She’d loved doing it, though, and by the time she’d written down ‘Lunch for When You’re Thoroughly Bored of Yourself’ – slow-roast chicken with lemon and harissa, with a butter-drenched baked potato, followed by warm chocolate cookie pudding with cream – any urge to contact Nick had passed, and she was back to thinking he was a pillock – and that she was not only the icing but the whole entire cake.
She’d carried the satisfaction from writing into work with her on Monday along with the leftovers. When William had mentioned that his husband Chris was holding his book club in the café the following week, Kate had offered to recreate the chicken dish for them, followed by some salted caramel brownies. Chris had given her £50 for her troubles. It was the most fun £50 she’d ever earned. Cecily was right, of course: life is full of opportunities once you’re open to them.
And then as Valentine’s Day was looming, she’d decided the best way to take away its sting would be to hold an Anti-Valentine’s supper club for a couple of dozen Aposta regulars. William was up for it, and waived any hire fee in exchange for tickets for him and Chris. It turns out some couples think 14 February is just another day. And other couples don’t like being ripped off at some poncy place in town. And still other couples don’t want to sit opposite each other at Pizza Express yet again, and would much rather flirt with the nearest stranger.
The night had been such a success that William asked her to do something regularly, and she’s working on the follow-up. She might even make a few hundred quid too, and best of all it doesn’t feel like work. This has been one pleasant surprise since the break-up – just how much comfort she’s found at Aposta. When she was at Fletchers signing off shelf-edge stripping, it was all too easy for her mind to wander down slippery slopes and get stuck at the bottom. There’s no chance of that here – there’s no time or headspace, and what a blessing that is. Kate is too busy chatting to customers, washing up, mastering her latte art – her hearts are now flawless.
Kate checks her watch. It’s finally getting dark outside. The other day Rita said that she thinks Kate is hiding at Lauderdale – but that is classic Rita, unwilling to accept that her daughter might think and feel differently to the way Rita does.
The truth is that these last few months Kate has needed a safe place to recover. Cecily is gentler with her nowadays. It might simply be because Cecily has less energy; she is fading. Or perhaps it’s because Kate’s relationship with Cecily has evolved into true friendship, of a type it pains her to realise she never had with Nick. Both women have been brave enough to be their vulnerable, imperfect selves. What a gift: to know another person, and to be known. Cecily has seen Kate at her most broken and did not walk away. To be fair, Cecily isn’t much of a walker, but Kate thinks she’d have found a way, if she’d been inclined.
Kate looks up as Cecily emits a sudden snore. It’s loud but not quite loud enough for her to wake herself, and it resolves into three frilly little echo snores. Kate will leave Cecily to it. She quietly puts the book she’s been reading back on Cecily’s shelf, tucks a blanket over Cecily’s lap and heads for the door.
Chapter Fifty-seven
THROUGHOUT THE WEEK Kate has been pondering the menu for her next supper club. Today, while Cecily’s been napping, Kate has been browsing Cecily’s copy of Marcella Hazan’s Classic Italian Cookbook and when Cecily wakes, Kate talks her through the plans.
‘I thought I’d take a page out of your book and theme it, something like “Dinner for Pasta Lovers who Aren’t Embarrassed to have Pasta as a Starter Followed by Pasta as a Main . . .”’
‘Only two pasta courses?’ says Cecily, with mock outrage.
‘You don’t think it’s too gluttonous, do you? If I do a lighter pudding?’
‘I used to eat double pasta all the time when I lived in Italy. Once in a trattoria in Rome I ordered three carbonaras in succession. It wasn’t the done thing, but when was that ever my concern? The chef came out from the kitchen to inspect this mysterious greedy eater – he must have assumed I was a fat American man. We started talking and he ended up teaching me how to cook the perfect carbonara – relies, of course, on the cheek.’
‘Ooh, I could do a carbonara for main, perhaps with new season’s asparagus. Then I could start with tagliarini, maybe with crab and a hint of chilli?’
‘Where do I sign up?’ says Cecily with delight.
‘Oh my goodness, would you come?’ says Kate. ‘I can arrange for you to be driven there and back.’
‘Dear Lord, no – I was joking, it would be far too much excitement.’
