by Kate Forster
And then it came to him. He was lonely. He had brought the children to York to spend Christmas with them, saying no to tutors and nannies and yet he still hadn’t spent enough time with them. He realised now he had brought Adam as an excuse to do business and avoid experiencing anything other than work-related activities. What he really wanted was someone to share this with. Someone to look at when the twins opened their presents and they could nod and feel smug at choosing the right thing. Someone who he could dance around the kitchen with as they organised Christmas lunch, someone who he could kiss at midnight on Christmas Eve and tell them he loved them and sit in front of the fire with them on Boxing Day and do the crossword or play charades with the kids.
God, he wanted all of that so badly it hurt. If he was honest with himself, which he had avoided doing for a long time, he had always wanted all of that, but his ex had not – and would never – want anything like that, and he hadn’t made time to meet someone who did. Was it because he was afraid it would end up like his own parents? They once had dreams, before they had children, before they drank and gambled and ruined so many lives. No one sets out to mess up their life but when you don’t own your pain then you put it onto other people, he thought.
The tree sparkled as a thin sliver of sun shone through the window and onto the deer ornament he had bought for Christa. No more passing on his pain, he thought. He’d brought the children here and he needed to be more present in every way. He went down to hallway and into the kitchen.
‘Dad, you said you would help us,’ said Seth as Marc walked in and started to make coffee.
The boys were sitting at the table with Paul, with plates of what looked to be coloured modelling clay.
‘Yeah, Dad, you said,’ Ethan echoed.
‘Yeah, Marc, you promised,’ Paul said, mimicking the boys, and Marc laughed as he kissed the boys on the tops of their heads.
Christa was rolling the gingerbread out on a marble slab, looking up briefly to smile at him and then back to her work.
‘I did promise, I know, so what are we making?’ he asked sitting down and moving his coffee to the side.
The boys didn’t answer, instead Seth held up a green triangle-shaped blob.
‘Does this look like a tree?’ he asked him. ‘We need one hundred and twelve trees for the driveway.’
‘I don’t think we need to do the whole drive,’ said Christa. ‘Just a few dotted around the house is fine.’
Marc looked at her and she made an alarmed face and mouthed the number of trees at him.
‘That’s probably the best idea,’ said Marc looking at Paul’s plate of coloured clay.
‘Is this edible?’ he asked, picking up what looked to be a fence that Paul had made.
‘It’s marzipan,’ Christa answered.
‘Don’t break my fences, I spent ages putting that up,’ Paul stated, taking the lopsided object from him. ‘I did a lot of work with my therapist, highly recommended by Cher actually, to create boundaries, so I won’t have some random billionaire crashing through them.’
Marc saw Christa giggling as she rolled some marzipan in front of her.
The kitchen was warm and cosy, and he took some brown marzipan and started to sculpt what he hoped would be a deer. It wasn’t so bad when he finished and he let it stand on Paul’s plate.
‘Dad, that’s so good,’ Ethan cried.
Christa walked over and peered at the little creature. ‘That’s actually very good.’
‘Actually? You’re surprised?’ he teased her.
‘It’s a hard thing to do, so yes, actually it’s very good.’
She went back to the bench and he watched her put the gingerbread into the oven.
‘Your dad is in charge of all woodland and farm creatures now, boys,’ she said.
‘We need chickens, and a peacock and some more deer and Meredith the dog,’ Ethan instructed. ‘Do you want me to text you a list?’
Marc laughed. ‘No I think I can remember.’
Peggy walked into the kitchen then and stood in the doorway, staring at Paul. He held up a tiny marzipan fence. ‘Boundaries must be respected,’ he said and Marc watched as Peggy snorted and turned and left the kitchen.
Marc raised his eyebrows at him. ‘What was that about?’
‘She put my pinecones outside. I spent a long time collecting those.’
‘Oh no, not Peggy and the Pinecones,’ Christa said with a laugh. ‘What did you do?’
Marc started working on more deer for the gingerbread display while Paul spoke.
‘She put my pinecones outside and told me they were filled with creatures and that she wouldn’t have creepy crawlies around the house even if it ruined the aesthetic.’
‘She did not!?’ Marc half teased. He knew Paul was passionate about his work and Pudding Hall was showing his skills off in all their glory.
‘She did and when I told her it was me or the pine cones she went and complained to Adam because you wouldn’t talk to her.’
‘She scares me,’ said Marc.
Christa burst out laughing. ‘You two are out of control.’
As she spoke Peggy walked back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
‘I noticed the quails were gone. Did you use them, Cook?’
Marc noticed Christa’s shoulders stiffen and her head raise. ‘Yes, I made a stock for soup.’
‘And you used the quail for soup – all of it? It must have been a large quantity of soup. Is there nothing in the freezer?’
Peggy opened the freezer and peered inside the shelves and opened the drawers.
