by Katie Ginger
Chapter 11
Sandchester
Esme lifted her head from the screen and sighed. The week had passed slowly and it was now Friday morning. Without a job, she’d baked, shopped for food, baked some more and wandered around the house without brushing her hair or bothering with make-up. She’d found the local radio station on her laptop and the DJ talked about Christmas shopping between songs. Esme sat back and scanned the kitchen hoping something would fire her imagination. She was going to have to plan these blog posts more thoroughly instead of writing when she was bored, including whatever recipes she fancied or could think of at the time. Esme blew out her cheeks and grabbed her grandma’s book for inspiration.
Having already posted a recipe for something sweet, comforting and old-fashioned, Esme thought that this time she should include a more up-to-date recipe inspired by the cookbook but with a modern twist. It was almost lunchtime and her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten all morning, so a brunch recipe would be perfect. Nothing too fashionable, like pancakes. Everyone was making pancakes at the moment, using different flours, packing them with protein and other odd things. No. She would make something delicious and filling. She flicked through the recipe book and discovered her grandma’s recipe for Welsh Rarebit. Granny had always added mushroom ketchup to hers instead of Worcestershire sauce and Esme had followed suit, but Esme made hers slightly differently, adding crème fraiche and making the rarebit almost as a sauce. Her stomach gurgled even louder. Esme wanted something more substantial than just posh cheese on toast though, and mentally perused the contents of the pantry, hitting on just the thing.
*
Grandma’s Kitchen
Hi everyone, how did you like the Orange Tea Bread? Have any of you been able to try the recipe yet? Today’s post is for a delicious brunch recipe. It’s inspired by my grandma’s Welsh Rarebit, but with a twist. My grandma made this for me the first time I had a real proper hangover. I was seventeen and decided that trying tequila on top of drinking I don’t know how many bottles of Hooch (do you remember Hooch?) was a good idea. Believe me, it wasn’t! But this recipe, plus a good dollop of sympathy, sorted me out. Our grandma was living with us at the time, and I think my mum was happy to escape off to work and leave me in her care. I might have moaned once or twice that I was dying.
Anyway, this isn’t a rustic, country dish, this is a sophisticated take on a traditional recipe and I hope you enjoy making my Welsh Rarebit Butter Bean Bruschetta. I made this once for my ex-boyfriend when he was on some high-protein diet and he loved it. I hope you do too! By the way, it doesn’t have to be posh artisan bread, or anything fancy, a normal bit of toast is fine!
Do you know, this is exactly the thing I love about cooking: taking an old recipe and making it right for you. There’s something really special about cooking for someone you care about and seeing them appreciate the effort and love you’ve put into it. I hope that the special person you cook this for – which could even be yourself – takes the time to appreciate it!
*
Typing the words ex-boyfriend had hurt like hell and she’d nearly removed them a couple of times, but there was no point in lying, and Leo wouldn’t read this anyway. Esme tapped her feet as her favourite Christmas song, ‘Fairytale of New York’, played out. Even though it was mid-November, it was never too early for Christmas songs. She stopped typing and sang along as loud as she could. The music filled her body and she wriggled in her chair wanting to dance. Esme placed her laptop down and looked out of the windows scared someone might see. As usual there was no one around except for the birds in the trees. Slowly, nervously, she stood up.
At first it felt alien to move in a way that was purely for pleasure. She collected some cups from the coffee table and danced as she took them to the sink. Before long, Esme was bopping around, tidying as she went. The last time she’d danced to this song had been with Leo at a work do of his. He’d smiled at her from time to time, but spent most of it scanning the dancefloor trying to catch his boss, Veronica’s eye. She hadn’t suspected anything then. Leo always saw social dos as networking events. A chance to impress his bosses and make connections. Had she been stupid? Her heart lurched, but as Kirsty MacColl’s voice listed all the things wrong with her man, Esme smiled. Now she thought of it, some of the things Leo did were quite annoying. He’d changed a lot over the years and the little foibles she hadn’t minded at first had become increasingly unattractive. But there was still so much about him she’d loved. And she did miss her old life. Driving Leo from her mind, she sang along with the song.