‘Mrs Finn, will you promise me when it gets warmer you’ll at least sit in the garden with me?’
Cecily shakes her head.
Kate sighs in defeat. ‘Oh – I need to call the event something, if I’m doing it regularly. What do you think of the name Nights and Weekends?’
‘Night and weekends?’
‘You once said that before you met Samuel your nights and weekends were spent desperately seeking fun. Those are often the times people feel loneliest. And I just like the sound of it.’
Cecily pulls a face Kate hasn’t seen since Cecily was last commenting on Maud’s excessive use of cream blusher.
‘Or I could call it Thought for Food?’ says Kate, looking up to see Cecily nodding, but rubbing her chest agitatedly.
‘Far more apposite,’ says Cecily, emitting a small belch. ‘Be a dear – fetch me a Gaviscon, that alleged kedgeree is repeating on me.’
Kate heads to the carers’ station but no one’s there, and after waiting a few minutes she walks down the corridor in the direction of noise from the dining room. She pokes her head in and sees Mrs Gaffney and Bernadette seated at the front of the room, along with the sandy-haired man who has the young girlfriend. They’ve set up a projector with a slide reading ‘Quarterly Food Survey – Feedback’. Seated in the audience are two dozen of the residents and the room is lively with the sound of grumbling. Mrs Gaffney catches Kate’s eye and beckons for her to listen in.
‘So it’s agreed?’ says Mrs Gaffney. ‘Keep teriyaki chicken on the menu but lose Thai curry?’ The ladies call out their assent. ‘Good,’ she says, ticking off her paperwork. ‘Next on the agenda, omelettes: The omelettes used to be much better. They’re too dry . . . need to be fluffier. Is that a generally held view or just one resident’s?’
‘You should make them runny, like they used to at the Savoy,’ calls out Maud.
Bernadette puffs up in her chair irritably. ‘We have to make thirty omelettes every morning, I’m afraid we can’t offer you personal butler service.’
‘And your eggs are not fresh,’ continues Maud. ‘I’m used to an orange yolk from when we had the farm in Africa.’
The man with the blue eyes shifts in his chair, looking mildly uncomfortable.
‘There’s nothing wrong with our eggs,’ says Bernadette. ‘They could hardly be fresher if we kept our own hens and I am not running around after a bunch of chickens and you.’
Mrs Gaffney squeezes Bernadette’s arm sternly. ‘Next item,’ says Mrs Gaffney briskly. ‘Fruit salad: The fruit is cut wrong, there are too many grapes, the melon is hard as glass . . . again, is this a widely held view or just Mrs Rappapot’s?’
Why hasn’t Cecily come to this meeting? She’d be in her element.
By the time Kate’s located a carer and some medicine, Cecily is fast asleep. Kate resettles in her chair and picks up the cookbook again. Yes – screw etiquette, she’s definitely cooking double pasta. She’ll post the menu online in advance so the faint-hearted can avoid it – but it’ll sort the wheat from the chaff, or rather the double wheat from the gluten avoiders . . .
She starts scribbling provisional costings, then decides she needs a bigger piece of paper than the scrap from her bag. She heads back down the corridor to find one, and as she approaches the admin office, she sees the sandy-haired man emerging with a biro in hand.
‘Hello!’ he says cheerily. ‘Pen
ran out.’ He has beautiful deep blue eyes, and when he smiles, laughter lines form at their edges.
‘Are they still ripping apart that poor fruit salad?’ says Kate.
‘We’ve moved on! To liver – underdone or too well done. Those ladies have strong opinions on food.’
‘And so they should! It’s one of life’s few reliable pleasures. It’s important, no matter how old you are.’
‘Huh. You’re right I guess – it would be a shame if they didn’t still care. Were you in the room when they were talking about Mexican night?’ he says, trying to stifle a giggle.
‘Oh no, what?’ says Kate, giggling even though she doesn’t know what he’s about to say.
‘Edith Constable said the guacamole was grounds enough to send Bernadette to Qantas. I believe she meant Dignitas, but either way, Bernadette was not amused.’
‘Oh my goodness, Mrs Constable ruder than Maud Rappapot? Though I have to agree, bad guacamole is a total missed opportunity, don’t you think?’
