‘Get a room,’ shrieks Cara.
Pete laughs. ‘But Kate, I’m sorry we couldn’t do that whole “If We’re Still Single at Forty Let’s Get Married” thing.’
‘I’d forgotten all about that,’ says Kate, shaking her head. ‘Forty seemed so old when we were young.’
‘Nick – you’re a lucky man,’ says Pete, raising his glass.
‘Isn’t he just?’ says Cara too loudly, as she thrusts her glass accusingly in Nick’s direction.
‘And bloody amazing food,’ says Pete, finishing his toast. ‘Amazing lasagne!’
There’s more applause as Kate shakes her head in embarrassment. ‘Next! Let’s get this over and done with . . .’
‘OK, now we have a message from an exotic foreign location,’ says Bailey, wiggling her fingers in the air. ‘From your mum – it’s like This is Your Life. She wanted to do this live on FaceTime . . . but I figured she might not want to see the state of her flat at this point in the evening, so I asked her to email me.’
Kate’s blush deepens as Bailey clears her throat: ‘Sorry I can’t be there to celebrate. You’re a wonderful daughter, Katey-Kate, even when you’re horrible. There’s a bottle of emergency champagne under my bed if you run out, but don’t drink it unless you absolutely have to . . .’
‘How very Mum,’ says Kate, laughing.
‘Nick?’ says Bailey, smiling kindly, ‘Do you want to say something?’
Nick shifts awkwardly in his seat and looks Kate in the eye. ‘Erm, Kate, thank you for putting up with me for so long. I know I haven’t been the easiest boyfriend, but thank you for loving me the way you do.’
‘Ah, well, you have your charms,’ she says, laughing and kissing him, then catching the look on Cara’s face – Cara’s eyes narrowing, her lips pursed. Kate frowns her a warning.
‘Say something about Kate, not about yourself,’ says Cara, laughing good-naturedly at him and shrugging back at Kate.
‘That was about Kate,’ says Nick, looking to Kate for confirmation. ‘Wasn’t it?’
‘No, sweetheart, it wasn’t,’ says Cara, shaking her head. ‘It was about how much she loves you! Try again, try harder.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ says Kate. ‘This feels like some horrible group bonding exercise.’
‘Nick,’ says Cara, putting her glass down and clicking her fingers at him as Kate buries her head in her hands. ‘Say what’s great about Kate that isn’t in reference to yourself.’
Nick nods obediently.
‘Something . . .’ says Cara, ‘That does not mention you at all. For example, you like her feet, or the sound of her laugh.’
‘OK,’ says Nick, nodding again, he’s got this. ‘Her feet are nice. And I do like the sound of her laugh.’
Cara laughs again. ‘But obviously not the exact words I’ve just fed you.’
‘Please can we stop this,’ says Kate.
‘No, it’s fine,’ says Nick, rubbing her arm. ‘Erm . . .’ He freezes, his mouth open, and Kate feels her face flush further. It’s horrible to put him on the spot like this. ‘I think . . . Kate has a surprisingly excellent record collection.’ He nods, pleased with himself, failing to see the disapproval on Cara’s face. ‘Did you know she owns Electronic’s “Get the Message” on white label vinyl?’ he says to Dom. ‘Amazing record, that guitar with those synths, just wonderful,’ he says, beaming.
Kate had once asked Nick what the girl he dated in his twenties was like. He’d looked at Kate blankly. ‘Was she quiet, loud? Clever, like you?’ He’d pondered the question for a while, then replied, ‘She worked at a vet’s.’ Expecting a little more data, Kate had nodded encouragingly, but when met with a wall of silence, she’d probed: ‘What was she actually like – as a person?’ He’d looked at Kate as though she’d just asked what his favourite vinegar-based cleaning solution was.
She glances over at Pete and Mia, faces centimetres apart, and thinks back to Pete’s wedding speech, how he’d noticed Mia’s little finger twitching with excitement on their car ride in Sicily. The smallest of Mia’s fingers. In his peripheral vision. Nick wouldn’t have noticed if Kate’s entire body was in spasms, unless she was talking about SpaceX rocket launches at the time. It’s an unfortunate fact about Nick: if you’re not standing directly in his eye-line, you cease to exist.
