The House of New Beginnings

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘They were fab,’ Charlotte agreed.

  ‘I’m worried already that I won’t have enough space to fit everything in,’ Georgie said happily, ‘which is the best kind of problem to have.’ She raised her glass. ‘Cheers, anyway. To roller discos and all who sparkle there. To us!’

  ‘Cheers!’ They toasted one another. ‘Where do you think you’ll go next week?’ Charlotte asked. ‘People make suggestions, is that right, and then what? Is there a vote, or will your editor just pick somewhere?’

  ‘I reckon she’ll pick,’ Georgie said, fishing the lemon slice from her drink and sucking it. ‘Knowing her, she’ll go with the wildest suggestion of all, so . . .’ She held up crossed fingers and pulled a face. ‘I could be heading off anywhere. To any mad Brightonian thing – and after tonight, I get the feeling that there are some pretty wild ones around. What have I let myself in for?’

  Charlotte smiled. There was something immensely likeable about Georgie, she thought – she was just straightforward and nice and upfront. No side. No corners either. And she was brave, as well, putting herself out there for the public’s entertainment in such a way. Charlotte would never have had the bottle. ‘Maybe I should flood the office with ideas of things that you might actually want to do,’ she suggested now. ‘Like wine-tastings and spa-testings and dinner at fabulous new restaurants . . .’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Georgie, with a laugh. ‘Charlotte, you’re a bloody genius, that’s a great idea.’ She grinned. ‘And I tell you what, you get first dibs on any of the good ones, as my partner in crime. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘We have a deal,’ Charlotte heard herself say.

  Chapter Twelve

  SeaView House Noticeboard:

  POLITE REMINDER

  To All Residents

  PLEASE may I remind you that this is a

  NO SMOKING house. Smoking is strictly forbidden

  AT ALL TIMES in both the flats and the communal areas.

  Angela Morrison-Hulme

  Property Manager

  ‘Did you really not know?’ Rosa’s friends had asked, wideeyed with incredulity, when she told them she and Max had split up, and the reason why. ‘Did you really have no idea?’

  No, she’d had to reply dismally, head down. She’d really had no idea whatsoever. Because she had loved him! She’d trusted him! She’d thought this was it, jackpot, proceed straight to Smug-Coupledom for the rest of her time on earth!

  Sometimes in the middle of the night, she lay awake wondering miserably if it was somehow her fault that things had spiralled so wildly out of control. Had she been so desperate to fall in love that she’d been gullible to the point of being blind; that she’d deliberately ignored the warning signs that everyone else seemed to think she must have missed?

  In hindsight, his flat alone should have been a giveaway; its sleek, minimalist feel more reminiscent of a hotel suite than a homely feet-up pad. ‘Where’s all your stuff?’ she’d laughed once, opening a kitchen drawer and finding it empty. He’d looked disconcerted for a moment and she remembered worrying that she’d hurt his feelings – oh, the irony! ‘Travel light, that’s me,’ he’d said after a second, before changing the subject. Then, of course, she’d remembered that his parents had both been in the Forces and he’d moved around a lot as a child, and so, using her own cack-handed sixth-form psychology, had assumed that this was the explanation for his apparent rootlessness. She’d moved in a short while later, renting out her small terraced house in Walthamstow, her heart full of wanting to create a home for them both; the home he’d never really had. More irony! You had to laugh, really. Laugh or padlock your own chastity belt, anyway.

  Then there had been Catherine’s innocent question about whether or not she could have seen Max on the King’s Road. At the time Rosa had discounted the query without a second thought – of course it hadn’t been Max! His job was based in Amsterdam, so he split the week, half with her in London, half in a small quirky flat just off Prinsengracht in the centre of the city. (She had spent a few days there with him in the past and been charmed by everything from the wide wooden staircase to the gable windows, with their views of canal-boats and stoned cyclists. Stoned cyclists actually toppling into the canal and clambering out dripping wet – that was even more entertaining.) This was why Catherine had to be wrong about seeing Max in London because it was a Wednesday and Rosa knew full well he’d be in his office just off Dam Square, no doubt berating Henrik, the hapless intern, about whose dim-wittedness there was many a story. He couldn’t possibly be in the King’s Road, so that was that.

