‘And it sounds like you made it to most of them.’
‘Well, plans changed . . . after my book was published we went back to Italy, for quite some time, then back to England for the screenplays. It wasn’t really till the writing dried up when I was in my sixties that we had the time or inclination to revisit the list.’
‘Do you still have the notebook? I’d love to see it.’
Cecily breathes out a sigh of frustration. ‘I threw the damn thing away in a fit of rage a few years after the war, but I knew its contents by heart. I’d spent so many hours in that Stockholm apartment, dreaming of our future when the war would be over.’
‘Didn’t you work in Sweden?’
‘I did, I needed to keep busy as Samuel’s hours were so long. I started teaching again. I learned to speak Swedish and German, and made friends with a rather bohemian crowd – artists and film-makers who threw wonderful parties which always ended in some sort of romantic scandal,’ she says, chuckling.
‘It doesn’t sound like life was too hard?’
‘Well, Sweden was neutral. The worst thing was not knowing what was happening to Samuel’s family. Samuel tried every connection he’d made but we couldn’t find out anything. He became consumed by anxiety. This time the rumours were horrifying, Jews being starved to death in the Warsaw ghetto, shot in the street, or transported to German labour camps. Samuel threw himself ever harder into work – fighting for his family as much as for the bigger cause. The following year, because he was so busy, we decided I’d spend three months out of the city, looking after our friends’ two daughters. The Swedish countryside was intoxicatingly beautiful after that long winter, a luxuriance of blossom – violet, purple, mauve and white everywhere. I promised Samuel I’d take him as soon as the war ended, though that didn’t happen till his eightieth birthday,’ she says, looking suddenly crestfallen. ‘I should have done that sooner, I fear I rather let him down.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Kate. ‘It sounds like you were too busy having all sorts of adventures.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose . . .’
‘Italy, Hawaii, Machu Picchu?’
‘Yes, Peru, of course,’ says Cecily, frowning. ‘And my work kept me terribly busy too . . . Well, anyway, looking back now, that summer feels like a dream. I cooked for the little girls, taught them English, and at bedtime I made up all manner of stories.’
‘What type of stories?’
‘Oh, what any child wants,’ says Cecily, dismissively. ‘Real life with the horrid bits made larger, then magicked away at the end. The girls loved them so much I wrote them down and showed Samuel when I returned to Stockholm. He said they were excellent, though I presumed he was only saying that because he was always so kind. But unbeknown to me he showed a few to a contact who had a friend in publishing. The editor liked them and asked to see more. I spent every spare minute of the next two months furiously writing, driving Samuel mad reading him stories in bed at night. Eventually, I went to meet the editor, who wanted me to write even more, and a month later I delivered the stories, then sat trying not to stare at our letterbox. Six weeks later a letter landed on the doormat. I couldn’t bear to look, Samuel had to open it for me. He read it, then looked up at me with tears in his eyes.’
‘A rejection letter?’ says Kate, her heart sinking.
‘Tears of pride. The book would be called Om Igen – Tell Me Again – to be published in Sweden and England. I could hardly wait to send a copy to Mr Moffat, my old English teacher. ’
‘Ah, how wonderful, Mrs Finn. So, finally. That’s how you came to be a writer.’
‘No, that didn’t work out at all,’ says Cecily, her eyes darkening. ‘The month after my contract arrived we had the news we’d been dreading for so long, confirmation of our worst fears. Samuel’s family . . .’ She shakes her head.
‘What?’
Cecily’s eyes shut tight as she takes a deep breath and exhales heavily. ‘His parents, his brothers and sister, his nieces and nephews, those sweet, innocent children who’d shared dinner with us in Warsaw – all of them killed in Auschwitz, herded into gas chambers like cattle. Leon, Shindel, Lilli, Oskar, Izzy . . . And we didn’t know. Almost his entire family decimated, not a body to bury, no grave he could ever visit.’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine,’ says Kate, shaking her head.
