A Bitter Feast

by Deborah Crombie

  It was a recipe she’d tweaked, adding a hint of truffle, and it had since become one of the house specialties. That was one of the signs restaurants looked for—a Michelin inspector ordered the signature dishes, not run-of-the-mill roasted chicken.

  “And, wait for it,” Danny went on, his eyes wide.

  “One glass of wine,” they chorused, and Viv couldn’t stop her grin. That was the third hint—Michelin inspectors, who visited two restaurants a day, had to watch their alcohol intake.

  “Let’s do this,” she said. “And if it turns out it’s Joe Blow from Brighton, we’ll give him the best meal of his life.”

  Danny looked round the kitchen. “Where’s—”

  “Don’t even start.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Ibby, fire one quail.”

  “One quail, Chef,” he answered, without a hint of truculence. Ibby wanted this as much as she did.

  Viv wiped the sweat from her brow with her towel and bent again over the plates at the pass. She had to focus.

  The concentration paid off. It wasn’t long before they’d found their rhythm and had begun to catch up. “Nailing it, Chef,” Ibby called out as he passed her a sea bass with black garlic.

  She didn’t even notice Fergus come in. Looking back to take a plate, she saw him working the line with Ibby, quiet and efficient. He must have sensed what was happening.

  “Chef.” Straightening, she set down the tweezers and wiped her hands.

  Fergus shook his head. “No. You keep on.”

  “But—” She stopped herself. He was right. A switchover at this point would disrupt the kitchen.

  Danny came down the stairs himself again, his color high. “Table six. The veal.”

  “Shit.” It was a new recipe she and Fergus had worked on together, a slow-roasted rump of veal with a white bean ragu. What if they hadn’t got it right? Too late now. “Fire one veal,” she called out, swallowing her nerves. “Any trips to the loo?” she asked Danny.

  “Once, so far.” Michelin inspectors never took notes at the table. They were rumored to take their notebooks into the toilet for quick between-course recording—although some supposedly had photographic memories. “He asked what I recommended,” Danny added.

  “Good job.” She managed a smile. “Fingers crossed he goes with the tart for dessert.” She and John had dreamed up a lemon-rhubarb custard tart that was a showstopper. The other option was a warm chocolate pot with pistachio toffee that Viv had thrown together that morning.

  He chose the tart.

  The kitchen did a quick round of high fives when the plate came back clean.

  It wasn’t until service was over that they all had a chance to dissect the evening.

  “Was it the same bloke who came before?” Viv asked Danny.

  “Yeah, I think so, wearing jeans this time instead of a suit. He’s so ordinary. Forties, medium height, medium build, shortish hair. Very polite. Asked a couple of questions about the food, but not too fussy.”

  “Did he go back to the loo?”

  “Once, yeah, and was in there a few minutes.”

  Ibby pumped his fist. “This could be it. The big one.”

  “If he’s looking at us, he’ll come back one more time,” said Fergus. He’d gone upstairs and come back with the bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenfarclas he kept locked under the bar. Now, he gave it a wipe with the towel in his apron, and pulled the cork. “Gather round, children,” he said, and they all held out a random assortment of cups and glasses.

  Viv watched him as he poured and they all raised their drinks in a toast. He was too bright, almost feverish, and she didn’t like it. She knew about the coke, of course. It went along with the after-hours drinking and the leggy society girls who were slumming it a bit with the Irish chef. But she’d never seen him use during service, and she had a nasty suspicion that was what accounted for the missing half hour tonight.

  When she looked up, he was watching her. “Viv, darlin’, not celebrating? It’s all down to you, you know, the evening’s success.” His tone was teasing, but the look in his eyes said he was not. Fergus O’Reilly knew he had lost it.

  Viv raised her glass. They were watching her, Fergus and Ibby and Danny, Mikey and John, Magnus the kitchen porter and Geraldo the dishwasher. “It was a good effort tonight on everyone’s part. But we can’t coast on this. We were good but we can be better. If he comes back, Mr. Michelin, whatever his name is, we are going to have to raise our game. To O’Reilly’s.” She drank, and the whisky went down like fire.