When it finished, Esme sat back down, her mouth watering as she added some further instructions and finished reading it back. She closed her laptop, jumped up and made herself the same dish. Before eating, Esme lit it as best she could using the dull kitchen light and holding a torch in her teeth, and took a photo on her phone. She clicked publish and added the photo, which ended up dark and blurry. She was definitely going to have to practice that bit.
Afternoon slowly turned to evening and Esme found herself completely bored and fighting back tears. If she was in London she’d be able to call her friends and they’d meet up in a nice bar, drink cocktails and make her feel better. She could call them, she knew that, but it wasn’t the same as them being physically near. She missed the noise of London, all the different sounds and smells that hit you depending on which area of the city you were in. The silence of the cottage could feel strangely oppressive sometimes.
Worst of all, Esme didn’t have a television and was missing Netflix like crazy but had found her love of reading again, so that was something. At least, thought Esme, she’d managed to light the fire and the place was warm and cosy; she just wished that inside she didn’t feel so cold and alone. A light flashed across the living-room window as a car drew up outside. She hoped it was Joe and shook her head for even thinking it so soon after her break-up, even though their little chat by the fire had been nice. She was clearly on the rebound, searching for affection and fun to lift her spirits and make her feel wanted again. As she stood and went to the door, her mother’s dulcet tones echoed through the darkness, breaking into her thoughts.
‘But Stephen, look at this place! She’s in the middle of nowhere.’
As Esme opened the front door she heard her dad reply. ‘It’s fine, darling. I think it’s quite sweet.’ Esme paused; weirdly, they were both carrying gift bags.
‘Hello, Mum, hello, Dad. You two all right?’
‘Yes, darling,’ Stephen replied, placing a kiss on each cheek. ‘We’ve come to take you to the pub.’
‘The pub,’ her mum echoed, cheerfully.
‘Oh, right. Thanks, but I don’t really feel up to it tonight.’ She shivered in the cold air. ‘Plus, I don’t think I should be wasting money in the pub.’
‘Nonsense, darling,’ said Carol. ‘It’s Friday night and I’m not letting you sit inside all the time being sad about that bastard. We can share a bottle of wine.’
‘But you don’t like wine,’ Esme offered as a final protest. She really just wanted to hide away from the world tonight.
‘Not much, no. But it’s the sort of sacrifice I’m willing to make for my child. I’m that good a mother. So, let me in. I’m freezing my tits off out here.’ Stephen rolled his eyes and Esme smiled as they all walked inside, shutting the door behind them.
‘What’s in the bags? Are you meeting someone at the pub?’
‘No,’ Stephen said, ‘they’re for you. They’re moving in presents.’
‘Moving in presents,’ repeated her mum, wiggling her eyebrows.
‘What?’ Her parents were bonkers but she loved them dearly. She took the bag offered by her dad first. Opening she saw it was a bottle of champagne. ‘Thank you, Dad. I’ll drink it soon.’ When she found the right time and had something worth celebrating.
‘Here you go,’ said her mum, handing hers over and grinning madly.
Esme’s eyes widened in confusion. Gingerly, she reached
in and pulled out … ‘A cucumber?’
‘It’s not a hand-grenade, Esme,’ her mum chided. ‘You can slice it and pop it on your puffy eyes. I know you’ve been crying over that tosser but you don’t need to have puffy eyelids over him. He’s not worth it.’ Moving in front of Esme, Carol gently flicked her daughter’s hair back over her shoulders. ‘You’re too beautiful and too clever to waste time on that man. Time to put yourself first.’
Esme felt a tear fall down her face and Carol gently wiped it away. Her mum was as mad as a box of frogs, but Esme was grateful. ‘Thanks, Mum. Right. I just need a minute to get ready.’
