“Here, hold it this way and hit right here.” He was right behind me and was holding my hands, showing me what I was supposed to do. For a second I thought about missing on purpose, just to not let him get away. It was reassuring being there with his arms around me.
“Hey! I did it! I smashed the thing.” I was covered by pieces of broken shell and salty water, which hit me in the face. An apron had definitely been a good idea.
“OK: now, with a spoon you take out all this white meat and then the brown. Then open the claws and take the meat out with this.” He passed me a little metal fork. I was just halfway when he had already finished his. He was already chopping chilli, making pastes and broths by the time I’d finished my task. Next for me was chopping the coriander and cutting the ginger.
He told me about his past when, in his early twenties, he’d gone to Paris to learn and had the chance of working with this two-Michelin-star chef. I gathered it was a hard life, being busy when everybody else was free and free only when all the other cooks were. He used to play football at night, in the main square where the restaurant was – often at two in the morning – with the other cooks and people working there. He told me about his passion, what made him decide that was going to be his life and how one day he would do his own thing. I recognised by listening to him that cooking could be a form of art, which I’d never realised before, I was stuck at judging food as bad, good and excellent, but had never for a moment stopped and thought about the process – designing a plate, mixing the right flavours in the right amounts – and I was fascinated by this new experience Raffaele was showing me. While cooking, he occasionally stopped what he was doing and said, “Try this,” almost shoving a spoonful of food into my mouth. “What do you think?”
Everything was delicious; no, it was better than that. Being part of that creative process of taking raw food, mixing it together in the right way, was something for which I’d have been grateful to Raffaele forever. He made me discover a new world, a parallel universe.
Dinner was ready and we took the starters into the dining room. Something special happens if you cook with someone you like (and you don’t kill each other in the process); there’s a communion of feeling that you share and that you can hardly experience in any other way. Feeding is a basic process, but the process of preparing the food is not. I would have loved to be able to quote Hugh Jackman in the film Kate and Leopold, but those lines eluded me. Something about a meal taking time and a lot of reflection.
What an experience!
We talked a lot about ourselves, about our dreams and what we would do in reality. I felt close to him in a way I’d never felt with anyone else before (except maybe Ritchie, but that didn’t count), and I could see Raffaele was feeling the same way. There was something there and I only hoped it would be as good as I imagined it could be. I needed someone like him on my side; talking was easy, and so was laughing. He had a funny, wicked sense of humour that I didn’t get the first time we’d been together.
We didn’t make dessert; Raffaele thought I would get bored if he pushed me too much into his world. Honestly, I wasn’t and I’d have spent the whole night, sitting there, or cooking with him. He had prepared a cake while at home, and for the occasion we opened another bottle; this time it was a sweet wine. It was when we went back to the kitchen that we kissed, just when we were ready to cut a couple of slices of that beautiful, rustic cake. Our eyes locked for a second too long and we both knew what would happen next. I don’t remember (and I didn’t care) who made the first move; in a matter of seconds we were in each other’s arms, searching our bodies and kissing passionately. For a brief moment, I realised that it was our first date, and I panicked. What would he think of me? To hell with all that; I counted the day spent painting Lillian’s house as our first date. Nothing to worry about, then.
And frankly, if you were in the arms of a man as dishy as Raffaele, you’d have stopped counting as well. Believe me.
Fortunately the restaurant also had some spare rooms upstairs. We spent the night making love until, both exhausted, sleep finally took us.
CHAPTER 28
Osheena came into the office a couple of days later, and so did Timothy and his wife a few minutes after that. Ritchie had practically finished the interior design for Natalie and, for a moment, it looked as if our business was flourishing again.
Osheena was an attractive black girl in her mid-twenties, with straight hair and a contagious smile. I recognised her from the pictures she’d sent me previously, of course, but I could also appreciate what she was wearing. I saw a “little GiGi” in her straight away, with a desire and an objective in her mind but a lack of funds to realise them. Hopefully she hadn’t been through a “credit card” phase like I had. I made a mental note to ask her later. She looked around, maybe trying to get a better understanding of what we were really doing here.
“Hi – I’m GiGi.” I introduced myself promptly, and the smile on her face made me feel that this was going to be a great day.
“Osheena. Nice to meet you.”
“Come to my office. Oh, I forgot: would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Just if you’re having one yourself,” she answered.
We went to the kitchen and the interview process started.
“So, how did you find us?”
“I went to visit the Battersea Fashion Centre and I saw you advertisement. That made me curious, so I went online and did some research.”
“Our website is quite basic,” I said sheepishly. I’d discussed that matter umpteen times with Ritchie and we promised each other that we should have done something. Word of mouth was great and gave us plenty of business, but at some point, we should have scaled it up. The only IT stuff we had was the mobile app, and even that we kept quite secret, for our customers’ eyes only.
“I realised that. But I found there’s quite a buzz about this mysterious woman helping people to find their own style. Blogs are starting to talk about this strange woman, but they haven’t made the connection yet.”
“And you did.” That got me thinking – maybe there was an avenue there that we hadn’t exploited yet.
