Love on the Menu

by Barry, Jill

  ‘It certainly is. So, whatever hours I do, I’ll earn the same rate whether I’m working at Planet Robinson or in someone else’s kitchen or wherever?’

  Zillah nodded. ‘You got it. That’ll apply to sitting here with me, chewing the fat. Or to peeling vegetables, piping cream into choux pastry cases – or juggling cool-boxes. You’ll receive extra for working Sundays and Bank Holidays and of course, hours after midnight.’ Zillah crossed her fingers under the table. She didn’t want to lose Abi.

  But her assistant was nodding. ‘I see where he’s coming from. There are things we can prepare up front rather than get here really early to do on the day of the function. It sounds to me this new scheme will suit both of us.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Zillah. ‘I’m also exploring the possibility of finding someone to decorate the celebration cake when we’re asked to produce one, whether it’s traditional or a chocolate and Rich Tea biscuits cake like the one Prince William wanted on his wedding day.’ She winked at Abi. ‘It’d be good to find someone who could come in as and when necessary. Maybe someone who’s trained but finds it difficult to work normal hours because she has a young family? I could tweak my own schedule so I’m here to let her in evenings, maybe. If you know of anyone, I’d be interested.’

  Abi sat up. ‘One of my college lecturers is looking for something flexible. I still keep in touch with her. She’s the one who provided a reference when I applied for my job with you.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Zillah. ‘Well, get her to give me a call. You can say we might have something to interest her. Our specialist people are excellent but their charges are quite hefty for a small outfit like ours. That’s an area needing attention.’

  ‘I’ll text her. She might like to do that cake for the retirement party you mentioned, if you haven’t already approached the other people.’

  ‘You’re a gem. No, that retirement cake is still one of my things to do. That’s exactly the sort of input I need. Now, could you check my shopping list against the stores essentials and see if I’ve forgotten anything, please? Yesterday, I discovered the ground almonds stock was low.’

  Abi’s mouth became a round O of mock horror. ‘How can the Marzipan Queen function without ground almonds?’

  ‘I already bought some – couldn’t risk disappointing you.’

  *

  A couple of days later, Zillah parked her car on the driveway of the beautiful house in which the West family lived. Having to stop for fuel, combined with Bath traffic ratcheted to snarling point by a heavy downpour, caused a later arrival than she intended. Already she felt damp and windblown from the garage forecourt when she grabbed her document case and jogged towards the front door. Although she dodged puddles while trying to prevent her hair from being whipped into a sticky mess against her lip-gloss, she still managed to splash the backs of her legs.

  ‘Poor you.’ Annie West’s goddaughter let her in. ‘Do you want to dive into the cloakroom?’

  ‘Hi, Chloe. I’m obviously not good at hiding my feelings. I hate arriving, looking a fright.’ Zillah glanced down at her feet and groaned. ‘I need to take my shoes off.’ She stood first on one foot then the other.

  ‘Follow me. It’s horrid outside but you don’t look a fright. That’d be impossible.’ Chloe opened the door to a small but perfectly formed cloakroom. ‘You’ll find everything you need in there. Annie’s on the phone so don’t rush.’

  Splashed legs, stained shoes and smudged eyeliner. Way to go. But the blip focused Zillah’s mind on practicalities. Sometimes wedding planners forgot the distance between house and marquee when considering the possibility of the British weather playing the rain card on the big day. Offering a wedding planning service as well as catering for the reception would build on Hal’s database idea. Why not think big?

  Zillah made her way to the sitting room. She hovered in the doorway until Mrs West noticed her and beckoned. Annie was using a walking frame today, resting one hand on it while she spoke on the phone.

  She ended her call. ‘Zillah, I’m sorry to be so rude. Please sit down. Has Chloe put the kettle on?’

  ‘I expect so. She kindly offered me the cloakroom so I didn’t walk in looking like Lorna Doone after hiking across the moors.’