‘My belief in the fundamental goodness of human nature was destroyed. Until that moment, Samuel had always been an optimist but that changed us. Certainly, I had no more appetite for make-believe stories. And yet,’ she says, raising one hand, then letting it fall, ‘life had to go on. The tide of war was turning. We waited in hope for the second front, and at last VE Day came. Stockholm went mad. Samuel and I held hands tightly as we walked down Birger Jarlsgatan under a snowstorm of ticker tape, but our hearts were heavy with the suffering of so many. Too much had been endured to make this feverish excitement exhilarating. Then we received a dreadful telegram from Gisele.’
‘Her mother’s Sophie, the jazz singer?’
‘Yes, Samuel’s last remaining sibling. We thought they’d have been safer living in France. Sophie had sold her emeralds on the black market for a fraction of their value. The money had helped them procure false identity papers, and a sympathetic non-Jewish friend had given them refuge. But a neighbour had found out and denounced them all to the Germans. The neighbour was arrested, and Sophie . . . Sophie was shot. Gisele somehow managed to escape but the Gestapo were still searching for her – she couldn’t even attend her own mother’s funeral. It was such a terrible time, I’d never seen poor Samuel weep like that. His heart was broken. All I could do was hold his hand but it was beyond wretched seeing a person you love suffering so much, even now it makes me sick to think about,’ she says, rubbing her abdomen. ‘Then I had a cable from England saying Papa had died.’
‘Oh God.’
‘In his sleep, a peaceful death at least.’
‘But all that loss, all at once.’
Cecily nods gravely.
‘How old was he when he died?’
‘How old was who?’ says Cecily, warily.
‘Your father?’
‘Oh, Papa? Sixty-seven. Mama lived to seventy. I’m amazed I’ve outlived my parents by decades – do you think I’ll ever die?’ says Cecily, despairingly.
‘I suspect it’s the likely outcome,’ says Kate, awkwardly. ‘You’re not religious, are you, Mrs Finn?’
‘I don’t believe in heaven, if that’s your question.’
‘Don’t you ever wonder what happens next?’
‘I expect it all just goes dark.’
‘Don’t you think there’s a chance you’ll see your loved ones again?’
‘Not for a minute, though I’d dearly love to see Samuel’s face again, it’s been so long,’ she says fondly. ‘There’s so much I never told him. I’ve missed him every day he’s been gone.’
‘Of course.’
‘He was the most wonderful husband, I couldn’t have imagined a finer one. We never did reach that point where we tired of each other. I wonder if we ever would have . . .’ she says, giving a gentle shrug. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, Kate. I’ve been ready for years. And I learned not to be afraid of living. Fear is a terrible thing, it paralyses you far more than being stuck in an old body.’ Cecily looks at her thoughtfully. ‘Emerson said it best: “What if you do fail and get rolled in the dirt . . . Up again, you shall never be so afraid in a tumble”.’
It’s another piece of Cecily’s advice that comes to seem essential only a short while later.
Chapter Fifty
SPICY TOMATO AND BACON rigatoni? Or fragrant lamb curry? Or maybe a chicken cashew stir fry? Decisions, decisions.
Kate is heading out of Aposta on Tuesday evening pondering what to cook with Nick for dinner when her phone rings.
‘I was just about to call. How was your day?’ she says, pulling her coat tighter as she heads towards the deli.
‘Yep, al
l good,’ says Nick. ‘Ivan’s confirmed we’re doing the switchover next Friday, so I’ll definitely be doing that shift.’
‘The Friday of my birthday weekend?’ says Kate, anxiously.
‘Next Friday, not this Friday,’ he says, laughing. ‘I wouldn’t forget your birthday after the trouble that caused last year.’
‘I let you off lightly,’ says Kate, laughing.
‘Rohan totally messed up the import last weekend, Anjit had to rewrite all his queries.’
Kate has no idea what this means but she makes a suitably sympathetic noise. ‘Are you still at work?’
‘I finished early because of last night’s shift.’
‘Oh. Are you typing?’
‘Playing Civilisation V.’
‘Declared any wars yet?’
‘I’m trying diplomacy first,’ he says, tapping away in the background.
She hovers outside the fancy deli, pondering whether to pick up wine. She should save her drinking for the weekend’s festivities – but a bottle of wine with Nick is never the wrong thing. ‘Hey, shall I bring some of my CDs round later? Does it make sense to bring a bag’s worth at a time?’