“Yeah, I thought so. It’s amazing what I’ve seen. You know, there was a post on one of the most important blogs and it went on for pages and pages. Someone even claimed it was an urban legend, a conspiracy theory. Quite amusing.”
We went to my office with our cuppas and sat on the sofa, like two old friends who had finally found each other after years apart.
“So, what do you do for a living?”
“I have a job in IT; I’m a programmer. Quite boring stuff, if you ask me. I mean, I love the job, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a multinational company, all corporate and no room for imagination. A bit frustrating, if you ask me. I also work in a bar twice a week, to raise some more cash. I never seem to have enough and I have expensive tastes.”
I knew exactly what she meant, but something in what she said got me thinking …
She went on, “I know I probably couldn’t afford your services. What I read from the blogs is that you are really high-end fashion and …” I stopped her mid-sentence with a wave of my hand. My fees were expensive, but that was just because I happened to work with people that could afford it.
“Are you good at your job?” I suddenly asked.
“Excuse me?” she looked surprised.
“Are you good at programming and doing your job?”
“I’m the best.”
“OK, then this is what we can do. Service and wardrobe are on me; and you build me the very best website you can think of – something unique, that you can throw all your imagination into.” It was a punt, but sometimes you have to follow your gut instinct, don’t you? Even that Dragon’s Den guy says that sometimes you invest in the people and not the idea. Well, that was the case for me. Osheena was … “very investable.”
“I … I suppose I could …” She was shocked; for a moment she looked at me as if I was joking.
Then I could see from the look in her eyes that her mind was spinning, starting to formulate ideas. I was right: I’d made the right decision and she wouldn’t disappoint me. “Yes, I’d be glad to,” she said finally. “I … you’ll be amazed! And if you don’t like what I create, I’ll pay off every penny, I promise.”
We were just shaking hands when Ritchie came into the room.
“GiGi, would you mind coming with me for a moment?” There was a strange look on his face. I excused myself and followed him into the open space directed towards the other room, where Timothy and his wife were … arguing? “What’s going on, Ritchie? Talk to me …” I said, hurrying him up, since we were almost at the door.
“I’ll let you find out for yourself,” he replied. He opened the door and introduced me to the couple as the senior partner.
“I told you this wasn’t a good idea,” said the woman who I presumed was the wife.
“How can I be of assistance?” I asked, sitting at the far end of the table and opening my notepad.
“Well … as I tried to explain to your partner,” he said, pointing at Ritchie, “we’d like some consultancy in respect of my wife’s shoes …”
“He’s a fetishist!” the woman added, screaming, “It’s a psychiatrist we need to see, not a fashion consultant!”
I looked at Ritchie as if he could provide an explanation that never came. “OK, Mr Robertson: why don’t we take a step back and you explain exactly what you’re looking for?”
“Well … I like shoes …” he started saying.
“You’re a fetishist. Say it out loud – that’s what you are,” screamed the wife.
“Please go on,” I urged, hoping she wouldn’t interrupt further.
“You know … this is embarrassing … as I said, I like feet in a nice pair of shoes. I won’t go into details, but … it excites me. I feel a sense of desire when … and my wife won’t do it.”
I looked at the wife, who was definitely raging, and without being noticed I tried to have a peek at her shoes. Ritchie was nonchalantly walking towards the window, but I knew only too well that he was trying to do the same. He looked at me and, without being seen by either of them, he put a finger in his mouth as though he was trying to puke. I almost laughed out loud in front of them, and I tried to look at my notes.
“Madam, you’re the first woman I’ve ever met to refuse a pair of expensive shoes.”
She looked uncomfortable and tried to justify herself. “I like being comfortable.”
I bet you do, I thought; I can smell ballerinas from where I’m sitting. If there was a passion killer, that was it: well above pyjamas with pugs on and fluffy, peluche slippers.
“Would it be agreeable to be a bit uncomfortable just at some times of the day? For example, when going out for dinner? Or maybe at home, twice a week?”
“I suppose I could make an effort.” She knew she was going to be cornered, but she was also gaining something in the process. Hubby was a banker, after all.
“So would you like to have a look at some samples my partner here has in stock?” It was an outright lie, and I hoped Ritchie thought about that “on his feet”. He did. He excused himself and came back with a ton of shoes, stolen from my personal office wardrobe. He apologised, saying he had no way of knowing the correct size; but they were the right size.
Lady wife was trying on a nice Italian pair and I could almost see tears of joy in the husband’s eyes.
My job here was done; Ritchie would follow through with that.
CHAPTER 29
Money started pouring in. We finally sorted out Natalie’s house and she was one of the happiest clients I’d ever seen; most importantly, she wasn’t ashamed now to bring a date home and be scared of giving the wrong impression. The old Victorian, all-wood style that would have suited an old granny had changed to the modern, refreshing, new style that Ritchie had sorted out, single-handed. We both received the biggest bunch of flowers we’d ever seen in our lives as a thank you. Natalie was also dating now; there was this Tyrone guy, in her words a hotter version of Denzel Washington (if that’s even possible), who owned a software company near Winnersh and who she’d met in the same posh gym that she went to. I was wondering if, one day, she would find the courage to tell him about the “body” we’d buried in the garden.
