The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  ‘Oh, actually . . . there was something I wanted to ask you. I’m hosting a supper club for thirty next Saturday—’

  ‘Are you a chef?’ he says, looking impressed.

  ‘Just a keen eater. I need to get hold of twenty bottles of decent Prosecco without breaking the bank. I thought you might know which supermarket has the best own brand, because I do know it isn’t Fletchers.’

  ‘What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Well, we’re starting with tagliarini with crab, followed by pappardelle with cream, pancetta and new season’s asparagus . . .’

  ‘Pasta followed by pasta? Sounds like my dream dinner.’

  Kate blushes with happiness. ‘On the side I’m doing a simple tomato and basil salad, and I’ve got warm ciabatta rolls from Brick House, this amazing bakery we use. Then for pudding an intense dark chocolate mousse with cherries.’

  ‘Where is this supper club and are there any tickets left?’

  ‘You want to come?’ she says with surprise.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Do you want to bring a friend?’

  ‘Just me, I’m afraid. Right, so, you’ll want a fairly dry, good value Prosecco. Give me your number and leave it with me. And put me down for a ticket.’

  Kate’s quite relieved she bumped into Ben as she was leaving Lauderdale rather than arriving, or she’d be forced to explain the dumb grin on her face to Cecily. Cecily will surely not approve, though hopefully it’ll stop short of a blood feud.

  Later that night Kate receives a text from Ben Wine Guru:

  I’ll never buy guacamole from a shop again – genius recipe. And I can get you a decent Prosecco at £3.74 per bottle, retails at £11.99 – will that work? If so, shall I come early on Saturday and help you set up?

  Chapter Sixty-two

  THERE ARE MOMENTS IN life when everything actually does go right; when you’ve taken a chance and things turn out even better than you’d dared hope.

  There is a point halfway through her supper club where Kate stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining area, quietly looking out at what’s in front of her. The room is buzzing, everyone in high spirits brought on by Prosecco and amazing carbs. Thirty guests are seated at the two long wooden tables, eating delicious Italian food, drinking great wine and enjoying themselves. The tables look beautiful – adorned with pretty little vases of yellow and white freesias, and antique cut-glass tea lights that make the candlelight dance and sparkle around the room. The food looks even better. The diners are midway through their main pasta and if the first course was anything to go by, there won’t be a scrap of food left. Warm bread has been piled up and devoured, luscious platters of glossy tomato salad and fragrant basil have been passed around, tangles of tagliarini have been heaped onto plates, fingers have tracked every last drop of pasta sauce across them.

  Of course there are some familiar faces – Bailey, looking happy and relaxed, sitting between Adam and Ben. The three are laughing uproariously at something Martin has just said. There’s Jerry and his date, chatting animatedly to a couple next to them. And then there are twenty-four other people who have chosen to spend their Saturday night here, sharing this experience, enjoying a home-cooked meal and, above all, the conviviality.

  Earlier this afternoon when Kate was unpacking the food delivery, she’d suffered a mild meltdown when she realised she’d ordered raspberries not cherries, there wasn’t enough asparagus and she hadn’t allowed enough time to factor in more shopping. But then Cecily’s advice, from ‘Dinner in a Bed-Sitting Room’, had popped into her mind: What can’t be disguised must be utilised. Don’t apologise – improvise. Kate had turned the raspberries into a sharp, fruity purée for Bellinis, kept the chocolate mousse simple and ended up asking Martin to find more greens – if not asparagus, then frozen peas or broad beans. The pasta had turned out even better, the peas adding sweet little bursts of freshness to cut through the rich, creamy, smoky sauce.

  Kate takes one last look at the diners before she heads back into the kitchen to prepare dessert. She smiles to herself, and at that moment Jerry looks up and catches her eye. She wonders if he’s read her pages yet – she can’t read anything from his expression other than the fact that he’s having a good time.

  And maybe that is enough, for today at least – to know that she’s done the best job hosting that she could have. Cecily would be proud of her, and more to the point, Kate is proud of herself.