  Supper had been a casual affair. Addie had brought in cold meats and salads from the Daylesford farm shop, along with a selection of cheeses and fresh-baked baguettes. They’d served their plates from platters in the kitchen, then carried them through to the long table in the dining room.

  “We can seat ten,” Addie had told Gemma, “so nine is quite comfortable.”

  “Are you sure you want children in the dining room?” Gemma had asked, worrying about Charlotte and Toby’s table manners.

  “They’ll be fine,” Addie assured her, bringing Charlotte a booster cushion from the sitting room.

  Gemma hated to admit how seldom they ate anywhere but the kitchen in their own house and vowed to do a better job of civilizing her children.

  But in the end there was no worse damage than scattered bread crumbs, and no worse gaffes than Toby feeding a bite of something he didn’t like to Polly the terrier under the table. Still, Gemma breathed a sigh of relief when it was time to clear up.

  Everyone had been quiet during dinner, subdued perhaps by the events of the day, although Addie and Ivan had kept polite conversation going. Sitting across from Kincaid, Gemma watched his eyelids droop and his face become more drawn as the meal went on. “Go and take another one of your pills,” she whispered to him as she helped clear the table, and it was rather to her surprise that he nodded and disappeared up the stairs.

  All three of the Talbots waved off her offers of help with the washing up. “You need to get the kids settled,” Melody told her, adding, “and besides, Dougie needs to make himself useful,” earning her an offended look from Doug.

  But Gemma was glad of the respite. She made sure the boys had everything they needed, then took Charlotte upstairs. They found Kincaid stretched out on the bed, still in his clothes and shoes, his eyes closed. “I’m just resting,” he said, blinking and starting to sit up. “Ivan wanted me to have a drink.”

  “Nonsense. He’s just being polite. And you have no business drinking alcohol with pain pills.”

  “I can just have a tonic or something to be sociable.”

  “Stay put while I get Charlotte ready for bed. Char, give Daddy a kiss. Gently.”

  Kincaid gathered Charlotte into his uninjured arm, murmuring, “Love you, sweet pea,” into her hair.

  By the time Gemma had got Charlotte into jammies, teeth brushed, and tucked into bed with her new Alfie book, Charlotte’s eyes were closing. Kissing her, Gemma pulled up her covers and went back to check on Kincaid.

  He was sound asleep. Carefully, she pulled off his shoes, then covered him with a spare blanket. He didn’t stir. With a sigh, she sat beside him and smoothed the hair from the unblemished side of his brow. The bruising around the cut on his forehead was ugly, the skin beneath his eye beginning to darken. The stubble on his cheeks and chin looked patchy—he’d done a lousy job of shaving left-handed that morning—making him look even more disreputable.

  In the few minutes she’d had to talk to him in the hall before dinner, he’d told her what he and Booth had learned at the hotel. “Was it Viv, do you think, that O’Reilly met in the garden?” Gemma asked.

  Kincaid shrugged, then winced and touched his ribs. “There’s too much we don’t know. We can’t even be certain it was a woman—the receptionist just said that was her impression.”

  “What about Nell Greene’s cottage, then? Did you find anything there?”

  “There was nothing to indicate she had any connectio
n with O’Reilly.” Kincaid sounded irritated, as if she’d touched a nerve with the question. “She was just an ordinary woman living an ordinary life. Divorced. Maybe lonely. Making the best of things. She loved her dog.”

  “Well, if O’Reilly was here three weeks ago, who did he see if it wasn’t Viv? Or Nell?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea.” His tone was unnecessarily sharp.

  Melody had called them to dinner then, but Gemma had been replaying the conversation ever since. Kincaid was unusually touchy. She could put it down to pain, or the shock of the accident. And maybe that was the case.

  But Gemma knew her husband, and she would bet her life that there was more to it than that. There was something he was not telling her.

  Somewhere along the river, a barn owl hooted. On the summer nights when Joe sat out on his small dock, he would see them swooping over the field across the river, their undersides glowing ghostly pale against the velvet darkness of the sky.