  Annie chuckled, sitting down carefully on a chair obviously designed for folk with mobility problems. She patted the arm. ‘Can’t decide whether to stay in my wheelchair for the wedding breakfast, or to have this fellow transported to the marquee. But that’s the least of my problems.’

  Zillah tilted her head to one side. ‘Problems? Anything I can help with?’

  Annie sighed. ‘This is where I wish my daughter was back in the UK. I’m much more comfortable with horses and gardens than with wedding favours and temperamental singers.’

  Zillah’s antennae twitched. She leaned forward. ‘Please don’t think I’m interfering but if I can take anything else off your list, I’m happy to do so.’

  ‘I thought you were exclusively a catering service.’

  ‘So did I.’ Zillah lifted her chin. ‘But more and more I’m finding myself having to sort out other things apart from food and drink. There are so many different items involved and not everyone uses a wedding planner. In future, I shall be offering a checklist for my clients to use, to ensure they’ve thought of every tiny detail. If anything’s been forgotten, I aim to fill the gap by suggesting specialist firms in the area.’

  Annie blinked rapidly. ‘Can you let me have one of these lists? And if I’ve missed something, will you do the necessary, please? I spend a lot of time working with a riding for the disabled charity, you see. My daughter’s wedding is very important to me but I do have a life as well!’ Her grin was impish. ‘Offspring sometimes forget that, I fancy.’

  ‘I’ll email you the list as soon as I make sure it’s complete.’ Zillah scribbled a reminder on her notepad. Such a document didn’t actually exist yet though it soon would. ‘I also have a business contact, someone who provides entertainers, including a wedding singer.’

  ‘Gracious, you don’t mean karaoke for the evening do? How priceless. My two ancient aunties would adore that, given half a chance. But,’ she mused, ‘my husband would probably abandon ship.’

  ‘I meant wedding singer as in someone who’d sing during the church service,’ said Zillah. ‘Though the tenor I’m thinking of is very versatile.’

  ‘I might well consider him. My daughter’s choice of singer seems to come with a lot of baggage. She asked if we could change the time of the ceremony, would you believe. So she could fit in a gig at another church beforehand. Our booking was confirmed before this other inquiry.’

  ‘She’s probably much in demand,’ said Zillah soothingly. ‘Singers are like everyone else in business. They aim to please their clients.’

  ‘Well, she certainly won’t please me by turning up late.’

  Zillah deemed it wise to change the subject. ‘Just let me know if you think I can help. I need to ask you questions about the marquee and the seating, if you can bear it.’

  ‘I can bear it as long as I get my coffee – here comes Chloe right on cue. And she’s remembered the Bath Oliver biscuits.’

  Later, after she said goodbye to her client and drove back to the city, Zillah felt more cheerful. This was the kind of thing Hal Christmas had mentioned in his pep talk. Thinking outside the box, she thought wryly, though she hated the phrase. Would she run her idea by him?

  To her horror, she imagined herself back in his arms, standing on the pavement, time suspended as she kissed him as if she never wanted to stop. It had been a Titanic moment and look what it had led to! She wondered what possessed her to spend the evening with a man who clearly felt sorry for her, even though he’d heard her rude remark to Abi about not fancying him. If he only knew.

  When she dropped into her office to check for messages, she decided she definitely wouldn’t go to Hal with her fresh idea. She’d compile a list for Annie West but first of all run it by her
assistant. Abi went to so many weddings she could probably do the job of wedding planner in her sleep. Mr Christmas could sit on the back burner for the time being.

  *

  It still seemed strange to see Zak’s silver mini sitting in Zillah’s landlady’s paved parking space. She let herself into the apartment, wondering if her new flatmate was in tonight or out on the town. Zillah liked the idea of supper on a tray while watching a DVD. Except for the small matter of forgetting to take something from the freezer, which said a lot about her impeccable management skills.

  Zak was sitting at the kitchen table. He jumped to his feet as she came through the door.

  ‘Please stay where you are,’ she said. ‘This is your home now.’

  He zoomed round the table to pull out a chair. ‘You’ve been working. I haven’t. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s just brewed.’