‘I think it’s time for a surprise,’ says Kavita as she disappears into the kitchen with Dom. They emerge a minute later with a chocolate-iced cake, one pink candle blazing, and the room breaks into a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Look at this!’ says Kate, beaming as Kavita places the cake in front of her. To Kate: The Icing On Our Cake. Thank you, that is so thoughtful.’
‘Someone’s phone’s ringing?’ calls out Bailey.
‘You’ve got the hearing of a bat,’ says Cara.
‘Blow out the candle,’ says Pete.
‘Shit, it’s my phone,’ says Nick, looking embarrassed. ‘Back in a sec.’
‘Blow it out, come on, one big breath.’
‘Peanut butter buttercream filling?’ says Kate, cutting into the sponge with an appreciative sigh. ‘Gosh, it must my birthday . . .’
Kate cuts ten generous slices and starts putting them on plates. Nick comes back into the room and whispers to her, ‘Not for me, I’m afraid, I have to go back in.’
‘A smaller slice,’ says Bailey. ‘That one’s the size of my head.’
‘Just a minute,’ says Kate distractedly, turning to Nick in confusion. ‘What do you mean? Back in where?’
‘That was work, they’ve called me three times in the last hour.’
‘And?’
‘Ivan can’t figure out the coding.’
Kate leads Nick gently to the corner, away from her guests. ‘Ivan’s your boss, how can he not know how to do the job?’
‘I guess the same way Devron wouldn’t have known how to do yours,’ says Nick, looking stressed. ‘Look, I don’t want to leave. I’m having a great time.’
‘Then don’t leave. Tell Ivan tough shit. Tell him it’s your girlfriend’s fortieth. Tell him we’re in the middle of cake. Tell him we’ve got a room booked that’s costing the best part of a week’s salary. Tell him it’s a sodding database, not open-heart surgery. Tell him no.’
‘I’ll literally be two hours, max. Maybe three.’
‘Why can’t one of the others do it? Where’s Anjit?’
‘He’s training for the marathon, he has to be up early. Oh shit, Ivan’s calling again.’
Kate gently pushes him out to the hallway and listens as he answers Ivan’s call.
‘No, it’s fine, Ivan – yeah, completely understand, not a problem at all . . . no, nothing special . . . just finishing a bite to eat.’
Kate shakes her head violently as he pulls an apologetic face to demonstrate there’s nothing he can do about his own choice of words.
‘Nothing special?’ says Kate, shaking her head. ‘Come on . . .’
‘Babe, they’ll pay me overtime. I’ll use the money for us to do something nice, we’ll go to the Cotswolds or something.’
‘It’s not about the money, and I hate the sodding Cotswolds.’
‘I can’t say no.’
‘Yes. You can.’
‘I’ve only been back there a few months.’
‘You’ve done two night shifts already this week. There are other people who could fix the problem – why does Anjit’s marathon training have priority over your life – over our life? – The marathon’s not till April.’
‘I can’t make a fuss, Kate. Look, the sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be done. Honestly, it sounds like a quickish fix. I’ll meet you at the hotel.’
‘I’ll stay here with my friends till you’re finished.’
‘Sure, but there’s no point not taking advantage of the room. I promise, if it gets any later than 2.30 a.m. I’ll walk out. I promise.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ he says, kissing th
e frown on her face goodbye.
*
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to ask my babysitter to stay an extra hour?’ says Bailey as they stand by the front door, saying their goodbyes.
‘You’ve got to be up horribly early for your Eurostar,’ says Kate, hugging her. ‘It’s midnight already.’
‘Then an extra hour won’t make any difference – my hangover’s going to destroy me either way,’ says Bailey, pulling her back for another hug. ‘I don’t want the first hour of your forties to be spent alone doing the washing-up. It doesn’t bode well.’
‘Things can only get better, right?’ says Kate. ‘Home, Bailey. You’re an amazing friend.’
Kavita and Dom have left already for their own babysitter; Pete and Mia will not keep their hands off each other – and Kate really doesn’t feel like playing gooseberry; and she definitely doesn’t fancy spending extra time with Cara, whose microscope on Kate’s relationship will only ever magnify the flaws.
