A Catered Affair
Page 22
“I cannot believe you’d do that,” I said, genuinely horrified. “It’s just so male—thinking about the bottom line first. If you lowered the ceilings you’d ruin the entire character of the place. The whole point about a loft is the huge space and high ceilings. And you’d end up blocking off the tops of those huge floor-to-ceiling windows. It would be sacrilege.”
“OK, maybe we should forget about it, then.”
I said that seemed like the best bet, since I wasn’t going to have Demi and the late Patrick’s place wrecked for the sake of a few dollars a month.
Neither of us had seen The Piano. “OK,” Kenny said now, peering at his laptop screen, “it says here that The Piano is ‘a stunning mood piece and a haunting fairy tale, steeped in Victorian and Gothic imagery and a dark gray haunting landscape akin to a Thomas Gainsborough British landscape.’” He looked up. “Sounds like it might be a bit short on laughs.”
“Hugh would love this. Right up his street.”
“Who’s Hugh?”
“Old flame. Hugh is the guy I probably should have married when I had the chance. We split up when he went to live in Australia. Actually, he just got back. We’ve been out a couple of times.”
“Really? So do you think there’s still some chemistry between you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He did kiss me, and I have to admit I felt something.”
The DVD slipped out of Kenny’s hand and landed on the floor. He bent down and picked it up. “Still got some oil on my hands from cooking,” he said. “So, you up for The Piano?”
“Sure, if you are. On the other hand, we could always watch Die Hard or Snakes on a Plane.”
“Tempted as I am,” Kenny said, “we agreed that this exercise is all about self-improvement.”
“I guess.”
Kenny slid the disc into the DVD player and we sat on the sofa sharing a tiny bowl of his wondrous, homemade honeycomb ice cream, which I couldn’t resist, even after the crème brulée.
“Blimey,” I said after about fifteen seconds, aware that my spoon, which had been on its way to my mouth, had paused in midair, “I can see what they mean about the haunting dark gray Gothic stuff.”
Kenny insisted we give it a chance because Roger Ebert had said it wasn’t just about a story or some characters, but a whole universe of feeling—of how people can be shut off from one another, lonely and afraid.
“If you say so,” I said, licking my spoon. As the film continued, I did my best to appreciate the haunting Gothic bits, but once I’d finished my half of the ice cream, I could feel myself getting sleepy. At some stage I must have drifted off. I woke up to the sound of Match of the Day. My head was in Kenny’s lap and he was stroking my hair and running his fingers through it. I lay there for a few moments enjoying the sensation, but after what had happened between us in the kitchen I started to panic. I let out a small grunting noise to let him know that I was awake. The stroking stopped.
“You got fed up with the movie?” I said.
“Yeah. I’ve decided that tempestuous landscapes and brooding sensuality don’t do a lot for me. So since you were asleep I thought I’d catch the last half of the Man United–Chelsea game.” He didn’t mention the head stroking.
Even more discombobulated now, I said he should carry on watching the football, but I could hardly keep my eyes open and needed to get home. He asked me if I was OK to drive and said that I was more than welcome to stay over. “The guest room is all made up.” I thanked him for the offer but said I really ought to be getting back, as I had none of my stuff with me. We exchanged a matey good-night hug. “Thanks again for the wonderful dinner,” I said, “and for teaching me how to chop an onion.”
“My pleasure.”
He saw me to the door. “Speak during the week,” he called out after me as I headed down the garden path. “I’ve found this great new Thai place we could try.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
Driving back to Notting Hill, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened between us and what it meant. Was I developing feelings for Kenny and he for me?
Or was what had happened nothing more than two vulnerable people, who’d been through a tough emotional time, reaching out (or attempting to reach out) for comfort?
Of course it wasn’t long before my dead father’s voice kicked in. A caterer? You’re falling for a caterer? I imagined him saying, a look of horror on his face. Don’t be ridiculous. What can the two of you possibly have in common? OK, so maybe he’s worked in some fancy restaurants and has big ideas about opening his own place, but making your way in that world is tough. He might never be any more than a caterer. You can do better. Don’t lower your sights. Find yourself another doctor, a lawyer …
The following morning I popped round to Rosie’s for coffee.
“I’ve sent the manuscript off,” she said as I walked in. “Now all I have to do is wait. Of course it could be weeks or months before I hear anything. Or I might not hear anything at all.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” I said.
We sat in the kitchen dunking pains au chocolat into our coffee. She asked me when I was moving back into my flat.
“Saturday.”
“If you need any help unpacking, I’m around.”
“That would be amazing. Kenny’s coming, too. At last you’ll get to meet him. I just know you’re going to love him.” It felt really important that two of my favorite people should get along. “And speaking of Kenny, I went round to his place last night. First time I’ve been. You want to see his …” At that moment, some pain au chocolat got stuck in my throat. I started coughing.
“You OK?” Rosie said.
I nodded, but I couldn’t stop hacking. I started bashing my chest. The piece of pastry wouldn’t budge. Rosie got me a glass of water. I took a couple of sips and the irritation started to ease.