‘No leftovers?’ She stood with her hands on her hips and stared at Christa. ‘And I had a ham hock for you. Do anything special with that?’
Marc watched Christa’s neck and face flush.
‘We had the soup, it was lovely,’ he jumped in. ‘I think we should leave the ordering to Christa now. She is a chef after all – she knows what she’s doing. One less thing for you to worry about, Peggy.’
Peggy snorted and he stopped himself from making a joke as he knew better than to antagonise an angry sow.
Christa’s back was turned from him but he could feel her tension. Was there something happening with her and the food? Was food missing? He thought he remembered her saying something about excess food but he couldn’t remember what exactly.
‘Dad, make a monkey,’ said Seth, interrupting his thoughts.
‘A monkey? The only monkeys here are you and your brother.’ He saw Christa looking at him now, her face unreadable but pink from the warmth of the oven.
He smiled at her, trying to convey that he didn’t mind about quails and ham hocks and whatever else she was worrying about but a shadow had crossed her face. He would try and talk to her after dinner, he thought, as he made little monkeys for the boys.
Then they would sort everything out and Christa would smile again.
*
But after dinner he had a call from his team in New York and by the time he went back to the kitchen, it was clean and Christa’s car was driving away.
She had been quiet during dinner, eating with them but sitting with the boys and not drinking any wine or making much small talk. She avoided his looks and picked at her lovely dinner of rack of lamb and baby potatoes and salad. How something so simple could taste so magnificent was beyond him.
And then she was gone. Marc thought quickly, grabbing his coat and his keys. He headed out to his car and started it, turning it to follow Christa but with the lights low so as not to alert her to his presence.
Where did she go on these nights? He couldn’t begrudge her a social life, because she would have sat around at night like Paul did, complaining about Adam’s workaholism while Adam ignored him or occasionally patted his leg.
He was selfish to bring Adam here for Christmas, he thought. He should be with Paul and with their family.
Why was he so selfish and not thinking about other people’s plans?
He rang Ada
m from the car.
‘Where are you?’ Adam asked.
‘I’m heading into York for a bit. Can you keep an eye on the boys? Sorry to ask but something’s come up.’
‘Sure, Paul is with them anyway. They’re watching Hairspray. It’s his favourite film.’
Adam paused. ‘I need to ask you something.’
‘Yes?’ Adam sounded wary and Marc’s guilt soared.
‘Did you want to head back to the States for Christmas with Paul? I feel bad about you being here when you should be with your friends and family. We can do our meetings by Zoom if you go home. I’d understand. I was being selfish when I demanded you come.’
Adam said nothing for a moment and Marc waited as he saw Christa’s car reach the main road and turn right. He hung back a bit and then turned, seeing her lights ahead.
‘You know, I am enjoying it, and so is Paul, even though he complains a lot; but the house is great, the kids are fun and the food is terrific. If I go back home it will be for Chinese food. I’m Jewish, so it’s no big deal.’
Marc laughed. ‘Okay, I was just thinking that I shouldn’t have assumed you didn’t have a life, that’s all.’
‘I appreciate you calling and asking. But we’ll stay, if it’s okay? It’s nicer than we thought it would be. And Paul has pinecones to protect.’
‘I am glad you’re here then – it means the world.’
He finished the call and followed Christa into York. He wished he wasn’t in something as large as the Bentley but he was hanging back and saw her park in a side street.
He parked and turned off his lights, watching her from a distance as she took large bags from her car boot and then locked the car and started walking up the street.
Jumping from his car, he shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he had remembered his gloves and hat. The wind was bitter and his face felt tight from the ice he was sure was forming on his skin.
Where was she going? She turned and walked up a hill to the front of the library, to where there was a group of people crowded around a van, who all waved and shouted her name. She went to a handsome man and handed him the bags and he saw him put his arm around Christa and give her a squeeze.
He wasn’t sure if he was jealous of the man but he didn’t like how it made him feel. He didn’t like how any of this made him feel.
And then the side of the van and the back doors were opened and people were putting on aprons and setting up small tables with food on them and what looked to be shopping bags of things and Christa was taking out containers from the bags and putting them onto the benches.
A man came from the shadows and nodded to Christa and she handed him a package of her food and then a shopping bag of something. He took a cup of what looked to be soup ladled into a mug and some bread and sat away from the van as he ate.
A woman approached him and asked him some questions and then he saw her take his temperature and listen to his chest.
A man and his son came to the van next for soup, shopping, a smile, and some chat with Christa who beamed at them like a snowflake in the darkness.
A woman with a dog came for shopping and then bustled back into the night. People without enough food, not enough warm clothes, without support besides this van.
Marc forgot his chill and stood against a wall, watching them for the hour, and then the stream of people trickled away until there was no one left and they started to pack up.
He walked towards the van, arriving as Christa was taking down a foldable table.
‘Anything left?’ he asked.
