by Katie Ginger
‘When did I ask you to do that?’Felicity hadn’t told her to, but Juanita knew she wouldn’t remember.
‘Last month you told me to dust the doorways more often after you got some dust on your white gloves.’
‘Oh. Right,’ she replied. ‘Did you hear any of that?’ She pointed back into the study.
Juanita kept her eyes on the dust cloth in her hand. ‘Any of what, Miss Fenchurch?’ Felicity eyed her for a moment and Juanita worried she was about to be sacked. Felicity liked to threaten it whenever something was going wrong in her life. Juanita held her breath.
‘Nothing. Never mind.’ Felicity swept past her and collected her expensive woollen coat from the antique coat stand. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Yes, Miss Fenchurch. Goodbye.’ Felicity didn’t answer as she slammed the door behind her.
Once Juanita was sure Felicity had gone, she went into the study, but kept the duster and polish in her hand, just in case she needed an excuse to be in there. She wondered over to the desk and nonchalantly glanced down. Disappointingly there was nothing written on the pad, and the only thing that dominated her desk was the half-finished draft of her new recipe book. Juanita hadn’t given it much thought before, but as she glanced at the first couple of pages of Felicity Fenchurch’s Fabulous Fiestas, a strange prickle crept down her spine. The use of the word fiesta made her think of home and she felt the need to see her own notebook and remember her life there. Juanita really was feeling tired today. Tired of the dull grey, English weather, tired of working herself to the bone, and she wanted to read, smell and think of Spain. She stuffed the duster in the pocket of her apron and went to the kitchen, descending the stairs in the far corner to reach her basement flat. Felicity didn’t need a live-in housekeeper, she just liked to have a general dogsbody. It made her feel important.
In her bedroom, Juanita knelt by the large wooden trunk she had brought with her all those years ago when she first moved to England. She ran her fingers over the rich, gnarled wood, scratched and cut with the story of her life, and opened the lid. Beneath the different mementos she had collected on her various travels, she found what she was looking for. Juanita sat on her bed and opened the old notebook book, smelling its pages. Years of cooking had soaked into the paper and she could almost taste the saffron and chilli emanating from it. Immediately, Juanita was transported to the olive trees of her youth, the imposing stark mountains outside the village and the smell of rich red wine. Aches and pains began to release from her muscles as she held it.
One of the pages had a strange mark on it. She tried to scratch off the dark red splodge but it wouldn’t move. It wasn’t jam or tomato sauce. It looked like nail varnish. The same red nail varnish Miss Fenchurch wore. The one she said made her feel like a vamp. Juanita studied her own wrinkled, raw hands and the blunt, broken nails at the ends of her fingers. She didn’t own any nail varnish.
Chapter 13
Sandchester
Esme stared again at the screen of her laptop, clicking refresh every few seconds. It had been just under two weeks since the break-up and since she’d moved home. It wasn’t that long and yet, it felt like so much had happened. Watching the screen, she huffed out a breath. There’d only been eight hits on her blog and she felt utterly defeated. No one had left any comments or signed up to her mailing list. The few that had looked hadn’t bothered reading anything at all.
She knew she needed to add more content and was spending today picking and choosing recipes. Some of the older recipes were too bland for today’s sweet palates, or had weird ingredients from the days of rationing. And there was absolutely no way she was cooking horse. Where did you even get horse? It was probably illegal to eat it these days and she wasn’t going to try it anyway. She wanted to show some of the old dishes off, but they needed a lot of care and attention before they were introduced to the modern world.
Recently, Esme had begun to enjoy being apart from normal life, but her confidence was scant. Her cottage offered some refuge from the outside world, being as isolated as it was, but it was still quite cold even with the fire on and that, combined with a sudden lack of routine, made her despondent. It was the last week of November, but her usual excitement and Christmas cheer was gone. She’d managed to get dressed today into proper clothes and had put on three extra jumpers, but the strong wind outside blew the trees almost horizontal and whistled through the house.