  *

  Even though she’s not expecting to hear from Jerry about the book for another week, every night as she leaves work, the first thing she does is check her inbox. There must be something in the air, though, because while there’s nothing from Jerry, there are two emails she wasn’t expecting.

  The first is from Cara:

  Hey, hon, long time no speak. Saw your supper club on Instagram – looked #AMAZING. Can I get two freebies to the next one, and I’ll get you some free PR? Xxx

  When Kate thinks back, she realises that as harsh as Cara was about Nick, she wasn’t exactly wrong. Kate had always confused Nick’s cleverness with thoughtfulness – but they’re entirely unconnected qualities. When Nick said No one’s ever loved me the way you do, it wasn’t a romantic compliment, it was narcissism. And Kate had always given him credit for being so uncritical of people such as Rob – she thought it meant Nick was nicer than she was, but actually all it meant was that he had bad taste in friends. On which note, does she want Cara back in her life? Perhaps or perhaps not. She replies:

  Come to the coffee shop and let’s discuss.

  The second email stops her in her tracks:

  Hey, Kate. I hope all is well. Saw your double pasta photos online – wish I could have been there. Anyway, I’m doing a big tidy-up in the flat and wondered what to do with your cookbooks. Shall I bring them round/do you want to meet for coffee? I think of you often. N xx

  She hasn’t had any contact with him since her fortieth last year, which feels like a lifetime ago. Still, the sight of his name in her inbox makes her stomach lurch. She is suddenly hijacked by a flashback of standing opposite him at Stansted airport on that sweltering August day, feeling shell-shocked and traumatised and utterly lost.

  Six months ago she would have hoped for something more from an email from Nick – an apology, an acknowledgement that his behaviour had been crap – anything that might make her feel better. But she’s learned that ‘closure’ is something you only get in an episode of Friends. In real life you live with mess and loose ends and unsent draft emails in your inbox. You go through pain, and then one day it doesn’t hurt quite as much as it did the day before, and then one day, rather a long time later, it doesn’t hurt that much at all.

  One of Rita’s dreaded buzz phrases is, ‘If you spot it, you’ve got it’. It always reminds Kate of ‘He who smelled it dealt it’. Still, it has made Kate examine her own role in the relationship. In her mind she’d often berated Nick for his cowardice and his lack of honesty with her. But Kate’s hardly the bravest person who’s ever lived – she’d stayed in a job she didn’t like for aeons because she was terrified to leave. And she’d hardly been honest with herself about Nick – she’d told herself the crumbs he could offer were enough, when so often she was left hungry.

  A few days later she replies:

  Hope all is well with you too. Keep the books, enjoy them.

  At some point, perhaps already, some other woman will love Nick, will wake up next to his sweet smile, will sit down beside him for a hundred delicious meals. But she too will have to find real nourishment elsewhere. Nick can only offer basic sustenance. Kate doesn’t need that anymore – she’s learned to feed herself.

  Kate takes one last look at his name in her inbox. It no longer has the power to make her feel unwell. She presses delete.

  That chapter is done. She’s writing herself into a better story.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  RING ME. PLEASE RING ME. Just ring me now, please.

  Ka
te hasn’t felt this insecurely attached to her phone since those first horrible days after France. Jerry said he’d call at the start of the week, but it’s not till the Thursday morning, as she’s sitting on the bus on the way to work, that his name finally appears on her screen, and she scrambles to answer.

  ‘Kate! I hope it’s not too early to call?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she says, keeping her voice low as the woman next to her turns to her with a sour look.

  ‘Great. First, thanks so much again for dinner the other week, we loved it. You’re a talented cook.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ says Kate, her stomach gripped with anxiety as she wills him to cut to the chase.

  ‘Also, we had our commissioning meeting yesterday. We discussed your proposal. I felt you deserved a phone call rather than just an email after all your hard work.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ says Kate, feeling her throat go dry.

  ‘I’m not sure if I mentioned this before, but we also briefed the project to Celina Summer – her agent’s looking for a new project to make Celina more relatable.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise I was up against her,’ says Kate with dismay. Cara’s hosted several food events with Celina Summer and reported back that she’s an epic bitch who loves cocaine far more than she loves food.

