The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  ‘What exactly did Mum say to you?’ says Kate, warily.

  ‘Oh, nothing much.’

  ‘Nothing much . . . like what, exactly?’

  ‘She mentioned you were back for the evening, that you might like company.’

  ‘Er, why?’

  ‘Well, since you lost your boyfriend and your job.’

  ‘Huh. I wouldn’t say I lost Nick exactly – and I certainly didn’t lose my job, I finally had the guts to leave, but a-ny-way. It’s fine, I love my new job. I cannot believe she said that.’ And she cannot believe Rita’s set her up like a complete patsy.

  ‘So what are you up to now, then?’

  ‘I’m waitressing at Aposta, on the high street. And I’m starting this supper club thing – it’s inspired by that book your mum borrowed.’ Which Kate should have insisted was returned months ago.

  ‘Ooh, I’ve never been to a supper club.’

  ‘Come to the next one. There’re a few tickets left, it’s two weeks on Saturday, Dinner for Serious Pasta Lovers. Not serious as in solemn, obviously,’ she says, her gaze shifting to the floor.

  ‘Sounds great,’ he says enthusiastically. He’s only fifty or so, not much older than Nick, but he looks so middle-aged – his cheeks are ruddy, and in that outfit he’d be right at home at his local Rotary club.

  ‘Listen, I was going to wait till after dessert to ask you . . .’ he says, smiling nervously. ‘But seeing as you’ve already brought up the book – that is the main reason I’m here.’

  ‘Oh . . . OK . . . Gosh! Super-awkward,’ says Kate, biting her lip. ‘Look, Jeremy—’

  ‘Call me Jerry.’

  ‘Your mum’s Gerry.’

  ‘It’s spelled differently.’

  ‘Oh, right. Sounds identical, but OK – well, Jerry, I’m terribly flattered, but I’m not in the market . . .’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘Please don’t think it’s your age. Or the fact you live with your mum,’ she says, laughing awkwardly. ‘I did too, until recently.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Kate, I’ve totally lost you.’

  ‘You said the reason you’re here is because of the book,’ says Kate, wincing at how excruciating it is to have to spell this out.

  ‘That’s correct.’ He nods, but his face still registers incomprehension. For a man with a big job in publishing, he’s pretty damn slow.

  ‘You obviously came round because Mum told you I was here.’

  ‘Yes, though I would have phoned you otherwise.’

  ‘And you brought me schnitzel? Schnit-zel?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand how you get from breaded chicken to romantic intrigue?’ he says, looking perplexed.

  ‘It’s the matchmaking dinner,’ says Kate, feeling her blush deepen.

  ‘Oh gosh, no!’ he says, a little too forcefully for Kate’s ego. ‘I chose that menu because I like schnitzel, not because I want to go out with you,’ he says, laughing. ‘You took it literally? Ahhh, that’s very flattering.’ He lets out another laugh that’s closer to a guffaw. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I’m actually spoken for at present.’

  Kate shakes her head in mortification.

  ‘Look, let’s put the schnitzel on hold for ten minutes,’ he says. ‘I’ll open this wine. And I’ll explain what I actually do want.’

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Kate feels like she would very much like to give this man a hug – a platonic hug, but a large one nonetheless.

  ‘I’ve always thought a modern version with new recipes would be brilliant,’ says Kate excitedly.

  ‘And you have such a great PR story, you’d potentially follow it up by rereleasing Mrs Finn’s original.’

  ‘And you really think a contemporary version could work?’

  ‘Kate, we’ve published a dozen titles on clean eating in the last year: off the record, they’re all identikit quinoa-filled pap. One of the things I love about Mrs Finn’s book is that it has such a clear voice – so I’d brief any writer we commission to capture the spirit of the original.’

  ‘Mrs Finn will be overjoyed her book’s having a new lease of life,’ says Kate as Jerry refills her glass. ‘She’s got this bee in her bonnet about how she’s had no sense of purpose for so long. She never had kids, so she hasn’t got a “legacy” – this book was sort of her baby, if that makes sense? Did Mum mention I own the copyright?’