Esme sat back on the sofa and pulled her legs up to her chest. She felt too old to be starting a new career. A little voice in her head told her this was all completely pointless and the whole world was shouting at her to stop being silly, stop playing at being a blogger. She might as well just plod on to retirement doing what she’d always done and then die. She picked up her phone and dialled Lola, confiding in her the moment she answered.
‘It’s not working,’ Esme cried down the line. ‘No one’s reading my blog and I don’t know what to do. I don’t understand search engine optimisation, or key phrases, and Twitter is, quite frankly, beyond me. You can’t say anything remotely interesting, or important in 280 characters. What do I do, Lola?’
Lola spluttered a laugh. ‘I know it’s hard, honey, but you have to keep at it. Websites don’t grow overnight. You have to plug away getting your name out there.’
‘But I don’t know how.’ Esme flung her free hand in the air and the sleeve of her oversized jumper flew out, hitting her on top of her head. ‘Oh, Lola. Is this all a terrible idea?
‘No, it’s not. You’re an amazing cook and you just need to persevere. Try linking to other websites, or guest blogging. Oh, there is one other thing you could try.’
Esme scrunched up her face. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this. She wasn’t going in for anything gimmicky. No cooking naked or finding the next must-have ingredient and including that in everything from coffee to ice cream. ‘Oh yeah, what’s that?’
‘Vlogging.’
‘Vlogging?’
‘Yeah. Video blogging. Recent evidence shows that people are searching way more for videos than they used to. It might be worth a shot. But like I said, building a following doesn’t happen overnight. You have to put lots of time and energy into it. Keep adding posts and people will start looking.’
Esme wasn’t sure. It was a great idea for other people, but could she do it? She didn’t want to be yet another Felicity Fenchurch. Another fake TV cook who didn’t stand for anything. Those shows were all about fancy dinner parties with matching crockery and showing off, without any real heart and soul, or even actual cooking.
Esme examined her recipe book. Her blog, her as yet unwritten cookbook, her new career, she wanted it to have a meaning she could pass on. To her, recipes were all about sharing and learning. She’d always learned from watching and others could too. She’d learned from watching her grandma cook as Mum couldn’t be trusted in the kitchen. But with Grandma, Esme had watched, tried and tasted, gradually falling in love with cooking.
‘Like YouTube?’ Esme asked, still a bit confused by how it would work in practice.
‘Yes, you could start your own channel – I’d follow you!’
Esme loved the idea of being an internet sensation. It had led to so much more for so many people, but things like that didn’t happen to people like her. Still, it might be worth a shot just to get people reading her blog. ‘I wouldn’t need much, would I?’
‘Just a decent camera that you can attach to your laptop. How’s the money situation going?’
Esme shifted in her seat. Her mum and dad had been generous, but she needed to keep as much as she could aside for living expenses. Could she afford to buy a camera? ‘Things are tight. I’m not making any money at the moment and I need to save what I’ve got.’
‘I really think you should do this, Esme,’ encouraged Lola. ‘I know you’re being careful, but you need to invest in your future and that’s what you’ll be doing.’
Esme cocked her head to one side. A little camera couldn’t be that expensive. ‘Ok
ay, then. I will.’
‘Do a trial run first and record it, then you can make sure you’ve got everything right.’
‘Good idea. I’ll let you know when and you guys can come down and review it with me.’
‘Sounds like a plan. I do love a nice trip home. Maybe we’ll pop in and say hi to Joe Holloway while we’re there.’
‘Stop it. How are you and Eric?’ Esme asked to distract Lola from probing further.
‘We’re good. We’re going to see a movie tonight,’ Lola replied.
Esme missed saying ‘we’ sometimes. She played with the tassel on one of her cushions. ‘Have a good time you two. See you later.’
Esme hung up then searched online for a camera. Before long she had placed her order and, filled with excitement, her camera was on its way.