  ‘Well – Celina has a lot of fans on social media, and she’s now on her sixth book . . .’

  ‘Uh-huh . . .’ says Kate, because Celina’s books are as thin and lazy as Celina and the thought of Celina doing a half-botched job on this book is rather upsetting.

  ‘Her brand is very strong among key demographics,’ says Jerry. ‘Mums with young kids, millennials . . .’

  ‘I see,’ says Kate with a sinking feeling.

  ‘And the thing is, our sales team would have a far easier job selling Celina in to the trade rather than an unknown. It’s just the way the industry works.’

  Kate’s nodding because she’s worried if she opens her mouth all that will come out is a strangled sound of disappointment.

  ‘But I don’t care about making my sales team’s job easier,’ says Jerry. ‘I care about publishing great books – books that have heart and integrity.’

  ‘I understand,’ says Kate. How is she going to break the bad news to Cecily?

  ‘So would you like to come in and meet the team tomorrow, and in the meantime we can draw up a contract? I’d suggest getting an agent. We can give you some names.’

  ‘Sorry, an agent for what?’

  ‘I loved what you wrote, Kate. Your voice is distinctive, it’s likeable. Your menus are delicious, not a grain of quinoa in sight. Plus you’re clearly highly committed.’

  ‘You mean you’ve chosen me?’ she says, her voice getting louder as she breaks into a massive grin. Who cares if the woman next to her thinks she’s too loud!

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s what come in and have a look at your contract means, yes!’ he says, laughing. ‘We’ve chosen you.’

  *

  The following morning Kate leaves Jerry’s offices clutching a provisional contract, buzzing with excitement. It’s a beautiful sunny day and William isn’t expecting her till 1 p.m., so she heads over to the fancy haberdashery in Soho, buys a length of their finest red satin ribbon, and asks the assistant to wrap the seven pages in a perfect bow. Then she hops in a taxi straight to Lauderdale and rushes through reception and down the corridor to Cecily’s room.

  She knocks but there’s no response. It’s 11 a.m. With the amount that Cecily’s sleeping nowadays she’s probably already having a nap. Kate knocks again, then gently opens the door.

  The bed is empty, as is Cecily’s chair. Kate checks the bathroom: empty. Cecily had seemed particularly frail last Sunday, and Kate has the sudden absolute conviction that after everything that’s happened, the evil and ironic universe would choose today to claim Cecily. She rushes back to reception and knocks on Mrs Gaffney’s door.

  Mrs Gaffney comes out from behind her desk and gently takes Kate’s arm. ‘Come with me,’ she says conspiratorially, leading her back down the corridor and through to the garden doors. Mrs Gaffney points to a bench near the rose garden, where a lone figure dressed in a navy skirt suit is sitting on a bench.

  Kate looks at Mrs Gaffney in amazement; Mrs Gaffney merely shrugs. ‘She said she fancied some fresh air for a change.’

  Kate races across the lawn and as she approaches she sees Cecily’s eyes are closed. Kate can’t tell if she’s asleep or not but as she nears, Cecily slowly opens her eyes and gives a faint smile. Kate sits down next to her and without a word hands her the ribbon-tied contract. Cecily raises her eyebrows in hopeful enquiry and Kate nods, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face.

  Cecily takes the paperwork and rests it on her lap, patting it with a deep sigh of contentment. She grabs hold of Kate’s hand and squeezes it. Cecily’s fingers are cold and bony but her grip is fierce and she holds onto Kate and does not let go.

  The two women sit in joyful silence for some time, their faces turned to the warmth of the sun.

  Chapter Sixty-four

  SPRING TURNS TO SUMMER, and Kate’s life is in full bloom. She’s so busy enjoying herself, sometimes she has to stop and remind herself that what’s making her happiest is her work. Her time is filled with menu testing, writing, waitressing and supper clubs. She’s three quarters of the way through the book, ahead of schedule for her September deadline. Jerry’s sent the cover design, and a framed copy now hangs on the back of Cecily’s bathroom door.