After Esme had changed into a nicer pair of jeans and a pretty jumper, they parked in town and walked to the pub. The blast of warm air that hit Esme’s face when they went in was a welcome relief from the bitter gale blowing outside. She was grateful her mum and dad had already said they’d share a taxi home.
The pub was already busy, but rather than in London, where bars were jam-packed until the early hours, there was still room to move and they were able to find a table in the corner. A large open fire was burning and the music playing was a mix of Christmas songs and wedding-reception-type classics. Esme found herself bopping along as she settled into her seat, remembering how the morning’s dancing had lifted her mood. After Stephen returned with their drinks, Carol choosing not to share a bottle of wine after all and leaving it all to Esme, her mum and dad began chatting to a friend at a nearby table, catching up on local news.
As Esme glanced around, spotting a few people she’d known at school and hiding in her chair as the burning shame of being dumped and sacked hit her again, her eyes caught on Joe who had entered with a large group of friends. He was smiling and laughing, and though it lit his face, there was still a dullness to his green eyes. She wondered whether to wave but didn’t, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Then his friends crowded round him and he was lost in the middle of the group.
‘So,’ said Carol, turning back to Esme. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘I’m okay, Mum,’ Esme replied. Carol eyed her daughter. ‘Honestly. I promise. I’m doing okay.’
‘Hmm. Let me ask you a question. If Leo walked through that door right now and got down on bended knee, asking forgiveness, saying he’d been an idiot to break up with you and it was all a big mistake, what would you say? Would you go back?’
Esme’s eyes dropped. Part of her head was screaming yes. She’d loved him and thought he loved her. She’d loved their life together. Being in London made her feel alive and she loved the buzz of the city, the faster pace of life. Having everything you could ever need at your fingertips twenty-four hours a day. And though she knew now why Leo had become so distant over the last few months, before that they’d been happy. If she could go back to the times when they were in sync together, she would. ‘I don’t know, Mum,’ she said honestly. Carol took her hand.
‘Your dad doesn’t often talk much sense—’
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said, teasingly.
‘But he is right that you can never go back. It doesn’t solve anything. It’s only been a week since you came home and it’s all still too fresh to think about clearly. Give it a little while longer and you’ll feel different. I never liked him anyway.’
Esme’s head shot up. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘No. Far too arrogant and self-centred.’
‘Oh.’ Now Esme came to think about it, her mum had always been very nice to Leo but she’d never fully committed to it like she had with Alice’s husband. Carol had always been unusually careful in the compliments she paid Esme when talking about Leo. How had she not noticed it before?
Joe and his friends were talking to a group of young women and Esme felt her brow furrowing as one of the women moved in closer to Joe, touching his arm as she spoke. Joe seemed a little unsure at first, but after a while was speaking to her more and more. He hadn’t mentioned anything about having a girlfriend the other night and from their previous conversations, she’d got the impression he was still pretty cut up about his ex. Esme reminded herself he was single and it was nothing to do with her. He was able to do as he pleased and yet, she couldn’t stop glancing over.
As the evening wore on, her mum became slowly more drunk and her dad laughed and joked with his friends, but Esme couldn’t help but watch the scene playing out at the bar. The woman had continued to flirt with Joe and he’d reciprocated more and more. Then he lay a hand at the small of her back as she leaned in to say something. Esme was sure they were going to kiss and felt a strange stirring in her stomach: something akin to jealousy but mixed with a fair amount of confusion too. Joe’s head turned to the woman and just as Esme had feared, their lips met. Suddenly Esme felt even more of a failure. Everyone had someone except her. Downing the last of her drink, and watching Joe and the woman grab their coats and leave the pub, all she wanted was to go home. To go back to her little cottage and cry. Her heart felt like a heavy weight crushing her chest, squashing her lungs. Fighting back tears she leaned into her dad and suggested they get that taxi back, and seeing the look on her face, he agreed without argument.