  ‘I should go for a jog,’ she said. ‘It’s stopped raining now so I’ve no excuse.’

  ‘So why don’t I fix us a nice, big salad for later?’

  ‘You’re on,’ she said. ‘I’ll get changed, feed the divas then get off.’

  Zak was relieved to see her go. He needed a little more thinking time. Earlier, having spotted so many flat square shapes under all those old sheets and blankets in the third bedroom, he’d decided to investigate. What he discovered was still eating away at him. How could anyone, especially a savvy lady like Zillah, leave a horde like that in among a load of old paintings? The various landscapes and figure compositions weren’t flamboyant enough for his liking. Maybe that was why Zillah had dumped the bundle of gold jewellery in with them. Nobody in their right mind would want to steal stuff like that. Did she even realise the jewellery was there? She’d told him she wasn’t sure how many paintings her late husband had left. She needed someone to sort things out for her.

  Zak had told Hal he’d made a fair bit of money when out in Las Vegas. This was true. He’d also squandered a large portion of it. Pretty women were often high maintenance. His debts were at an all-time high. With several months to go before his next West End show run, he wasn’t going to pay much off by doing wedding singer gigs or hen nights. Zillah was a foxy lady and she must be doing all right with that catering business of hers. It wouldn’t hurt to borrow that bag of bling and take it to London when he went. He knew a guy who knew a guy. Once he’d established how much that stash was worth, he could tell Zillah.

  He could picture her face as he gave her the figure. After deducting a suitable amount of commission to cover his trouble, of course. She would only expect such a thing, being an astute businesswoman.

  *

  Hal, hacking long grass with a scythe unearthed from the crumbling wreck his property’s particulars had described as a garage, was wondering whether he really had done the right thing in moving to the country. Now that the builders were on the case, his cottage was at that difficult stage when people decided they must have been out of their minds to begin renovation. But it was good to be in the fresh air though the grass was a little damp and he probably shouldn’t be cutting it. All he wanted was access to the back door. There were plenty of tough briars and straggling branches to chop back, definitely the kind of task that should help to keep his mind off other matters, except, in the case of Mrs Robinson, it was failing dismally.

  Too many times, since the previous Saturday, Hal had analysed what happened once that fantastic kiss sparked such a reaction. Prior to that, their meetings had been beset by freeze and thaw. He was pretty certain the desire centred on his side but hadn’t she fallen into his arms, their mouths meeting so beautifully, as if destined? Zillah had stirred his senses in every possible way. She wasn’t just drop- dead gorgeous. She was intelligent, feisty and competent. Inwardly he groaned. The description also fitted Jessie, his former partner. Perhaps he aimed too high when choosing a girlfriend.

  But, he reminded himself, no way was Zillah his girlfriend, nor was she likely to be now. The interlude had taken place in the aftermath of a very pleasant dinner. And wine. She was probably kicking herself for getting too close and cosy with him when that crowd of youths surged past. That unlocking of her vulnerability triggered his protectiveness and his desire. Sadly, he suspected that had been the end of a story barely begun. So, why did he still hanker after a replay?

  He threw down the rusty scythe and stretched his arms above his head. ‘That’s some sky,’ he muttered.

  Yellowish streaks against the rose, azure and gunmetal promised storms but not until sunset strutted its stuff. He started slashing the last obstinate patch. Once he finished, he could go inside and open his own back door for the first time. There was a great view from this garden. Much better than the view of town house roofs from Zillah’s bench beneath the jasmine bush. He wished she could be standing next to him, listening to him talk about his plans.

  ‘Stop it,’ he warned himself. ‘You don’t stand even a ghost of a chance.’ His next stroke of the scythe was vicious enough to threaten his balance. Knocked off course. That described his feelings. Plump raindrops were falling. It was time to drive to the Golden Fleece and see if the kindly landlady would knock up a bit of dinner for him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Zillah was used to creating imaginative meals. She’d seen cakes made in the form of a cricket pitch, a farmyard or a spaceship. Abi’s former tutor had accepted the commission to decorate a retirement theme cake and Zillah was lost in admiration. The central figure stood upon a silky green frosting, surrounded by reminders of his favourite pastimes. He wore tennis whites and held a racquet in one hand but a tiny golf club in the other. A narrow boat was moored at one side of the cake. The husband’s hobbies and long-awaited dream holiday with his wife were captured in candy.