“So come on, what’s Kenny got that’s so amazing? A sixty-inch plasma TV? A Bang and Olufsen surround-sound system? A home cinema?” She laughed as a thought occurred to her. “A really ripped body? A huge penis?”
By now I had completely stopped coughing. Rosie took this as confirmation that she’d hit on the right answer.
“Omigod! You saw Kenny’s penis!”
“No, I didn’t. I saw his kitchen.”
“Huh. Is that all?”
At this point Ben came charging in holding out an empty plate, which he clearly wanted reloaded with pain au chocolat. “Tally, why did a man show you his penis? Mans shouldn’t do vat. It’s rude.”
“He didn’t, darling,” I said. “Your mum just got a bit confused.”
“Did he show Mummy his penis?”
“Ben,” Rosie said, doing her best to stifle her frustration and annoyance, “nobody showed anybody their penis.” She put an entire pain au chocolat on his plate. “Now, take this into the living room and finish watching Ratatouille with Grandma and Granddad.”
Ben trudged off.
“Kenny and I are not having sex,” I said in a whisper, in case Ben was still in earshot. “But something did sort of happen.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure exactly. We had one of these moments when we almost kissed, but didn’t. And then later on I fell asleep on the sofa, and when I woke up, my head was in his lap and he was stroking my hair.”
“Huh—so first Hugh kisses you and now Kenny’s hitting on you. Can’t be bad for the old self-esteem.”
“Do I hear just a hint of resentment?”
“No, I’m not resentful. Honest.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, you know what? Yes, I am.”
“But I thought you were off men.”
Rosie harrumphed. “You can be off men but still want to have sex.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I said.
“So come on,” Rosie said. “Honesty time. Have you got feelings for Kenny?”
“OK, I admit there’s some chemistry, but Kenny … I’m not sure that he’s right for me.”
She got up and put the kettle on for more coffee. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why are you and my sister so against me getting involved with Hugh—saying that I’m still vulnerable after what happened with Josh and I should be careful of rebound relationships—but you get excited whenever I mention Kenny? Each time Scarlett phones, she’s like, ‘So, how’s Kenny?’ Every word is in italics. It’s clear she’s not asking after his health. Neither of you can get it into your heads that all Kenny and I do is hang out and eat pizza a couple of times a week.”
“And nearly kiss … Look, I haven’t met Kenny, but I can’t help thinking he sounds like a breath of fresh air—that’s all. The way you describe him, he comes across as grounded and funny and different from all the other men you’ve gone out with.”
“I’m not going out with him.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
I arranged for the Wizard of Aus to pick up my stuff from the self-storage place first thing on Saturday morning. We would meet at my flat just after ten.
I arrived a few minutes early. Of course I couldn’t find a parking space and I had to lug two heavy suitcases of clothes several hundred yards down the street. Even though I’d loved living in a trendy flat in Notting Hill, I couldn’t wait to get back to my flat. It might be tiny, and I couldn’t afford to fill it with cutting-edge furniture and fancy modern art like Scarlett and Grace, but it was my space, my home. What worried me was that the flat had so many associations with Josh. We’d spent our first night together there. I’d cheered up a lot over the last few weeks. I was dreading that the place was going to make me feel depressed and miserable all over again.
I opened the door and was met by the smell of fresh paint, new wood … and Terry the builder.
“Hi, Terry. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He was carrying an aluminum stepladder.
“Just come to collect my gear and hand you back your keys,” he said. “And I thought you might like to see the final bits and bobs we did yesterday.”
“I would, but you know what, my removal man is going to be here any minute. I’m not sure there’s time to …”
“Won’t take five minutes.” He leaned the ladder against the hall wall. “I can’t leave a job without knowing I’ve given satisfaction.”
“Terry, it all looks wonderful: The plastering is amazing. The tiling is faultless. And you made such a great job of fitting the kitchen.”
“We aim to please. Perhaps you’d like to look at the new water tank. My plumber put it in yesterday.”
“Why not.”
He led the way to the bathroom.
“Now then, as you know, we changed it to a new, twenty-five-gallon tank, so what with it being just you living here, you’re not going to run out of hot water. I’ve switched it on. It’s all working. Right now you’ve got a nice full tank of water.”
“Fantastic.”
“And we’ve fitted an insulating jacket to save you losing heat. I went for the Titan in the end. It’s yer standard sixty-millimeter thickness.”
“Excellent.”
Just then the buzzer went. “That’ll be the removal man.”
“Right you are. I’ll be off, but give me a tinkle if there are any problems.”
“Will do, Terry. Thanks for everything. Everything is absolutely perfect. Oh, and since you’re here, I should give you this. Saves me putting a stamp on it.” I handed him an envelope containing a check for what I owed him. He handed me my keys followed by an old-fashioned salute. “A business doing pleasure with you,” he said with a grin. With that, he was on his way.
It took the Wizard of Aus about an hour to offload his van—moaning all the time that he’d had to double park and there were traffic wardens everywhere.