‘Tonight?’
‘We’re doing supper and cinema, aren’t we? Red or white, by the way? I’m in the deli.’
‘That’s tonight?’
‘Yup.’
‘Honestly?’
‘What?’
‘I’m knackered.’
‘Oh. Do you want to give the cinema a miss?’
‘I could do with an early night.’
‘Shall we just get a takeaway curry?’
‘I was thinking I’d get myself a Deliveroo. I fancy some ribs.’
‘Oh,’ says Kate, smarting slightly. Ribs for one, not two. ‘OK, then . . . well, I can hear you’re playing your computer game so I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’
‘Cool, have fun, babe, see you Friday,’ he says, but she can tell his concentration has already drifted back to the virtual world.
She hangs up with a frown. If it hadn’t been for France, she’d be more relaxed about him cancelling their evening so abruptly at an hour’s notice. She can’t expect him to be keen constantly just because she now has some residual paranoid insecurity. She needs to quieten the annoying little voice in her head saying this isn’t good enough – because she’s over-sensitised, looking for problems. There’s nothing whatsoever wrong here, but if she knee-jerks constantly, she’ll kick this relationship until it breaks.
She heads to the freezer section for a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. That should help her swallow the uncomfortable feeling which that phone call’s just left her with.
Chapter Fifty-one
Dinner with Friends to Celebrate a Rather Significant Birthday
It is good for him that intends to feast, to set down the full number of . . . dishes . . . sixteen is a good proportion; first, a shield of brawn, with mustard; secondly, a boiled capon; thirdly a boiled piece of beef; fourthly, a chine of beef roasted; fifthly, a neat’s tongue . . . sixthly, a pig roasted; seventhly, chewets baked; eighthly, a goose roasted; ninthly, a swan . . . tenthly, a turkey . . . the eleventh, a haunch of venison . . . the twelfth, a pasty of venison. The thirteenth, a kid with a pudding in the belly; the fourteenth, an olive pie; the fifteenth, a couple of capons; the sixteenth, a custard or doucet.
Gervase Markham, The Well-Kept Kitchen
Alternatively, lasagne works well for a crowd.
EVEN THOUGH IT WAS only five months ago, looking back now, Kate can’t quite believe how dramatically she’d lost her appetite after France. Her love of food has been reignited with a vengeance, and she can’t imagine a finer way to spend the last day of her thirties than a morning shift at Aposta, then coming home to create a feast for her favourite people.
She’s keeping it simple and luxurious, in line with Cecily’s menu – mozzarella and tomato salad, duck lasagne and chocolate mousse for dessert – but she’s made a few tweaks. The salad has evolved into home-made ricotta and roast tomato with home-made bread. The tomatoes have been slow-roasting for hours, with thyme, olive oil and garlic, until they’re sweet, jammy and fragrant. After Nick had cancelled on Tuesday, she’d ended up spending the evening practising making ricotta. She’d been through half a dozen muslins and piles of rubbery beige curds before finally mastering the technique – and tonight a bowl of smooth, creamy cheese sits on the counter as proof.
The lasagne feels like it’s taken an entire decade to make, though in reality it’s only been six hours, three for the soffritto, another two spent braising the duck legs in red wine, another hour once the meat had fallen off the bone making a rich, thick sauce to be layered between pasta and smothered in Parmesan and mozzarella.
Kate’s upgraded the chocolate mousse with cocoa nibs and fresh raspberries. She’s licked the spoon a few too many times, but what in this world is more delicious than chocolate melted into double cream? She smiles as she whisks the egg whites, reminded of the bright white crest of Cecily’s hair. She’s going to drag Nick to meet Cecily soon – then Cecily will understand what all this fuss has been about.
She takes Rita’s bone china dinner service from the cupboard and lays the table for ten. When Kate was younger, she’d thought that by forty she’d have a husband, a house, a car, kids and her own posh china set. She has none of these, yet she’s no longer dreading tomorrow – she has everything that makes her happy: friendship, food, music, laughter and Nick.
