your pardon. You’re not at all what I expected.’ Then, hurriedly taking my hand in both her own, she shook it vigorously. ‘How do you do, Mr Koo.’

  ‘Simon. Please call me Simon,’ I replied, smiling despite the first blast of toxic breath. Elma Kelly’s warning was no exaggeration. Sending a peppermint into the attack was like aiming a slingshot at an elephant.

  Not only had I misjudged Mrs Sidebottom’s class, but I’d also imagined a big, broad woman with the breast of a pouter pigeon and the backside of a Zulu maiden. Instead she was diminutive, almost wraithlike, and viewed side-on appeared to have no bottom whatsoever.

  Mrs Sidebottom looked to be in her late forties or early fifties, heavily powdered, so that her small oval face appeared abnormally white against the blood-red lipstick that coloured her little cupid’s bow mouth, its twin peaks painted in rather too generously. As if all this wasn’t sufficiently disconcerting, she possessed a pair of the most beautiful, innocent baby blues, two large, starkly brilliant, crystalline marbles against a chalk-white background, without even a dab of softening eye shadow. Hers was a face that belonged to a pantomime fairy, where such astonishing eyes would prove utterly compelling to an audience of excited children. Now they seemed to lock onto mine, holding me transfixed, so that her appalling breath kept arriving in waves.

  ‘Simon it shall henceforth be,’ she said, adding, ‘and you must call me Sylvia, although you probably won’t. Even Cecil, my husband, calls me Mrs Sidebottom. I almost didn’t marry him because of his surname, but, alas, it seems once it became attached to have become an organic part of me. I’m so looking forward to the Tiffin Room. I’ve heard so much about it.’

  ‘I’ve requested a table as far as possible from the serving table so we can talk,’ I replied, delighted to swing out of her breathing range as we walked down the polished wooden corridor towards the famous curry restaurant. I’d taken the precaution when booking to explain to the clerk that our luncheon was to double as a business meeting. ‘We’ll put you in the alcove,’ she’d replied obligingly. ‘It has a nice view of the garden, sir. That way you’ll be neither seen nor heard.’

  We were shown to our table at the far end of the dining room near a big bay window that looked out onto a pleasant garden. While it meant we had to weave our way past most of the other diners to get our curry, the garden gave a sense of being more private. The drinks waiter appeared. ‘What’s it to be?’ I asked, guessing it would be gin and tonic.

  ‘Oh, lovely, G and T, please.’ She looked up at the waiter. ‘I say, do you have Tanqueray?’

  ‘Of course, madam.’

  ‘And a Tiger beer,’ I added.

  After the waiter departed Mrs Sidebottom smiled. ‘It’s my little test. Never quite right if they don’t have the right gin.’

  ‘There is a right and a wrong gin? I mean, among the better brands?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, of course, dear boy, it’s the angelica, juniper and coriander. Splendid mystery, don’t you think?’

  I could see we were about to embark on one of those nonsensical bouts of verbal shadow-boxing, conversational skirmishes that the English are particularly adept at mounting, designed to size up one’s opponent and at the same time fill the silence when two strangers meet. And so I said, in what I hoped was an urbane manner, ‘I confess I’ve not spent a lot of time thinking about the mystery of gin beyond knowing juniper berries are somehow involved.’ Then I added with a grin, ‘Had I been asked, I would have guessed that Angelica was the name of a saint, or perhaps an Irish nun, certainly not an ingredient in gin.’

  ‘Terribly important to know what goes into things. Half the joy of tasting is the guessing game. Why do you think gin is favoured more by women than by men?’

  ‘The angelica?’

  ‘Well done, Simon. By the way, it’s particularly pronounced in Tanqueray.’

  Sometimes you know you’re about to hear someone else’s fascinating fact that has you reaching to open the garbage bin we all keep in a corner of our minds for stuff we know we’re never, ever going to need to think about. I just knew this was one such moment, but then thankfully a diversion arrived in the form of the waiter with our drinks.

  Mrs Sidebottom remained mute while the waiter placed the drinks in front of each of us. He left and I looked up into those twin cerulean lakes, raised my beer and said, in what I hope
d was a gallant voice, ‘Cheers, and welcome to the team. I hope this is the start of a long and happy partnership.’ I grinned, affecting a boyish modesty. ‘I always feel as if I’m cheating when I write copy, that the half-decent layout I’m capable of rendering definitely deserves much better.’ The moment arrived to clink glasses but I’d been too busy composing my bon mot to see that Mrs Sidebottom’s G and T remained where the waiter had placed it.