No sooner had he left—leaving my kitchen-diner–slash–living room full of boxes—than Kenny arrived. I opened the front door to find him red faced, breathless and covered in sweat. He was wearing running shorts and trainers and carrying a knapsack on his back. “I jogged over,” he said.
“From Muswell Hill? You’re mad. That’s miles.”
“I know.” Wheeze. “Big mistake.” Wheeze. “Plus I haven’t done a run in months. I think I could be dying.” Double wheeze.
I started laughing. “You’re not dying. You’re just out of shape.” I told him to come in and sit down and that I would get him a glass of water. He followed me into the kitchen and I went hunting for a glass in one of the removal boxes.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but until the Ikea van gets here with my new sofas, you’re going to have to sit on the floor.” He took off his knapsack and, with practically no effort, lifted himself onto the breakfast bar. His breathing was returning to normal. So much for dying.
“This place is amazing,” he said as I handed him a glass of water. “I love the open-plan thing, the wooden floors and the glass doors onto the garden. And you’ve painted the walls white instead of that ubiquitous bloody cream everybody goes for.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, “why people think cream is neutral. It isn’t. Cream is a huge statement. It’s as much of a statement as green or blue.”
“Absolutely. Nothing goes with it apart from browns and earth tones.”
“Whereas everything goes with white.”
“Don’t you just love being right?” he said, laughing.
I had to admit that I did.
“By the way,” he said, “I got you a flat-warming present.” He reached down, picked up his knapsack and produced a bottle of vintage champagne. “Happy new flat. It did occur to me that jogging over here with a bottle of bubbly wasn’t the most sensible idea, but it hasn’t exploded yet. It should settle down.”
“Aw, Kenny, that it so sweet,” I said, giving him a hug. “But this isn’t a new place.”
“OK, happy newly renovated flat.”
“Tell you what—why don’t you stay for dinner and we’ll drink it then.”
“Deal.”
He finished his glass of water. “Hey, Tally, don’t suppose I could ask a favor. Could I possibly have a shower? I think I might be starting to smell.”
“Sure. As it goes, Terry left me with a full tank of hot water. You got something to change into? Otherwise I might have a pink silk robe you can borrow.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll pass. I have everything I need.” He tapped his knapsack. I directed him to the bathroom.
“Oh, by the way,” I said as he disappeared, “you remember I mentioned my friend Rosie was coming over to help? She should be here any minute. She’s great. Really feisty. I just know the two of you are going to get along.”
“If she’s a friend of yours, I’m sure I’ll like her.”
Once Kenny had gone, I decided to make a start unpacking boxes. It made sense to get the kitchen sorted first. I didn’t even have a kettle to make tea or mugs to drink it from. I’d just located a box marked POTS AND PANS when the door buzzer went. I assumed it was Rosie. It wasn’t. It was Nana and Mum.
They were on their way to visit Millie, who was in the hospital. Since it was miles away and hard to get to by public transport, Mum had offered to drive Nana there. My place was on the way.
“It’s her lungs,” Nana said when I asked what was wrong with Millie.
“I thought it was her leg.”
“It was, but it went to her lungs.”
Mum was already looking around the flat. “It looks fabulous. A bit white maybe.” (Mum was a fan of fuchsia walls and black glass chandeliers.) “But it’ll be better when you’ve got your cushions and bits and pieces in. I have to admit Terry the builder has done a great job.” She handed me a silver gift bag. “I got you a little something to say happy new flat. It’s just a bit of fun.”
I took out a pair
of bubble-gum pink rubber gloves trimmed at the wrists with orange feathers. There was also a cow-print dustpan and brush.
I burst out laughing and gave her a hug. “Oh, Mum. These are brilliant. I love them.”
“And I got you something, too,” Nana said. She handed me a paper bag. Inside were two tiny brown paper parcels wrapped in sticky tape.
“I know you’re not moving into a new flat, but it feels like a new start, so I made you these. It’s an old Jewish tradition. One packet contains bread, so that you should never go hungry. The other contains salt so that your life should never be without flavor.”
I was really touched. “Oh, Nana, that is such a lovely thought. Thank you.” I went to kiss her.
“My pleasure, darling.”
At this point Mum broke in. “So, Scarlett tells me you’ve been busy. She says Hugh’s back in town and that you’ve also been seeing a lot of Kenny the caterer.”
“Hugh and I have been catching up—that’s all.” I wasn’t about to tell her he’d kissed me. She hadn’t particularly approved of Hugh the first time around.
“You know,” Nana said, “Kenny is such a lovely boy. You could do a lot worse.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mum said. “Whenever we met up to discuss the wedding, he came across as such a lovely chap—friendly, funny, down-to-earth.”
“I mean, God forbid she should end up with a drug dealer.”
“Why on earth would Tally end up with a drug dealer?”
Mum turned to me. “But surely Kenny’s not your type.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Nana got in first. “Now, my friend Hetty—her daughter married a serial killer.”
“What?” Mum said, frowning. “No, she didn’t. The woman was having a fight with her husband. He accused her of putting too much milk on his corn flakes. She threw the bowl at him. He lost it and strangled her. The papers called him a cereal killer.”