  Tonight, however, he was huddled under the porch overhang, as close as he could get to the warmth generated by the wood stove in the cabin without actually sitting inside. The temperature had dropped with dusk and he could smell rain in the air. Another owl called. They were busy, hunting ahead of the storm. He wondered if the voles and mice scurrying in the field could sense their impending doom, or if it came on them only with the sudden flurry of wings.

  Shivering, he sipped at his coffee, but it had gone cold. He’d made a pot, trying to counteract the whisky he’d drunk after Roz had left. When he’d found himself staggering, he’d mumbled, “Enough is enough,” and tossed the dregs of his glass into the river. It would help nothing if he ended up falling in after them.

  Now his head was beginning to clear in the cold air. There had to be a way to get himself out of this mess. Should he confess to Addie? God, how could he, after everything she’d done for him? He’d never meant to betray Addie’s trust. But he hadn’t known how to tell her about his family. Addie and Ivan had accepted him from the beginning for who he was—or at least who they thought he was. Would that change if they knew more? And if he didn’t confess to skimming the funds, and Roz told Addie . . .

  That, he couldn’t contemplate. If Addie fired him, he had nothing. Nothing for himself, nothing for his mum, nothing to help his stupid little brother.

  It all came down to Roz. Was his trespass worse than hers? Either way, they both had too much to lose. And Roz was frightened. Did that tip the balance in his favor?

  He was going to call it a stalemate, for now. And he would do everything in his power to make sure it stayed that way.

  The owl called again, near enough this time to make him jump. Lightning flashed in the distance, raising the hair on his arms. Blinking in the aftermath, he thought he saw something in the old elm across the river. It was the owl, and its white heart-shaped face was turned towards him, watching.

  “Are you sure I can’t give you a lift, Jack?” asked Viv, coming into the bar from the kitchen. The dining rooms were empty, floors mopped, tables set for tomorrow’s morning coffee. Jack was wiping down the bar and racking the last of the clean glasses. She peered out the front windows. “I think there’s a storm coming.”

  “I’ll be all right, Chef.” Jack’s words were a little slurred. When Viv turned to study him, she thought he looked a bit befuddled. Jack wasn’t teetotal, but it was unlike him to drink during service. Sometimes the customers would buy him a pint, but it usually sat unfinished on the bar. It was a cardinal rule of the restaurant business she’d learned early on—never hire a bartender who drank. Jack had never disappointed her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, frowning.

  “Fine. I’m fine. Don’t you worry, love. You should get some rest.”

  That was true enough. She was so knackered she wasn’t quite sure how she’d got through service. Ibby had been right beside her the whole evening, filling in the things she’d missed. But he was gone now, having caught a ride to Moreton-in-Marsh with Angelica. Although Ibby had an old banger of a Toyota, that was his usual Saturday-night routine, staying with friends, then getting a lift back in time for Sunday service at the pub.

  Bea had left as well, a half hour ago, saying she’d have a quick look in on Grace before she went home.

  Still, Viv hesitated, loath to leave Jack. Loath to leave the pub, if truth be told. It looked safe, and ordinary, and familiar. It let her think that this day had been like any other day, that nothing in her life had changed.

  “Go.” Jack flapped a tea towel at her. “Don’t fuss, Viv. I’ll lock up.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I mean it. Out, now.”

  Viv summoned a smile. “I like it when you’re bossy. See you tomorrow, then.”

  But when Viv stepped into the courtyard, she saw that it wasn’t empty. Someone was sitting on the little stone bench by the cottage door. Her heart thumped. Then, as the figure rose, she saw that it was Bea.

  “What are you doing here?” Viv whispered when they met in the middle. “You scared me silly.” Then her quick relief turned to panic again. “Grace—is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. Sound asleep.” Bea seemed to hesitate. “Viv. I never had a chance today. I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry. I know this must be hard for you.” She enfolded Viv in an awkward hug—awkward, because Viv was a good deal taller, and awkward, because Viv could not let herself relax into it.