She had connections and organised a visit from Country Life magazine and, if I knew her, would manage to have her place featured as the main article in one of the following issues. People asked about her transformation and she pointed them in our direction, which made Ritchie and I even busier, to the point where we had to devise another way of classifying our clients. Now, in addition to the Silver, Gold and Platinum, which was our internal way of assessing the customers, we had the Advanced, Premium and Ultimate offerings.
Advanced was a short assessment made in a couple of days, with suggestions on style and follow-up visits to the shops with our clients to ensure that they stuck to our recommendations. The Premium was our bread and butter, what we had usually done up to that point, while the Ultimate would be the ones who would push the boundaries – special cases where we would do pretty much anything the clients could throw at us.
We started struggling before long and it seemed evident we needed more bodies, but we decided to park that issue for a few more days. Ritchie would start making enquiries with his friends, in a hush-hush way, and I was to do the same. Blimey: we needed to seriously think about that. Once the new website went online, matters could become even worse and it’s never a good idea to turn down potential customers.
That’s the problem when the business side of your life is going well: you put a lot of energy into it and little remains for your private life. What saved me was that Raffaele was also busy in sorting out his restaurant, which was almost finished, but soon we would have to face the issue at hand. The reality was that there was little overlapping in our lives. We spent as much time together as we could, and one day I also took a break from my job and accompanied him to the countryside, sourcing fresh food for his restaurant.
“So, where are we going today?” I asked eagerly. It was almost six in the morning and I was still half asleep, whilst Raffaele had been up for almost an hour and was becoming a little twitchy. He was used to getting up even earlier to go to markets and farms; for him we were already a couple of hours late.
“We have four farms to visit in Surrey and Kent; if the food is of good quality, then we can make a deal for supply.”
The first farm was in Kent, not far from Edenbridge. We drove through the village and passed some lovely Tudor houses on both sides of the road. I was glued to the window, trying not to let anything pass by unnoticed. A beautiful house just outside the village caught my attention, with a massive willow tree just at the front. The place looked the epitome of a quiet and relaxed life – something that occasionally I craved.
“Look at that one,” I said to Raffaele. He slowed the car down and was silent for a moment.
“The countryside here is beautiful. I’ve always been in big cities and it still amazes me how lucky people are to live in a place like this.”
“That’s also a dream of mine,” I added, although I knew that at this point in my life it would probably remain a dream. “Coming home and finding a lit fireplace, maybe a dog greeting me when I enter the door, and enjoying a glass of wine in the quiet surroundings of my garden.” I could have added that probably I wouldn’t have minded coping with a couple of screaming kids, but we hadn’t dated for long, Raffaele and me, so I was a bit skittish about mentioning that.
“Or a couple of kids ambushing you behind the door,” he added. I laughed out loud, as we were thinking about a very similar image in our minds, but Raffaele took it the wrong way, as if I was making fun of his dream. I noticed he went quiet and kept his focus on the road ahead of us.
“I didn’t mean to laugh,” I then added. “I was thinking the very same thing, although I didn’t spell it out.” I hoped that would have been
enough.
“I could live in one of those,” he said, pointing to a lovely seventeenth-century manor house with red bricks and a lawn in the front garden that was so perfect it could have been a carpet.
“Yeah, I could settle for something like that as well.” House spotting was a favourite pastime of mine whilst I was driving around visiting my clients. I would look at houses I liked and dream of one day having something like that. With a swimming pool.
We passed the mansion and, after a mile, we had to turn onto a small country lane, wide enough for just one car. Good thinking that we’d taken Raffaele’s car, a four by four, because the road soon became just two furrows in the grass and mud. Eventually we reached the farm. A border collie came to greet us, followed by the owner, shouting; she was a woman in her mid-sixties.
“Sorry about Nelson,” she said, “he wants to greet everybody and today he’s as muddy as hell.”
“No problem,” said Raffaele, patting the dog, which went belly-up straight away.
“Look at you; you are a mess,” the woman said to our new best friend. “Go away, shoo.”
Raffaele introduced himself and the restaurant he now proudly owned. The woman’s name was Julia. They spoke for a while about the farm, their produce and other things I didn’t quite catch. The good news was that the farm could provide a good quantity of fresh lamb and beef. Raffaele struck up a deal on all the oxtails she could put her hands on, bought about a hundred pounds of meat the woman kept in a fridge in the office, and they sorted out details about delivery and quantities. He would have to try the meat first, but he was happy with what he’d seen after Julia had shown us around. Good thinking by Raffaele about bringing wellies, which I hadn’t thought of.
And off we went on our next quest for fresh produce in the countryside.
“Oxtail?” I asked, incredulous.
“Cooked properly, it’s delicious. In this country, most people buy meat in supermarkets and they always get the same cuts. The tail is a cheap cut, but nonetheless delicious; you should try it.” I was unconvinced, but I trusted Raffaele.
Blue and Green Should Never be Seen! (Or so Mother says) Page 14