  ‘Flatulence,’ she pronounced.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. Lowering my glass, I said, ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Menstrual problems … pre-menstrual symptoms, painful menstruation …’ then, ‘menopause.’

  ‘I’m not really sure …?’

  ‘My dear Simon,’ she picked up her glass, ‘to angelica! It’s why women prefer gin.’

  With information overload about the efficacy of the herb angelica for problems unique to women – flatulence aside – we touched glasses. While of course I was familiar with the word, I don’t think I’d ever used ‘menopause’ in a sentence, or even silently to myself. The several menstrual-related words seemed to me a strange prelude to a toast immediately preceding lunch, although it was obvious this thought hadn’t occurred to Mrs Sidebottom.

  Neither the angelica, coriander or juniper in the gin did much to quell her breath. Nevertheless, I soon discovered that Mrs Sidebottom was a very pleasant woman, and after I’d outlined the new business pitch for the Tourist Promotion Board, she seemed to know at once what I required in a copywriter and readily agreed to come on board.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to work from home, though. The agency is pretty noisy and we don’t have a spare office,’ I said, finally adding, ‘You could share mine but it’s tiny and very noisy.’

  She looked genuinely relieved. ‘Oh, splendid! I like to work in my own time. But I shall come into the agency to meet your account director, Mr Drocker.’

  ‘That could be awkward.’ I said quickly. ‘You see, Dansford is only available for meetings in the morning.’ I assumed a look of regret. ‘I’m afraid it’s an agency rule.’

  Mrs Sidebottom smiled, not a pretty sight. Her teeth were in a frightful state. ‘In that case I shall attempt to get a good night’s rest so as to be bright and chirpy.’

  ‘Really, there’s no need,’ I said firmly, imagining the effect of Mrs Sidebottom’s breath on Dansford’s delicate state each morning. ‘I can brief you at your home and bring the layouts around.’

  ‘That’s very sweet, Simon. We’re not settled in yet – frightful mess at home. Most happy to come in. Cecil will wake me before he leaves. Besides, one likes to get an impression of an agency and its people. No, no, I absolutely insist.’

  I decided that one visit might be endurable, provided I warned Dansford not to get too close.

  She’d finished her G and T by the time we’d been through all the details. ‘Another Tanqueray?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no, one at lunch and another at sundown is sufficient unto the day.’ She smiled. ‘Now, what about these splendid curries? How exciting!’

  ‘It’s self-service, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, lovely, no fuss or having to decide immediately.’

  The tiffin table contained sixteen different curries each in a stainless-steel serving dish resting on a stand under which burned a small flame. When we arrived, several people were serving themselves, swinging the lids back and sniffing at the curries before making their choice. But as we drew closer I could see those nearest hesitating momentarily. They had obviously caught a whiff of the miasma surrounding us. All glanced at me, their thoughts obvious: Dreadful pong – must be the ugly-looking Chinese bloke.

  Mrs Sidebottom stood next to a big guy with a pronounced beer gut who was bending over to sniff at a chicken vindaloo. She leant forward to share the aroma, and the big bloke suddenly pulled back in alarm. Pointing to the curry, he hissed, ‘Jesus! Don’t touch that one, lady!’ I obviously wasn’t the only Australian in the room.

  Nearly two hours later, lunch was beginning to feel like an eternity. Mrs Sidebottom insisted on tasting all sixteen curries, half a serving spoon of each together with a teaspoon of rice and a different condiment. Each serving was placed on a clean plate, and as she finished each curry she wrote its name in a tiny spiral-bound pad, ripped out the page and placed it on the plate, carefully avoiding the curry-stained portion. Placing the second plate on top of the first, then rising to return to the tiffin table, she said, ‘Now, you won’t let the waiter clear away my precious plates while I’m gone, will you, Simon?’

  She was a careful, if not to say downright slow eater and would take four or five minutes to savour the small portion on her plate, commenting on its flavour, aroma and texture. I found myself bobbing up and down like a yo-yo every time she rose to fetch yet another curry. ‘Do sit, dear,’ she’d repeat each time, although I found this impossible. She rose from the table with such eagerness that the other diners were beginning to take notice, the big Aussie bloke who’d cautioned her at the tiffin table now openly chuckling each time she passed his table. I wondered whether I was witnessing some sort of record: the diner who tasted every curry on offer.