‘I’m sure I have something,’ she said, looking up at him.
Her mouth dropped open.
‘I believe you owe me some quail and ham hock,’ he said with a smile and she promptly burst into tears.
16
‘I will finish up tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And pay you back the money you gave me.’
‘Why? That’s ridiculous,’ Marc said as he set their hot drinks down in front of them. The only place open was a fast food chain with Christmas carols playing and the smell of grease in the air. ‘I am pretty sure I agreed to you doing something with the excess food.’
Christa couldn’t look at him.
‘But I should have been more open, transparent about it all. I might as well have stolen it. I’ve been underhanded,’ she cried. She had stolen it. No matter how she tried and convinced herself otherwise, she had stolen the food and handed it out to people for free.
‘You used what would have gone into the trash and you gave it to people who needed it more than me or you. There is nothing devious about it. You mentioned it to me and I said yes. Why are you so upset?’
Christa sipped her watery tea and grimaced.
‘Is that face because of the tea or me?’ he asked.
‘Both.’
Marc smiled. ‘Why are you so upset about this, Christa?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I feel like I should have been more honest with you.’ She sighed and slowed her breathing down. ‘I think I was embarrassed to ask, like I was some chugger, leeching off the largesse of my boss.’
‘What? What the hell is a chugger?’ he asked.
‘A charity mugger. Like those people who harass you in the street about famine somewhere or other while shaking a tin at you.’
Marc laughed. ‘No, I don’t think it’s the same.’
Christa rubbed her temples and then looked at him.
‘I’m a hypocrite,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I was glib about your success and your wealth, yet I used it to help others without being totally honest with you. I turned up with meals for the people and didn’t tell anyone they were made with your goods. I took the credit and didn’t mention once that it’s your food I’m using to feed people.’
Marc shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter where it comes from though, and it doesn’t matter who “owns” it, as long as it gets to the people who need it.’
They were quiet for a moment and then Marc spoke again. ‘So, do you make a habit of being a food-driven Robin Hood?’
She thought for a moment, wondering how much she should tell him and then decided she had nothing to lose, not since he had caught her red-handed.
‘I have always tried to help people the way I know how. Which is with food. I did it when I had the restaurant in a casual way, feeding people out of the back door of the kitchen.’
Marc leaned in, listening.
‘And it made me happy to feed people – you know, with good nourishing food.’
‘Okay.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘We help with what we have, I get it.’
‘Then I came here and I finally had the time to help, really help. I had some time at night. So I did. I met this lovely old man at the market who made the fudge. He told me about the charity so I called, and next thing you know, I’m making vegetable soup and breadsticks and pasta and little delicious lemon cakes that are actually really healthy. They were very popular.’
She saw Marc smile at her and she smiled back.
‘You know I spent time in soup kitchens and refuges as a kid. The food was a lifesaver when Dad wasn’t well but the food was mostly donated or cooked for quantity not quality because that’s all they could afford. I wanted to make people food that would help them from the inside.’
Marc was nodding. ‘And you want to do that once you finish at Pudding Hall?’
She thought for a moment. For most of her adult life she had been overlooked, with Simon taking the credit for talent, but now her future was so clear, she could feel it.
‘I do, I want to help people. I want to open a place here and make it low cost or no cost for people to come and get food. I want to give cooking lessons to people who haven’t been taught how to shop and how to make meals that nourish and are affordable. I want people to be able to volunteer and chat and provide support for mums and dads and children. I want it to be the place where anyone can come and they will be fed
, respected and supported.’
She finished her speech and then took a sip of her tea and was reminded it tasted like hot dirt water.
Marc sat back in his chair. ‘And you want me to fund it?’ he asked.
She looked at him and frowned.
‘Not at all. I didn’t ask. You asked me what I wanted to do and that is it. It was the first time I’ve actually been able to clarify it for myself but that’s it; that’s what I want to create. It might not happen soon – it might take ten or twenty years – but I will work towards it and hope it will happen. And meanwhile I will keep cooking for those who pay well and save what I can.’
Marc’s face was unreadable.
‘I’m not asking for your help at all, Marc. I am really sorry about the food. I will pay it back. I will replace the ham hock and quails tomorrow.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t care about them. I don’t. I get it. I get why you did it.’
He leaned back in his chair and ran his hand though his hair and then clasped his hands behind his neck.
‘I had a shitty childhood. It was tough and we didn’t have any help until the night my mother tried to kill my father.’
‘Jesus,’ said Christa.
‘She failed,’ said Marc. ‘But we were taken away from our parents and then ended up in the system. My whole life, I have run away from my past, avoided doing anything that might make me feel anything other than successful and yet you, with your own shitty upbringing, you run towards it now. You’re not afraid of it. You want to help.’
Christa said nothing as they looked at each other.
‘So why do you run towards it when I run away? What are you looking for and what am I avoiding?’