Chapter 14
Sandchester
Joe drove to the camera shop to collect the new lens for the posh camera his parents had given him last Christmas. Whilst taking snaps of the properties for the estate agent was all right, what he really loved was to go wandering with his camera down to the sea, or out into the woods and capture all the weird shapes, shadows and scenes only found in nature. As he opened the shop door, a Christmas song started playing on the tiny radio behind the counter. A small, depressed fake Christmas tree with stringy tinsel wrapped around the base stood next to the till where the owner, Ian, stood. ‘Hey Ian, how’s life with you?’
‘Not bad, Joe, thanks. You?’ He was tall and well-built with a thick black beard, like a gothy Father Christmas.
‘Yeah, all right. I’ve been busy this week. We had a couple of offers and a couple of lets. Not bad for this time of year.’ Joe unbuttoned his coat, adjusting to the warmth.
‘That’s good.’
‘You busy?’
‘Yes, mate.’ Ian nodded. ‘Very. Lots of Christmas orders.’
‘Speaking of which, has my order come in yet?’ Joe loosened his scarf too.
‘Yep. Hang on.’ He disappeared into the back of the shop and returned with a box with Holloway written on it in thick black pen.
‘Fantastic. It’s a new lens for my camera. I can’t wait to get out into the woods with this. There’s this great twisted tree I want to capture.’
The bell sounded behind him and Joe turned to see Esme with a bright red coat tied at the waist emphasising her hourglass figure. She had a bit more colour in her cheeks now and under her hat he could see her wild messy hair. He inspected a nearby shelf, remembering their conversation by the fire and the feelings it had started within him, and how he’d secretly fancied her at school. Back then she hadn’t noticed him, of course. She and that friend of hers – what was her name? Lola? – were always scheming and giggling like teenage girls do. She’d been out of his league then and she still was now.
‘Hello,’ said Esme, walking to the counter. ‘Have you got an order for Kendrick?’ She turned to Joe. ‘Hi. What are you doing here? Christmas shopping?’
Joe felt himself grow hot and hoped it was the lack of air conditioning. ‘I, umm, I just bought a new camera. Well, a lens, anyway.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Photography’s a bit of a passion of mine.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ She smiled.
‘What about you?’ asked Joe.
‘I bought a camera for my computer.’
‘Oh, right.’ His brow furrowed, confused as to why she needed one.
‘I’ll be making videos of recipes and teaching people how to cook. I’m going to post them online.’
‘That’s awesome,’ replied Joe. He was excited for her but again found himself shocked by how she seemed to grab at life and not let it slow her down. He glanced at her face. It gave the impression of other-worldliness, and he felt something he hadn’t in a long while – a kind of hopefulness. Esme radiated positivity and energy, and some of it had seeped into his soul. He wondered if she knew the effect she had on other people. The way she lit up a room with her laugh and her smile, the way she never judged. Esme glanced around the store and Joe shuffled his feet.
‘I hope he’s got it,’ she said, beginning to worry. ‘I ordered it on Monday and he said it would be here by Friday.’
Joe leaned in and whispered, ‘I’m sure he has. It’s just that his filing system’s quite chaotic.’
She giggled. ‘I meant to ask, is the King’s Head still going?’
Joe nodded. ‘Yeah. Surprising, I know. It doesn’t serve underage drinkers anymore though.’
‘Like we were, you mean? I think you’ll find I never did anything like that.’
‘Oh, I know, I’d never cast aspersions on your good character. I only went because we could play pool.’
‘I don’t think anyone will think I’m underage anymore,’ Esme replied. ‘I can’t remember the last time I was ID’d. Sometimes I think about asking them to do it just to make me feel better.’
Joe laughed but bit back the compliment floating on the tip of his tongue.
They fell into an uncomfortable silence and after a moment Esme broke it by taking off her hat and saying, ‘Do you know about cameras and stuff as well as houses then?’
‘Sort of.’ He moved his box from under one arm to another. ‘I’m not an expert.’
Esme face was thoughtful, considering something. ‘Listen, do you fancy a quick drink and helping me with which leads plug in where? I’m not very good with tech.’