  Halfway through, she looked up from her umpteenth plate, leaned forward and grasped my hand, her bony birdlike claw as small as a child’s. Her incredible arctic-blue eyes held me transfixed. ‘Oh, Simon, thank you, this is such fun!’ The blast of bad air that hit me full in the face very nearly caused my lunch to return, but she spoke with such enthusiasm that it was impossible to be upset.

  The spent plates, each garnished with a note, were stacked between us on the table, so that I found myself wishing that the pile would rise high enough to create a bulwark against her toxic breath. She returned with plate fourteen, the chicken vindaloo, tasted it cautiously and pronounced it delicious: ‘Piquant. Nice creamy texture. Whatever can that silly man have been thinking?’

  Finally, when curry number sixteen was just a yellow stain on the plate, she leaned back in her chair. ‘I do so like to remember the flavour, work out the herbs and spices in each.’

  I pointed to the stack of plates. ‘Well, you certainly seem to have enjoyed them,’ I said somewhat lamely, thinking we were going to still be there when the supper guests arrived.

  ‘Oh, just a few more details, Simon. The real trick is getting the various flavours firmly into your head. I’ve made my notes but need a quick review – I hope you don’t mind?’

  What could I say? ‘No, of course not,’ I mumbled.

  Then she called a waiter and asked for a large jug of water, sixteen sherry glasses and three fresh damask table napkins. When these eventually arrived she asked me to fill each sherry glass roughly half full. Then, with her notepad open beside her and starting with the top plate, she ran her forefinger through the smudge of curry left on it and brought it to her mouth, then dipped her finger into a sherry glass containing clean water, rinsed and then dried it on a napkin and checked its note against her previous notation, sometimes adding a comment or simply ticking what she’d previously written, piling the plates to one side and the notes to the other. She’d reached curry plate number twelve when the manager arrived.

  ‘Madam, is there something wrong?’ he asked.

  Mrs Sidebottom looked up. ‘No, no, not in the least! Splendid lunch.’

  ‘Am I permitted to ask what you are doing, madam?’ the manager persisted. By this time the maître d’ had joined us.

  Fortunately, the sixteen curries seemed to have somewhat quelled the immediate impact of Mrs Sidebottom’s breath. ‘Why, of course you may. I write for the food page of the Guardian and also an occasional gourmet column for the New Yorker magazine.’ She looked up at him meaningfully. ‘With so many Americans arriving in Singapore, I feel certain they’ll accept my piece. After all, today’s remarkable tiffin will give me,’ she chuckled, ‘a great deal of food for thought.’

  Both men, beaming, excused themselves, backing away, apologising for the intrusion and prom
ising a warm welcome at any time in the future madam would care to call.

  At the culmination of the meal, and with the notes and notebook returned to Mrs Sidebottom’s handbag, I rose wearily and excused myself in order to pay for what seemed to have been the longest lunch of my life.

  ‘There is no charge, sir,’ the smiling cashier said. ‘We do hope to see you and madam back in the Tiffin Room soon. Oh, and the manager asks if you would care for a glass of champagne in the library?’

  ‘Awfully nice of him, but I really have to get back to work. But please give him my thanks,’ I replied, smiling weakly, grateful that Mrs Sidebottom was sufficiently distant not to hear my desperate excuse. I was truly beginning to think the bloody luncheon was never going to come to an end.

  The doorman, at my request, whistled for two taxis. As I opened the back door of the first to allow Mrs Sidebottom to enter, she asked, ‘I trust you were not required to pay, Simon?’

  ‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, they wouldn’t hear of it. Interesting. I had no idea that you were a food writer.’

  Mrs Sidebottom, now seated, threw back her head and laughed, sending a blast of noxious breath towards the hapless driver. ‘Never written a word about food in my life, dear boy. Oh, except once the cooking instructions on the back of a can of spaghetti in tomato sauce. Not really my thing, food – can’t fry an egg.’ She chuckled. ‘Happily, dining out with my notepad and pen works every time. I haven’t paid for lunch in years. Couldn’t possibly allow you to do so – ruin my perfect record!’

  With its tyres crunching on the gravelled driveway, the taxi moved off, the driver with one hand on the steering wheel and the other fanning his nose.