  Another missed clue came when she suggested going on holiday together, somewhere really luxurious. Rosa had just got her end of year bonus and was feeling extravagant. ‘My treat,’ she told him, thinking palm trees, white sand and sparkling crystal seas. Tan lines and sandy feet and languid sex on a big wide bed. ‘Five-star all the way. Give me your passport and I’ll book us somewhere amazing.’ To her surprise, though, he had come up with excuse after excuse. A conference on the horizon that he had to go to, he wasn’t sure when. A problem with getting time off work. His sudden suggestion of a holiday down in Cornwall instead – or in the Lake District, even. Then it was him wanting to book everything, wanting to treat her. ‘Christ almighty, is your passport photo really that embarrassing that you can’t just let me do it?’ she had joked, and there had been a flash of something – panic? – in his eyes that made her feel confused. ‘I only want to treat you,’ he had said, and then she’d felt like she was making a fuss about nothing, especially when he sorted out the best holiday she’d ever been on, in the Maldives; a week of utter bliss. It didn’t matter so much, who paid and who arranged things, did it? Her friends thought she was mad for even thinking twice about it. (See? she reminded herself afterwards. They hadn’t suspected either, had they?)

  Then there was the gradual realization that, after eight months of being together, she had met hardly any of his friends and none of his family. He’d met everyone in her life, of course, she had paraded him in front of them with almost indecent glee, practically as soon as they’d been on a second date. Look! Look at him! Isn’t he gorgeous? And he’s my boyfriend! Mine! ‘I never stayed anywhere long enough to make friends as a kid,’ he’d said, shrugging. ‘And now all my colleagues are Dutch, so it’s not like I can hang out with them at the weekends, is it?’ No, she’d agreed. It wasn’t. But still, it was odd the way they moved almost exclusively within her social circles, going to dinner and to the pub and weddings with her friends. Almost as if he was ashamed of her in some way. Or even as if he had something to hide. But no! she kept telling herself. He loved her! Wasn’t he always telling her how much?

  Even the post that arrived sporadically for a certain David Chandler was explained away – the former owner of the property, Max said, bundling up the letters to forward on to him. No, Rosa had not suspected a thing.

  At last, in the first week of December, when the whole of London seemed festooned with tinsel and fairy lights, and the dark streets were awash with cheap drunks wearing reindeer antlers, there came the big one. The clue that wasn’t so much a clue as a slap round the face, impossible to ignore. She and Max were having drinks in a bar near Liverpool Street, just around the corner from Rosa’s office – only a quick one, because he was due to fly back to Amsterdam that evening, or so he’d said. The bar was rammed, with Christmas music pounding from the speakers – Girls Aloud in tiny dresses, crooning to Santa on the TV above their heads – and Rosa and Max were squeezed in a corner, a glass of red wine each. It was to be their first Christmas together, and Rosa was already excited, determined to make it the most magical day ever spent. ‘Are we going to do each other stockings?’ she asked, with an almost unbearable thrill of excitement as she imagined waking up beside him on Christmas morning.

  ‘You bet,’ he said. ‘Satsuma and a walnut, that’ll do you, won’t it?’

  She’d punched him, laughing. ‘Just try it and see.’

  �
��Go on, then, I’ll throw in a lump of coal as well, isn’t that what you’re meant to give someone in their stocking?’

  ‘A lump of coal? That’s at New Year, you idiot.’ He was such a wind-up merchant, she thought fondly, pushing her leg against his under the table.

  He leaned forward. ‘Ahh, well, you can have one for Christmas too, seeing as you’re so special. Don’t say I never treat you! Maybe even two pieces of coal if you’re really good . . .’

  They were both laughing when the voice cut through and interrupted. ‘David! Hey, David! Long time no see, mate! How are you doing?’

  Rosa assumed the male, rather plummy voice, was aimed at somebody else, somebody called David, clearly, rather than her boyfriend, but then that strange clenched look of panic had appeared on Max’s face again, just for a second, before his features were wiped clean of expression. ‘Oh God. This tool. I’ll explain in a minute,’ he said, rising smoothly to his feet and taking a few brisk strides out to the man who’d spoken. The man was middle-aged, with floppy blonde hair and a rather nasty pale blue suit that was too tight on the shoulders. ‘Jeremy!’ cried Max, clapping him on the back with such enthusiasm that Rosa feared for the already straining seams. ‘Good to see you. Can I buy you a drink?’

  And then he was steering blonde Jeremy away, one arm around him, but not before Rosa heard the man saying, ‘How are Ann-Marie and the kiddies? Two, is it, you’ve got now?’

  It was like being in a weird dream. A dream where nothing made sense. She thought for a moment her ears were playing tricks on her. Ann-Marie and the kiddies? David? Her heart thudded, her mind skidded wildly around, unable to make sense of what had just happened. Blonde Jeremy must have got the wrong person, she told herself eventually. He must be one of those people who was terrible with names, who went around getting others muddled up, wrongly assigning them random partners and children, that was all. Perhaps he had early-onset Alzheimer’s and Max was just being kind, humouring him. I’ll explain in a minute, he’d assured her, and there he was now, head quickly turning to check on her, giving her a look that said, Don’t worry. There is a perfectly rational explanation to all of this.