‘Er, I haven’t given it much thought,’ he says, looking mildly taken aback. ‘I just buy mine from Tesco’s.’
‘What?’ says Kate, stepping back in horror. ‘You can’t buy guacamole. It has to be freshly made. Anything you buy from a supermarket has loads of acid in it.’
‘What, like LSD?’ he says, laughing. ‘I’d better stop feeding it to my kids, then . . .’
‘Yeah,’ says Kate, nodding and trying to hide her surprise, though why she’s surprised that a man her age has kids is beyond her – it is the norm. ‘Acetic acid or lemon juice, I meant – for shelf life. Kills the flavour. There’s a great recipe online from a restaurant in New York, Rosa Mexicana – you’ll never look back.’
‘I’m Ben,’ he says, extending his hand.
‘Kate.’ It’s her favourite type of handshake – firm, dry and strong – and it’s accompanied by some rather intense eye contact. ‘Are you involved in Lauderdale’s catering?’
‘Jackie asked if I could sit in on the drinks feedback.’
‘You’re a nutritionist?’
‘Me?’ He laughs. ‘Kind of the opposite. I supply the wine. We haven’t got to it yet but I’m sure the ladies will have feedback.’
‘No doubt Maud will have something to say about the substandard Beaujolais,’ she says, laughing, then stopping as the uncomfortable look returns to his face. Ah. Oh. Ew. That’s why he looks so familiar (and uncomfortable): it’s that long, slim nose, same as his grandmother’s.
‘Well – good to meet you, Kate. I’d better get back in there,’ he says cheerily.
Kate’s trying to think of something apologetic to say about the fact she’s mildly dissed his grandmother twice in two minutes, but her mind’s gone blank. ‘Er, enjoy your liver . . . I mean, enjoy talking about liver, to eat – not enjoy your liver before you develop psoriasis, cirrhosis, you know what I mean – er, I’m going to go now,’ she says, turning and heading back down the corridor, feeling colour flood her cheeks.
Talk about missed opportunities . . . and she’s forgotten to grab that piece of paper, but she’s not turning back now.
Anyway, what is she even thinking? He has some age-inappropriate girlfriend. And it wasn’t an opportunity. And besides, she’s not in the market for a date. She’s not looking for a relationship with anyone other than herself.
Chapter Fifty-eight
‘WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, stranger?’
Kate is busy at work clearing tables, but when she hears his voice she freezes. She turns, tray in hand, and, sure enough, there’s Martin looking tanned, surprised and delighted to see her. She thought he’d have been in before now – after all, he’d claimed he was an Aposta regular – but then again, he’d claimed he’d meet her for a picnic six months ago and she hasn’t heard a word from him since.
He smiles so broadly it disarms her. She grips her tray, half turns back to the table she’s clearing, then back to him with a wry smile. He spreads his arms wide to give her a hug which forces her to put the tray down. He wraps his arms tightly around her and she feels the strength of his upper body as she breathes in the scent of clean laundry, then hurriedly disentangles herself.
‘You’re working here?’ he says, pointing at her apron with confusion.
‘So it would seem. Where did you disappear to, more to the point?’
‘Me? I just flew in from LA, been filming a pilot there since January. Gosh, you look well. What happened to your pork pies?’
‘My pork pies? I could ask the same of you,’ she says, laughing. ‘Birthday in December, indeed!’
He smiles as though he hasn’t heard the comment. ‘Hey, this must be fate. Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘My friend Archie’s in a show at the National, it’s totally sold out. I’ve got seats in the stalls, we could head to the Ivy after for supper?’
Kate turns back hesitantly to her tray and adds the two remaining coffee cups from the table before turning back to him. ‘Martin?’ she says gently.
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
‘Are you going to give me any sort of excuse as to why you stood me up, or are you pretending that never happened?’
He looks confused and frowns. ‘Did we have plans? Oh God, we had a plan?’ he says, his hand covering one eye in embarrassment. ‘It was a definite plan, was it?’
‘Very.’
‘Oh Kate,’ he says, grabbing her hands and squeezing them. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I was having a bit of a terrible time, if I’m being honest. Did I mention I was in the middle of my divorce?’
‘You did.’
‘My ex is an incredibly difficult woman, and, er, she must have been doing something batshit crazy – that must be what happened.’