  ‘She has real talent,’ said Zillah, showing Abi when she arrived. ‘The other people were good but this work’s quirky. There are little touches you don’t notice at first, but when you do, you realise how clever they are. See how she’s painted the name of the wife on the side of the ship?’

  ‘I like the tiny terrier at his feet,’ said Abi. ‘I knew she’d do a great job. Cake icing’s not my thing, as you know. Marzipan’s much more. A bit like play dough really. So, what shall I start on now?’

  ‘How about meringues? And maybe more meringues?’

  Abi gave a mock salute. ‘It seems to be working well, this up-front stuff?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Zillah. ‘We’re pacing ourselves better. Let’s see how we feel tomorrow. Hopefully, there won’t be quite so much pressure on us in the morning.’

  Piles of goodies grew as the two worked together on the party food. This function venue was a golf club in Gloucestershire. Zillah knew it well. A husband and wife team made an excellent job of running the bar and basic menu but didn’t feel inclined to take on big catering jobs. She got on well with the couple and knew this booking was doubtless down to them. It would be diplomatic to put some money into the collecting box of their favourite charity. A bottle of wine or bunch of flowers would be like taking strawberries and cream to Wimbledon. She must also ask if she could pin one of her own cards plus a Hal Christmas agency one, on the club’s notice board. Zillah was trying hard to make the most of every possible opportunity.

  On the practical side, the unsuspecting golf addict, whose retirement was being celebrated, would be out on the course from eleven o’clock onwards, playing with his regulars. Zillah would deliver the food and arrange it on the tables in the function room. His wife would arrive well before the golfers were due back at the nineteenth hole, bringing suitable clothes for her husband to change into for his surprise party.

  *

  Hal didn’t relish another weekend in the pub. His office work was pretty much up to date so he planned to spend Saturday redecorating his bedroom now the builders had re-plastered where necessary. He’d bought far too much paint for his new office so using it in this way made for a neat solution. The rewiring wasn’t finished yet so he drove into Bath on Saturday mor
ning to buy a small camping stove and items for a picnic.

  Heading out of the city again, he struck the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. ‘Damnation,’ he said. ‘What an idiot.’ He’d forgotten to load the paint and brushes in his car boot the night before. He’d been working on a client’s accounts, trying to complete them to leave the weekend free for the cottage. If he was honest, he hadn’t wanted to risk bumping into Zillah that morning. But it was too late to worry about that. He scolded himself for being so paranoid.

  He turned off for the business park, crawling in low gear along the road leading to his premises. One never knew who might be travelling in the other direction. Sure enough, the silver van was parked near the front door. That meant Mrs Robinson would be loading up and on the road before long. He pushed open the front door, whistling a song he’d heard Zak singing once or twice. It was all about unrequited love. Hal stopped whistling, coughed guiltily, scooped up his post and took the stairs two at a time.

  Zillah, checking her emails, heard his feet pounding towards the top floor and frowned as her heartbeat upped its rate. Couldn’t the wretched man keep away from the place? Though to be fair, life couldn’t be much fun for him just now, lodging at the pub while being effectively barred from living in his cottage. Still, that was his choice. He must have realised how much TLC was required when he bought the property.

  She was still at her desk when she heard Hal descend from the upper regions, this time much more slowly. There was a muffled thud and an exclamation. It seemed churlish not to check on him. Zillah opened her door as he arrived at the bottom of the stairs and plonked two large drums of paint on the floor. His bundle of brushes, cleaned and secured in a big elastic band, lay on one of the stair treads. The sight of denim jeans clinging to a trim masculine rear, their owner stretching up to recover the dropped items, greeted Zillah.