So yes, she’s alone at the start of her fortieth birthday, doing the washing-up: so what? She’s forty, she’s definitely supposed to be an adult, and self-pity is never attractive.
She doesn’t need to feel so disappointed. Forgetting a birthday card is genuinely not a big deal. She does have good taste in music – it was a compliment. Nick’s job is important. Nobody’s perfect. Our flaws are what make us human. Rita was never one to give her much attention, Kate’s used to living without it. She has a cab coming soon to take her to a fancy hotel in town, where they’ll no doubt have brilliant mini-toiletries, a fantastically plush bed with lots of pillows and a top-quality mattress, and Nick will be there in two hours, give or take. She’ll wake up to a champagne breakfast with the man she loves, and she’ll be ashamed at how she’s felt in the least bit grumpy about any of this.
But as she covers the remainder of her birthday cake and puts it to one side, she can’t help but recall Cecily’s comment about substandard cake and living for the icing.
Cecily’s wrong, though.
It’s not about whether the cake is good enough to justify the icing.
Sometimes with Nick it feels like Kate’s living on crumbs.
Chapter Fifty-two
THE SOUND OF PERSISTENT knocking wakes Kate from a deep sleep. She rolls onto her back on the plush king-sized bed. This mattress really is incredible, it feels like a giant marshmallow.
She opens her eyes slowly, they’re sore, and sees that the plasma screen at the end of the bed is currently frozen in the middle of an episode of 30 Rock and Jack and Liz are high-fiving in Jack’s office. Kate must have pressed pause as she was nodding off.
She looks at the space beside her where Nick should be: it’s him at the door, knocking. She checks her watch. He promised he’d be here by 2.30 a.m. It’s 8.30 a.m. He promised.
She closes her eyes again and breathes deeply. This was his stupid idea; it was meant to be her birthday treat, and at this rate they’ll only have two hours together before checkout.
No – she needs to rise above it. He’s here now, that’s all that matters. Blearily she swings her legs over the edge of the bed and shuffles to the door.
‘What time do you call this?’ she says as cheerily as she can, as she opens the door. ‘Oh,’ she says, her heart sinking. ‘Sorry . . . I was expecting someone else.’
The waiter looks down at his elaborate trolley of champagne breakfast for two, then back up at Kate in her nightie.
‘Yeah, I guess that’s for me . . . just leave it anywhere, thanks,’ says Kate, hurrying him out of the room.
She checks her phone: three texts and a voice message from Nick. He did try, he did – just not hard enough.
Bailey answers on the second ring. ‘Bonjour, ma petite birthday girl, are you having a lovely breakfast in bed?’
‘Yup. Just me, myself and I,’ says Kate wearily.
‘What? What happened? It wasn’t about that awkwardness with Cara, was it? I feel bad I put Nick on the spot like that.’
‘No, nothing to do with that. And I do have an excellent record collection, I’ll have you know,’ says Kate, shaking her head with shame. ‘I woke up five minutes ago to a bunch of texts from Nick. He lost track of time at work, didn’t finish till five,’ she says, sighing. ‘Then he texted a few times and when he didn’t hear back – because I was fast a-bloody-sleep! – he went home and he’s gone to bed, but I’m supposed to call when I wake up.’
‘Why didn’t he just come and join you?’
‘I don’t know – because he’s a moron? Or he was knackered? Or he thought I’d be annoyed because he promised he’d be here and he broke his promise?’
‘Oh, honey, that’s . . . disappointing.’
‘No, it’s fine. I mean it’s a total waste of this room, which I didn’t want him spending money on in the first place, but . . . well, I guess it is a bit shit, isn’t it? Though they do have this cute little branded pencil set to take home . . .’ she says, picking up the pencil box from the bedside table and sliding it open and shut.
Bailey’s prolonged silence feels significant; Bailey always gives Nick the benefit of the doubt.
‘Bailey – I don’t feel good about this,’ says Kate, flopping back onto the bed and rubbing the dull ache that’s lodged in her stomach. She gazes up at the beautiful fleur de-lys cornices on the ceiling. ‘I don’t understand. He said he’d be here. You’ve gone quiet again.’