*
Grandma’s Kitchen
Hello, lovely readers! How are you all doing?
Do you know the biggest thing I miss about London? I know I should say the theatres, the comedy clubs, or the museums and art galleries. You know, all the arty farty things. But actually it’s being able to get any type of food I’m craving delivered directly to my door at any time of the day or night. No matter what type of takeaway I fancied – Thai, Mexican, Lebanese, Chinese, Indian, Italian, Japanese – I was always able to order it. And the silliest thing is, I never did! I always wanted to try and cook it myself, to see if I could get the same taste.
Do you know how many takeaways there are in my little hometown? Not many, I can tell you! And all they do is either pizza, Chinese, Indian, or fish and chips. Now I’m not in London and for once don’t fancy cooking myself, I really miss it.
So, as it’s Saturday night, and I’m staying inside and hiding away from the world, I’m going to share with you my recipe for Easy Pad Thai.
Chapter 12
London
Juanita polished the old mahogany table in the hall near Felicity Fenchurch’s study. She wanted to stay as near to the doorway as possible without being seen. She wasn’t listening to Miss Fenchurch’s private conversation, of course. She wouldn’t do that sort of thing. But Miss Fenchurch had told her more than once that she was a real celebrity, always being followed by some paparazzi or other, and Juanita wanted to find out if she was worried about anything. After all, she was talking to a solicitor at nine-thirty on a Monday morning. It must have been important.
In the study, Felicity sat in the large ergonomic chair she had recently purchased. Her shoulders were high and tense, and she leant forwards, her elbows resting on the desk with one finger pressed to her lips. She was definitely rattled about something.
Juanita moved the cloth across the wood of the table in slow, concentric circles. Her arms ached from the work already completed that morning. It wasn’t that she was making as little noise as possible so as to hear more clearly, it was that Miss Fenchurch made sure she got her money’s worth and Juanita was feeling a little tired today. Felicity’s voice, an octave higher from the stress, rang out.
‘Listen, I just want to know where I stand if this girl continues to lie and say I stole her recipe.’ She paused for a moment. ‘The truth? Well, of course I’m telling you the truth. She says I stole it and I didn’t. Any similarity is pure coincidence.’
Another pause.
‘My granny? Well, yes, but most of her recipes were word of mouth passed down through the family. Taught at the stove, so to speak. They weren’t written down. Yes, of course I’m sure,’ she said sharply.
Juanita edged to the doorway pretending to dust the frame and peered into the room. Felicity had moved from the desk now and paced in front of the window watching
the busy London street outside. Her mobile phone was gripped so tightly her fingertips were white and stood out against the deep red of her nails. A long grey hair fell from the bun tied at the nape of Juanita’s neck and tickled her skin. She brushed it back.
‘So you think I’ll be fine? Good. Good.’ The evident relief in Felicity’s voice put Juanita on her guard. Miss Fenchurch thought that just because she was a cleaner, she was stupid. Well, she wasn’t. Something was definitely going on and it sounded like self-obsessed Felicity Fenchurch might have landed herself in real trouble this time. ‘No!’ Felicity shouted again. ‘Like I said, pure coincidence, I assure you.’
Juanita screwed up her eyes. She thought of her own recipe book. The one she was keeping for her children. She’d always planned to teach them the traditional Spanish recipes of her hometown, but the opportunity had never arisen and they were grown now, with children of their own. Still, it wasn’t too late. She wanted her grandchildren to know the rich, vibrant culture they came from. To know what real Spanish food was like and try real Spanish recipes, not just eat tapas in the restaurants their parents took them to. She sighed and peered one last time at Felicity who, the call now finished, touched up her lip gloss and left the study. Juanita took a quick step to the side and began dusting another antique side-table, the strong scent from the vase of lilies filling her nose.
Felicity peered down at Juanita. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked with her normal accusatory tone.
‘Dusting the hallway, Miss Fenchurch, including the doorframes, as you asked.’
‘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.’