  Kate’s seen Ben a few times for dinner and a couple of walks on the Heath, but she’s been so focused on everything else, he’s been put on the back burner. One afternoon in June, Kate had been sitting in the garden with Cecily when Ben had come over to chat. Cecily had been in a deep sleep but the moment Kate began a whispered conversation with Ben, Cecily’s eyes had snapped wide open and she’d insisted he join them for tea. Cecily has been getting increasingly confused, tripping over in her memories. When Cecily had asked Ben how he came to know her granddaughter, Kate had been on the point of correcting her, but then had caught the sparkle in Cecily’s eye and had realised Cecily’s mistake had not been a mistake at all.

  Since then, though, Cecily has deteriorated, becoming increasingly disorientated and frail. She now sleeps most of the day and has developed constant, intense pain in her joints. She’d been in such discomfort a few weeks ago, the nurse had resorted to giving her morphine. When Kate had visited the following afternoon, Cecily was barely lucid, and her hair, usually so bright and buoyant, lay flat and limp on her fevered head. Kate had watched as she slept, Cecily inhaling and exhaling so slowly Kate held her own breath, praying the old lady would keep on taking just one more breath, just one more.

  Ever since that day they’ve kept Cecily on heavy painkillers and in the last fortnight she’s been struggling to eat or drink at all. Last Sunday when Kate visited, Cecily had barely managed more than a few words. Kate had sat beside her on the bed, scared her weight on the mattress would disturb Cecily, but Cecily had reached out one finger and silently, tenderly, stroked Kate’s hand. The gesture had made Kate’s heart ache.

  Kate is on her lunch break the following Thursday when she gets the call. Even though it’s a sweltering day, when she sees the name Lauderdale on her phone she turns cold.

  It’s Mrs Gaffney, calling to tell her that Cecily Finn died in the night, in her bed, in comfort and in peace.

  *

  The morning after the funeral Kate sits on Cecily’s bed, her eyes fixed on the empty chair opposite. The room still smells so intensely of Cecily, Kate’s half expecting her to emerge from the bathroom with a frown and a spiked comment.

  When Kate arrived earlier, Mrs Gaffney handed her an envelope with a note Cecily had left. Kate stares at her name on the front, then gently opens the seal and slips out the piece of paper, a lump forming in her throat at the sight of Cecily’s familiar looped writing.

  Dear Kate,

&
nbsp; I’m not one for grand goodbyes but I wanted to write a few words while I still retain a modicum of my faculties.

  I shall be leaving you my entire library – not merely to educate you on the finer points of twentieth-century history, nor illuminate the fact that a novelist named George may actually have been born a Mary Anne. The gift is to nourish you in the widest possible sense.

  When I was younger these books kept me from the worst of loneliness by providing me with companionship, and in these final months you have done that job admirably in their place. I don’t believe I ever got around to saying thank you – so let me say it now: thank you, Kate – thank you.

  Oftentimes when making a dessert you’ll find a pinch of salt brings out the sweetness in the dish far more than extra sugar. It sounds counterintuitive but it is a fact, and one I’ve thought about often. What’s true in the kitchen is often true more generally in life.

  With my dearest Samuel I was lucky enough to experience love that was an enrichment beyond anything money can buy. When he was taken from me so unexpectedly I felt it was a profoundly bitter misfortune, but in some ways it was a gift. It forced me down paths I would never have chosen, yet on that journey I discovered that a good life is about so much more than romantic love. A good life is about the books we read, the things we care about, the friends we love and the care with which we love them. And a good life is also about how we choose to treat ourselves. That is why I have always been firm with you, Kate. If you are not on your own side, who ever will be? I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. I know you can do anything, I know you will do everything. You are kind and hard-working; your heart is good – your cheese toasties less so.

  Yesterday, I was a young girl, yet now, when I look in the mirror, I see a wizened crone. Beneath the outward signs of deterioration the same spirit dwells and looks on with dismay at the devastation the years have wrought. Inside there is still an urge to dance under the stars, to walk swiftly across the fields, to lie on the shore under a blazing sun. All I have left now are memories: a perfect strawberry ice cream with Mama after school in the shade of the garden, Samuel’s smile on our wedding day, his hand in my hand, always. Today’s choices become tomorrow’s memories in a heartbeat – do make them count.