  “Thank you. Really.” Viv gave Bea’s arm a squeeze and stepped away. “I don’t think I want to talk about it just yet. And not with Grace. Don’t say anything more to Grace.”

  “No, of course not. Sleep well, then.”

  As soon as Bea reached the car park, Viv let herself into the cottage. The television was still on, the sound muted. She went into Grace’s room first. Grace lay on her back, the duvet thrown half off. Without her glasses and the frown that was becoming habitual, she looked like the child she had been. She still was a child, for a little while longer, Viv reminded herself. Pulling up the covers, she bent down, kissed Grace’s soft hair, and whispered, “Sleep tight, pumpkin.” She thought she saw Grace’s lips move in a smile.

  She went out, closing the door only partway, and stood gazing into the jumble of the sitting room. Fergus had asked to come in and she had refused him. She’d been angry at him, but she’d also been ashamed. Her furniture was secondhand and shabby. The prints on the walls were amateurish Cotswold watercolors, inherited from the previous tenant. Her cookbooks littered the coffee table and slid off onto the floor, along with Grace’s discarded socks and shoes. The place was a tip.

  Viv started to tidy up, then sank onto the sofa, her head in her hands. What sort of life had she made for herself, and for Grace? She worked all the time, and she was tired when she wasn’t working. Would things have turned out differently for them if she hadn’t been so bloody stubborn all those years ago?

  And what if Fergus had known he was ill, when he’d finally searched her out, and then she’d turned him away? What had she cost herself? And even worse, what had she cost her daughter?

  She pressed a hand to her mouth. The sobs came at last, silent and racking.

  Melody made herself a hot drink in the kitchen, then carried it upstairs to the guest room she was occupying in lieu of her own room. She’d left Doug ensconced in her dad’s study, talking about computers. Her dad, by nature, had always been a good listener. Her mum had gone up before her, half an hour ago.

  The house felt quiet and yet alive, humming with the presence of its occupants, and Melody found it odd but comforting. She hadn’t known what it would be like to have her friends here, had wondered if she’d feel too exposed, or if they would feel awkward. But even the children had fit in as if they belonged here.

  Slipping off her shoes, she curled up on the bed and sipped her Ovaltine. That was certainly a childhood holdover, the hot drink, and a habit she seldom indulged in London. London . . . she didn’t much want to think ab
out London at the moment, or her real life.

  When her phone dinged, she was tempted to ignore it. But of course she didn’t. She picked it up and checked the incoming text. Andy. Again. He’d rung just at the beginning of the luncheon, when she’d had an excuse not to pick up. And later, when she’d been unloading the van at the pub, she couldn’t have talked then, either. But when the house had calmed down after dinner and she might have managed a little privacy, she hadn’t rung him back. He’d texted her since then but she hadn’t responded.

  How was she going to admit how hurt she’d been by the stupid photo Doug had shown her? But how could she talk to him and ignore the whole thing?

  They were adults, after all, and neither had ever actually committed to an exclusive relationship. But Andy had told her from the beginning that there was nothing between him and Poppy, and she’d believed him. Had she been a fool? One of the things that had drawn her to Andy Monahan in the first place was his rejection of pretense. He was who he was, and he didn’t lie about things.

  Had he lied to her?

  Another text came in. This one said simply “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

  But she couldn’t, not tonight. Even though she knew that the longer she put it off, the harder it would be.

  The rain started just as Jack left the village behind, a spattering of drops at first, then a hail that stung his head and face like bullets. Hunching his shoulders, he pulled up the hood on his anorak. He should have taken Viv up on her offer of a lift, but he knew she was exhausted. That, and he hadn’t wanted her to see how tipsy he was. He was ashamed of turning to drink out of weakness. The last thing he’d ever meant to do was let Viv down, but he hadn’t been able to wipe last night’s images from his mind. The man, O’Reilly, nursing his coffee. Nell, doing the same. In his bar.

  And then there was the other image, the fuzzy one. He hadn’t wanted to be alone with Viv, hadn’t wanted to give in to the temptation to tell her what he thought he’d seen, not until he was certain. He didn’t want to believe it himself.