‘Let me buy you a ticket to Paris! Get the next Eurostar out, there’s one every hour. You could do a gallery while I’m at the trade show, then I’ll meet you after and we’ll go for steak and chips and gallons of red wine.’
‘Blow out dinner with Nick and hop on a train?’ It’s the best idea Kate’s ever heard.
‘Tomorrow we could go to Le Marais for a falafel? Think about it . . . if you fancy . . . if you did want to change your plans.’
Kate hangs up and googles Eurostar. There’s a train she could make at 11.01 a.m., oh, ouch, £150. And every train coming back tomorrow night costs £199.
What is she even thinking? She’s totally overreacting again. Last time she was trying to flee France to get away from Nick, now she’s fleeing to France to escape him.
She’s grumpy because she has a hangover, and she’s being a baby, and those overpriced scrambled eggs on that trolley over there are getting cold.
She texts Bailey back:
If the train didn’t cost the same as a week’s holiday in Spain, I’d say yes – thank you for the insanely generous offer – I’ll be happy if you bring me back a croissant x
Kate doesn’t care about a forgotten birthday card. But she does care about this.
Chapter Fifty-three
IF YOU’D ASKED KATE three months ago who she’d most like to spend her fortieth birthday with, that bossy old harridan at Lauderdale would not have made the shortlist, nor the longer one. Yet Kate has so intense a longing to visit Cecily that she heads straight over without dropping her bag home first.
Kate is fine, Kate is absolutely fine. She just needs this chaos in her head to quieten down for a few hours until she can talk herself back round to being calm.
‘Every time you’re here on a Saturday, it makes me think I’m losing my marbles,’ says Cecily, her brows rising in delight at the sight of Kate.
‘I wanted to share this champagne with a good friend. You do drink champagne, don’t you?’
Cecily wiggles her hand from side to side. ‘If you can tolerate a belch or two, I can tolerate a glass. Champagne for breakfast?’ says Cecily.
‘Did Mrs Gaffney tell you about my drinking problem?’ says Kate, laughing.
‘I wasn’t sure if the big day was today or tomorrow, I would have given you your card.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not really a fan of birthdays.’
‘Neither am I. You’re not with friends today?’
‘I saw them last night.’
‘Ah yes? How was the dinner?’
‘Phenomenal, I’d have brought you leftovers but there weren’t any.’
‘That lasagne takes time to make but it’s so comforting – to cook and to eat. I learned the recipe in Bologna, the year before I started writing the book. Wonderful city, Bologna, have you been?’
‘I’ve only been to Florence.’
‘Oh, Italy is the most marvellous country, everywhere is colour, beauty, excitement. I told you I lived there for the best part of a decade?’ says Cecily dreamily. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t until the 1960s, but back in 1953 or 1954, it must have been, I’d seen Roman Holiday, and a friend suggested I do a tour – Milan, Bologna, Venice. I was in a rather blue mood, but I took myself off. It was the best thing for me, it made me excited about food again. Those little stuffed pasta parcels filled with rich beef ragu, topped with a creamy tomato sauce.’ She kisses the air. ‘Delizioso! Exactly what I needed. So your friends appreciated your efforts?’
‘It was a good night.’
‘You didn’t have fun?’
‘They enjoyed it.’ Kate smiles but Cecily’s expression tells her Cecily’s fully aware the smile is being held up by scaffolding.
‘And tonight you’ll have supper with . . .?’
‘Yup, that’s the plan.’
‘The plan?’ says Cecily, who is about to say something more biting but stops herself.
‘Mrs Finn, could you carry on with your story? I’d really like to listen to you. I need to be in a different world from my own, just for a short while.’
Cecily looks at her with such intense sympathy it makes Kate want to cry. ‘The war was over,’ says Kate, clearing her throat. ‘Your father had passed away.’
‘Ah, yes,’ sighs Cecily. ‘That very much marked the end of that chapter of my life. Which bit would you like next, the Italian years? My disasters in Hollywood? Learning the hula in Hawaii?’
‘Just carry on where you left off? Or tell me how you first got published?’
Cecily pauses and takes a sip of champagne, then pats her collarbone gently. ‘They’re one and the same chapter, though it’s a rather bittersweet one, not my favourite, actually. I don’t think you’re in the best frame of mind.’
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 26