Joe hesitated at the prospect of spending real time with someone. Time that involved talking and connecting. Clara was there again, drifting about in his mind, and he pushed the memory of her away. He was much better at no strings, but the look in Esme’s gentle eyes pierced his heart. ‘That’d be nice. Sure. The King’s Head is just down the road, shall we go there? I’ve only got an hour though – I’m on my lunch break.’
Ian emerged with the parcel and Esme collected her order. Joe held the door for her and they made their way outside. It was raining when they left the shop and the sky had darkened to a sheet of bleak, steel-grey. They walked down the high street to the pub and passed the giant Christmas tree in the centre of town. A large star had been placed on top and strings of lights were haphazardly wrapped around. Children gazed up at it, holding their parents’ hands and pointing to the top. Underneath, fake presents wrapped in bright red paper were piled on top of each other. A Salvation Army band were lined up beside it playing traditional Christmas carols and Joe saw Esme wonder at the scene before them. As the rain beat down, tapping their skin, they quickened their pace until they were safe and dry inside.
Joe took off his coat and lay it over his arm then took Esme’s for her. She brushed the rain from her hair. ‘What would you like?’ he asked as they approached the bar.
‘I’ll have a cola, please. I’m going for a run later.’
‘In this?’ Joe peered out of the window and as Esme stood next to him, he could smell her coconut conditioner again.
‘Yeah, it helps clear my head. I’ll just wrap up.’
Joe turned to the barman and ordered two cokes while Esme found them a table. More and more people came in out of the rain, and Joe had to navigate through them with the drinks in his hands. Amongst the rising voices he could make out Nineties music he remembered from his youth playing in the background. It was a nice change from Christmas songs. He never looked forward to Christmas anymore and these days Christmas songs brought him down rather than lifting his spirits. Joe placed their drinks down on the table. ‘So, what made you decide to start a blog?’
Esme combed her fingers through her hair. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Oh, okay. Sorry. Did you want to talk about something else?’
‘I don’t mind,’ she replied, with a gentle shrug. ‘It is what it is. Basically, I got fired from my job because my boss didn’t believe me when I told her someone had stolen one of my recipes and was pitching it as their own.’
‘What?’ asked Joe, his coke held in mid-air. ‘Someone stole your
recipe and you’re the one who got fired? That’s outrageous.’
‘I know.’ She nodded, her eyes wide. ‘Then, because I didn’t have any proof, she wanted me to apologise. I refused, so she sacked me.’
Joe stared, then let out a great loud chortle. Shocked, Esme sat still and she felt her cheeks redden. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just, that’s the most awesome thing I’ve ever heard. You’re incredibly brave sticking to your guns like that. Not many people would.’
When Esme relaxed and grinned at him, his stomach fluttered. ‘Do you think so?’
‘I do. I think it’s awesome.’
They took a sip of their drinks in companionable silence.
‘So, you’re a secret photographer?’ Esme asked.
‘Amateur photographer,’ he corrected, gently. ‘Secret makes me sound shady. But, yeah.’ He noticed what a pretty shade of pink her lips were.
‘What sort of things do you take pictures of?’
‘Nature mostly.’
Esme smirked.
‘Not like pervy nature, I don’t sneak around taking photos of naked women, if that’s what you think.’
‘It hadn’t crossed my mind, actually, but now you’ve said it …’
Joe laughed. ‘I like scenery and animals and stuff. I like capturing the world where it’s been left alone by civilisation and technology. Where it’s truly wild.’
‘That sounds great. Do you think you could do some snaps of food for my blog one day? I’ve tried but I’m not very good.’
‘I’d love to,’ replied Joe, as the rain battered against the windows. He was enjoying her company. That hadn’t happened in a while. There were women but they didn’t meant anything. Sex was just a release and he was flattered by being wanted. There hadn’t been much talking involved. He was enjoying talking and laughing with Esme. Suddenly, he found himself wanting this meeting to last and said, ‘Do you fancy a bite to eat as we’re here? I’m sure it won’t be as good as anything you could cook, but as it’s so bad outside …’