  ‘Yes – you should see around a thousand pounds from the modern version, and if we republish the original, you’ll receive a hundred per cent of the royalties – perhaps five grand? Not enough to retire on, I’m afraid, but not to be sniffed at.’

  ‘I’m not sure what Mrs Finn will do with the money, but she’ll be delighted.’

  ‘So in principle you’re happy for us to commission a food writer next week?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’

  ‘You don’t want to ponder it over the weekend?’

  ‘Nothing to ponder! Now bring on that schnitzel.’

  *

  Two hours later, and the Tesco man has actually been and Jerry has gone, leaving Kate in high spirits. She’s leaning over the side of the bath washing her hair and thinking through logistics for the double pasta supper club, when the thought hits her, flooding her with warmth like a shot of Jägermeister but without the regrettable acid after-burn. Hurriedly, she rinses the last of the avocado from her hair, and without even bothering to put on shoes, grabs her key and races downstairs, running along the corridor to Jerry’s front door.

  ‘Did I leave something behind?’ says Jerry, greeting her warmly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Kate, barely pausing for breath. ‘But I shouldn’t have said yes so quickly, I’ve had second thoughts.’

  ‘That really was quick,’ he says, his face falling in disappointment.

  ‘No, not about publishing the book, I absolutely want that to happen. But I don’t want you to brief someone next week,’ she says, shuddering at the thought.

  ‘OK,’ he says, looking perplexed. ‘Is the timing the problem?’

  ‘It’s not the timing,’ says Kate, hurrying her words out before she loses her nerve. ‘It’s the writer part. The thing is, Jerry, I know this book, it’s like a part of me. I’ve carried it with me – literally – ever since she first lent it to me. And I’m passionate about food – and I was a copywriter, for a long time . . . And it’s just – if anyone’s going to write a modern version of this book, it should be me.’ Now she’s started asking for what she wants, she can’t stop. ‘I’m sure another writer could do a good job, but I’d give it so much more – more thought, more love, more attention. I’d give it everything.’

  He laughs a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘But you’ve never written a book before.’

  ‘Nor has anyone who’s a first-time writer. I can do this book, I know I can. I can write menus and test them, I know how to make food delicious. And I think a lot, far too much, in fact, about what goes on inside other people’s heads.’

  He folds his arms and looks uncomfortable. Kate hasn’t even thought what she’ll do if he says no. This book saved Cecily’s life, and more than anything Kate wants to use it as a raft to a different life for herself. Could she live with the idea of someone else writing it? Probably. Will she fight for the chance to do it? Absolutely.

  ‘I did a mini-version of the book in January,’ she continues. ‘My supper club’s basically an event version of the book. And I can think of nothing that would make Mrs Finn happier than if I wrote this book myself.’

  He sighs. ‘Well, I’m afraid that last point’s not a hugely commercial reason, but why not have a stab at something, show me some sample chapters? I’ll brief another writer in the meantime, and I’ll need to be fairly convinced in order to persuade my team. Do you think you can get me a proposal and a synopsis, around thirty pages, in, say, four weeks?’

  ‘You’ll have them in two.
’

  *

  When Rita and Patrick get home from the cinema that night, Kate wraps Rita in an enormous hug. This time it’s Rita who struggles to free herself.

  ‘See?’ says Rita, draping her coat over the sofa and kicking off her heels. ‘Your mother’s not entirely useless after all. See, Patty Cakes? My daughter’s finally giving me some credit for being a great mother.’

  ‘Thank you, Mum, for being the sort of mother who opens my post and steals my book and gives it to a neighbour,’ says Kate, as Rita laughs in spite of herself. ‘I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time along the way.’

  ‘As long as you dedicate the book to me, we’ll call it quits.’

  It’s rather obvious who Kate would dedicate the book to, but that’s OK, she can stick Rita in the acknowledgements.

  Chapter Sixty

  KATE HAD WANTED TO wait until she’d convinced Jerry about the book before telling Cecily, but the following Sunday she’s unable to contain herself. ‘And they’re planning to publish next summer. And they’re asking Nigella to write the foreword, they think she’ll love the idea.’