‘Right . . .’
‘Oh Kate, you should have called and given me a hard time.’
‘Er, I tried to – but you didn’t answer your phone, and also I had a rather heavy picnic hamper in my hands.’
He brings both palms to his cheeks in horror. ‘Oh, Christ. Did we arrange a picnic?’
‘You approved the menu.’
‘Bollocks. Kate, I can’t believe what an arse you must think I am. I’m so sorry if I let you down.’
Kate smiles at his use of ‘if’ rather than ‘that’.
‘Well, you must let me make it up to you,’ he says, dropping his head in embarrassment, then looking up at her with a sheepish grin.
She looks past him to the shelf of coffee beans on the back wall. They’re running low on Colombian, she’ll need to grab some from the stock room later.
‘Martin,’ she says, smiling as her gaze returns to his. ‘Thank you for the invite, it sounds lovely, but – well, the thing is, I’m just not interested in unreliable men anymore. I can’t do it.’
He takes a step back and pulls a wounded face. ‘Kate, darling, I’ve totally ballsed this up but it wasn’t my fault. Everybody deserves a second chance, don’t they?’
Kate thinks about this briefly as she scratches her eyebrow. ‘You know what? I’m not sure that’s true.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you? About my ex? I swear – I’ll show you some of her texts, you’ll see she’s insane,’ he says, reaching for his phone.
Kate puts her hand out to stop him. ‘It’s fine, Martin, really. I don’t care either way.’
‘You’ve got to let me make it up to you, honestly, I can’t have the sexy waitress at my favourite coffee shop hate the very sight of me.’
Kate laughs. ‘Honestly, there’s no need.’
‘No, please, let me do something, I feel dreadful,’ he says, clasping his hands in prayer.
‘Gosh, you’re very dramatic, aren’t you?’ she says laughing. ‘But . . . if you do want to make amends, there is one thing . . .’
‘Anything.’
‘Buy a ticket for my supper club. You won’t be able to eat half the menu, but come anyway. Twenty quid’s a small price to pa
y for three courses and redemption, don’t you think?’
Chapter Fifty-nine
DON’T LET THAT BE the doorbell, please do not let that be the doorbell.
Kate is back at Rita’s, summoned to await a Tesco delivery while Rita’s out for the night, and has taken the opportunity of a quiet night in to engage in some radical self-care, specifically a home-made avocado hair mask. Kate’s scalp is half smeared with green mush, with a scoopful more in hand. The shopping’s not due for another hour. But that is definitely the doorbell, again.
It must be a neighbour, no doubt John Pring moaning about rodents, or Lizzette, moaning about John Pring. When Kate calls out to ask who’s there, she’s surprised to hear it’s Gerry’s son, Jeremy.
‘Mum’s out – with your mum, and Patrick? At the Odeon? The new Tom Hanks film? Back around eleven p.m.?’ says Kate, hoping to hear the sound of footsteps retreating.
‘Yes, I know. I’ve got something for you.’
It’ll be books, for Rita. ‘Oh right, leave it on the doorstep would you?’
‘I fear it won’t keep well.’
Kate’s fingers form green mushy claws as she struggles to open the door with her elbow. There’s Jeremy all right, in a tweed jacket and mustard cords, his grey hair combed neatly to one side. To Kate’s surprise he’s carrying a bottle of wine and a bag full of food.
‘Hello, there,’ says Jeremy. ‘Rita mentioned you were home alone and might like a bite to eat.’
‘Did she really?’ Kate steps back to let him in as her stomach emits a low gurgle. ‘I’m afraid I’m not really dressed for supper, though I do have a salad in my hair . . .’
He squints at her hairline but is too polite to comment. ‘Right-oh,’ he says, following her through to the kitchen. ‘Shall I crack on with the cooking?’
Kate holds her hands up in resignation. She looks at the food he’s unpacking, initially with hunger but then with rapid cold dread: Chicken schnitzel and mash followed by blueberry lattice pie. No! But of course yes. Come and wait for Tesco? More like come and let me pimp you out to a neighbour. Page thirty-five, Dinner with Intent to Make A Match – It is better to marry than to burn, St Paul . . .
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 29