Comparison is the fastest route to feeling inadequate but actually her friends’ lives haven’t turned out to plan either. Kate had assumed Cara would have ploughed through a minimum of three husbands by now. And she’d never have imagined Bailey’s ex would be dumb enough to leave her for the office slapper. Man plans, God laughs . . .
Even if Kate married Nick next year, they’d be hard-pressed to make it to ‘Dinner to Celebrate Your Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary’ like Cecily and Samuel had. In Thought for Food, Cecily had made Samuel his favourite meal, with slight tweaks, for every significant anniversary. Will she and Nick still be eating cheeseburgers when they’re in their nineties? Possibly little ones, sliders – easier on the dentures . . .
She chides herself. She’s always thinking months or even years into the future, Cecily’s always thinking of the past – whereas anyone who meditates will tell you that neither the future nor the past even exist.
Kate’s going to pour herself a glass of wine and sit and enjoy this moment. In an hour she’ll be with her closest friends, and shortly after midnight she and Nick will be at the fancy hotel, and she can’t think of anything in the world that would make her happier.
*
‘Three cheers for the birthday girl! More shots all round,’ says Bailey, holding up the half-empty bottle of Jägermeister, then touring the table to pour more drinks.
Kate’s pre-birthday-into-birthday dinner has been a roaring success. Cara’s brought Eric, a new sugar daddy she met in Claridge’s Bar a week ago. He’s brought a magnum of Dom Pérignon: he’s been a big hit. Bailey’s brought Adam, who’s brought Kate various lovingly potted herbs, including her favourite, lemon verbena. Kavita and Dom brought the Jägermeister, which everyone claimed they couldn’t possibly drink at their advanced age but which everyone has. Nick turned up late from work, having left Kate’s card on his desk, but he’s in the final throes of this project, working twelve-hour days – she’s really not bothered about a card.
Pete and Mia have refused to be separated, but everyone else has mingled and discovered common passions. Kavita and Eric are both Larry David fans; Cara has been benignly flirting with Adam, but he only has eyes for Bailey; Nick and Dom, a fellow geek, have been joyously discussing their current favourite book, Hands-on Machine Learning with Scikit Learn and Tensorflow.
‘I can’t believe Dom’s reading that too,’ says Kate. ‘I literally don’t understand a word.’
‘It’s way above my pay grade,’ say
s Kavita, winking at Nick, who’s gesticulating wildly in his enthusiasm.
‘Convolutional neural nets!’ Nick pipes up excitedly. ‘Recurrent neural nets, generative adversarial nets – they’re the new frontier of artificial intelligence!’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ says Kate, kissing the top of his head as she moves round the table to chat to her guests; it’s pure joy to see her friends having such a good time.
‘Order, order,’ says Bailey, banging her glass loudly half a dozen times before anyone quietens down. ‘Attention please! Tonight we are celebrating a very special occasion.’
‘Oh no – no speeches, no,’ says Kate, shaking her head violently.
‘At midnight tonight, my oldest, dearest friend is turning twenty-one again and I thought it would be nice if we could go round the table and remind her of why we love her so much.’
‘No! That’s unspeakably embarrassing, no way,’ says Kate, returning to her seat and burying her face in Nick’s shoulder.
‘Nonsense, we love you, Kate. We think sometimes you don’t realise how much we love you and why. So, I’ll go first because I’m the drunkest: Kate, thank you for being my friend for thirty-six years – yes, I know the sums don’t quite add up given how youthful and radiant we look,’ says Bailey, raising her glass. ‘Kate – you’re the most funny, generous, self-deprecating person I know, but above all, you’re an exceptional, loyal friend who’ll do anything for the people she loves.’
There are loud claps round the table, and Pete lets out a long, whooping whistle.
‘I need a bucket,’ says Kate, as Nick rubs her back.
‘I’ll stop now before I really embarrass you,’ says Bailey. ‘Pete?’
Pete tops up his glass and grins. ‘Kate – I can never thank you enough for covering up for me over that pack of Silk Cut Mum found in my room when we were fourteen. Bailey said it already – you’re a loyal, generous friend, and I’m sorry I met Mia – I’m not at all sorry I met Mia,’ he says, leaning over to kiss his wife.
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 25