  Cecily has for once remained speechless, eyebrows raised in delight as Kate has breathlessly been sharing the news.

  ‘But Jerry’s briefing another writer, and now I’m worried he’ll choose the other person.’

  At this Cecily shuffles forward in her chair with a frown. ‘How could anyone do a better job than you?’

  ‘I’ve been scribbling down ideas all week,’ says Kate, proceeding to talk Cecily through her proposed structure and menu ideas. As she’s talking Cecily stares into the distance, lost in concentration. Occasionally, she gives a small dip of her chin. Occasionally, a smile creeps over her lips or her brow creases in confusion.

  ‘What do you think?’ says Kate with a hint of desperation she’s embarrassed to hear in her own voice.

  Cecily lets out a loud sigh. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time Papa humiliated me at school?’

  ‘You told me he threatened to embarrass you if you didn’t become a teacher.’

  ‘No, years before that, while I was still at prep school. English was my favourite subject. Every week we had to write a piece to read in class. I had rather an aptitude for making things up.’

  ‘You don’t say . . .’

  ‘And I’d realised the more often I used the word God the higher my grade, so I’d sprinkle him in liberally. This particular week the homework was to write a letter of condolence to the mother of a friend who’d lost her husband. What a challenge!’ she says, her eyes widening. ‘In a weak moment I asked Papa’s advice. He peered at me impatiently over his glasses and said, “Write Thank God she’s been left well provided for”.’

  Kate shakes her head in embarrassment.

  ‘I didn’t realise what that meant – I was only six – so I wrote it down word for word, smugly confident I’d get top marks. When I came home from school with a detention I asked Papa why he’d set me up like that, and he said, “To teach you to think for yourself”.’

  Kate blushes. Cecily still hasn’t lost her bite. ‘Would you at least let me know what you think of the titles? “Second Helpings”? “The Heart of the Kitchen”? “Recipes to Cure Loneliness and Longing” . . .?’

  Cecily feigns a yawn that turns into a real one. ‘I need to lie down, dear – it’s time for you to go.’

  ‘Oh that’s OK, I’ll sit here for a while and read.’

  ‘No, dear,’ says Cecily, patting Kate’s knee softly but decisively. ‘It’s not a time for reading, it’s a time for writing.’

  Cecily’s right, of course, but seeing her sitting hunched in her chair looking so frail makes Kate loath to go. She has a strong sense that their time is running out.

  Kate starts gathering her things but then pauses and turns back to Cecily, who looks at her enquiringly. Kate holds Cecily’s gaze until it is Cecily who finally blushes. ‘Mrs Finn – thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For saving me.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From myself. For making me borrow the book. For giving me the copyright.’

  Cecily waves the comment away, as if dismissing an inept waiter.

  ‘No, listen, Mrs Finn, please. Your book made me laugh when I was down, it made me hungry when I’d lost my appetite. It’s changed my life for the better because whatever happens next, it’s given me back something I thought I’d lost completely: it’s given me back hope.’

  Cecily’s smile lights up her entire face, and for a moment Kate sees a much younger woman, a woman who still has a whole life ahead of her.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she says, reaching out to touch Kate’s arm. ‘It’s nice to know I made a difference. Oh, and by the way, Kate, I think it’s probably time you called me Cecily.’

  *

  It turns out to be a lot more fun writing menus than writing lists of reasons whether to stay in or leave a confusing relationship. Every morning Kate sets her alarm for 5 a.m., starts writing, and in a heartbeat it’s 7.30 a.m. and it’s time to help Bailey get the girls ready for school, and then for Kate to head to work. Kate’s writing till midnight, having to force herself to go to bed or she’d never get any sleep. It’s a little like being in love; she’s consumed by the book. Except often when she’s been in love she’s lost herself – trying to make another person happy without enough care for her own happiness. Writing the book, she feels like she’s finally found herself.

  Dinner at your Mother’s House after a Surprise Break-up on Holiday

  Aim: to minimise face time with your mother so as not to transfer blame onto her for your ex-boyfriend’s uselessness

  Large Breakfast Before a Wedding Where You’ll Be the Only Single Guest

  Aim: to line your stomach sufficiently to prevent disgracing yourself – and to prevent alcohol skewing your thinking and causing you to reach out to your ex, which will only result in months of further and unnecessary pain. Menu: Eggs, toast, more toast, coffee, toast.

  Supper to Nourish Yourself During Heartbreak

  Aim: to combine the perfect balance of Ben & Jerry’s and Netflix, alongside dark leafy greens and berries. To encourage self-soothing, not self-pity

  Early Supper for Two Overexcitable Easter Bunnies Under the Age of Ten

  Later Supper for Your Best Friend and Her Marvellous Boyfriend to Celebrate their Five-Month Dating Anniversary While You Make Yourself Scarce . . .

  Kate will have enough menus to write two books by the time she’s done. Maybe she could persuade Jerry to let her write a travel-inspired sequel. She could spend a year in Italy, write an entire book on pasta alone . . .

  That has been the only downside to this creative flurry: the timing. She could still do the supper club the night after she submits the proposal, but she wants dinner to be perfect; it deserves more attention than she can currently dedicate to it. It’s not ideal, but she has all the ticket holders’ details. Only four guests can’t make the following Saturday, and Kate offers them a refund and a free ticket to her next event. The other guests will get free Prosecco for the inconvenience. She won’t make a profit, but if they enjoy themselves, they’ll come back again.

  The night before she’s due to send Jerry her work, she sits with Bailey in her kitchen sharing a pizza and a bottle of wine, watching as her friend studies the pages. Cecily told Kate not to seek other people’s advice, but Kate has so much hope invested in the project she’s worried she might have done something dire. She watches, her hands covering her mouth as Bailey reads through to the last word and finally puts the document down on the table.

  ‘Well . . .?’ says Kate, her fingers crossed tightly on her lap.

  ‘I know I’m your friend and you think I’d say this anyway – but honestly, it’s perfect.’

  Now all Kate has to do is wait. She still hates waiting, but nowadays she’s rather good at it.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  KATE HAS BEEN SO focused on t
he book and then the food for the supper club, that it’s not until she’s leaving Lauderdale the following Sunday and spots Ben talking to Mrs Gaffney, that she remembers she’s completely forgotten to order the Prosecco.

  She doesn’t know Ben well enough to ask a favour, but he must already think she’s rude for insulting his grandma, and besides, Cecily has taught her many things, including: if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  Still, Kate does have some dignity, there’s no way she’s asking for a job lot of cheap booze within Mrs Gaffney’s earshot. Instead, she heads out into the warm spring evening and loiters awkwardly in the car park, pretending to look at something on her phone while surreptitiously trying to figure out which car might be Ben’s. He always dresses stylishly – today in classic Levi’s and a navy T-shirt, but he doesn’t seem flash, so not the BMW, not the Mercedes . . .

  When Ben emerges, sure enough he heads towards a VW Golf, but when he sees Kate, his face lights up and he heads over.

  ‘Speak of the devil, I was going to ask Mrs Gaffney for your number but I thought it might be weird if you got a random text about avocados . . .’

  ‘Avocados?’ says Kate, totally wrong-footed.

  ‘I forgot the name of that restaurant. My daughter’s doing a vegan thing and guacamole’s one of her favourites.’

  ‘Oh right, yes – it’s Rosa Mexicana.’

  ‘Veganism seems to be all the rage nowadays. I’d miss bacon far too much.’

  ‘And butter,’ says Kate. ‘How can people live without butter?’

  ‘Ah, a woman after my own heart,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘How old are your kids?’ she says, trawling her memory for anything Maud mentioned. All Kate can remember is that Ben used to bring back mochi cakes from Japan, and that his ex-wife is difficult.

  ‘Martha’s seventeen going on thirty, and Josh is eleven.’

  ‘Seventeen? Does she visit her grandmother often?’

  ‘You mean her great-grandmother? I drag her here once a month, but she’d much rather be doing anything else. On which note, I’d better get home and check she hasn’t cracked open my vintage Château Margaux.’