  Yeah, thought Rosa, her breath catching in her throat, looking from her gorgeous, wonderful boyfriend to the space where he’d been sitting not thirty seconds earlier, laughing with her about Christmas stockings and lumps of coal. She glanced back over at Max, who appeared to be buying Jeremy a drink, one arm still chummily draped around him – and even that was odd, she thought uneasily. Why hadn’t he introduced them? Why hadn’t he said, Jeremy, mate, this is my girlfriend Rosa, come and join us, it’s about time she met some of my old muckers. That would have been the normal thing to do, wouldn’t it? The normal boyfriend thing to do.

  She remembered the post that arrived for ‘David’ occasionally, the business with the passport. And then she realized that down by her feet was the suitcase Max was taking to Amsterdam, and the small carry-on bag he’d packed, which would contain his passport, there for the checking. She could unzip it in a single second, peer inside, just for her peace of mind, just to banish the questions and the doubts that were starting to circle like buzzards.

  Her mind made up, she bent down, fingers on the zip and tugged . . . just as she heard Max’s voice – ‘God, sorry about that’ – as he returned, and she had to sit up again quickly and pretend she had dropped a tissue on the floor. Mariah Carey was warbling in the background now and a couple of women were screeching along at the next table.

  Rosa couldn’t look at Max as he sat down. In fact, all of a sudden, she had forgotten how to sit naturally in the company of her own boyfriend and her leg started to jiggle as he eased himself along the seat next to her. ‘Old school pal,’ he said with a little laugh in his voice. A fake laugh? Rosa thought suspiciously, her senses on full alert now. ‘His stupid joke, liked to call everyone in the rugby team David. Can’t remember why, one of those lame school things.’

  Her heart still thumping, she watched his mouth moving as he spoke, his eyes smiling into hers, but it was as if something had already shifted, as if a chasm had opened up between where they were now and their happy old carefree life together. Who are you? she thought, panic taking hold of her. Who are you, really? And what about Ann-Marie and these kids I’ve just heard Jeremy mention? Why aren’t you telling me about Ann-Marie and these bloody kids?

  ‘Hurry up over there, Butternut, I don’t have time for slackers on this ship,’ snapped Brendan. His mood was positively glowering on this particular Wednesday morning, his face unshaven and pasty. Does somebody need a hug? thought Rosa sarcastically, battling through the pile of butternut squash she was peeling and chopping for a soup. ‘Do you hear me?’ he growled.

  ‘Yes, chef,’ she replied through gritted teeth, peeling the thick skin of the squash in strips. Butternut, was she today? After almost three months spent slaving for this imbecile? How hard was it to learn the names of the people you worked with, day in, day out? Beside her Natalya was hacking beetroot, hands already purple, while Liam, the trainee pastry chef, had his pimply face bowed in concentration over the delicate spun-sugar lattices he was making as adornments for that day’s desserts. None of them were slackers. All of them deserved a bit of respect. Oh God, she thought wearily, maybe she wasn’t cut out for this job any more. Maybe her mum had been right, that she’d only ping-ponged into the catering world because she was having a mad midlife crisis, and that she should just quit already, hawk her wares around some temp agency and get some sensible office work instead.

  But then again, she only had to think of the salted caramel muffins she’d made the day before (so delicious she was having to ration herself extremely strictly) and the roast chicken, which had completely turned around Bea’s bad mood the other evening, and actually yes, all those millions of dinner parties and mates’ brunches she’d thrown when they’d told her en masse, salivating, that she was definitely their favourite friend ever and an utter goddess and, hey, she really should go in for Masterchef or the Bake-Off, she’d win it, hands down! It was those moments, the flushed pride and the warm hum of satisfaction, that reminded her that cooking was what she enjoyed. Cooking, especially for other people, was what she loved. It was just working with Brendan the oaf which was less appealing.

  ‘No offence but your job sounds kind of shit,’ Bea had said bluntly on Sunday night, as they made short work of their succulent bronzed roast chicken. The conversation had moved on, thankfully, from discussing the failings of Gareth and shit sandwiches, and Rosa had been telling her teenage neighbour about working at the hotel. ‘I mean . . . is that really what you want to do, forever? Peel stuff and get bossed around? Not gonna lie, I would be like, no way. Sorry, but forget it. Don’t you throw no ladles at me.’

  ‘Well, it’s a new thing for me, really, I’m just starting out. I used to work in advertising for a company in London, but—’

  Bea had almost dropped her fork. ‘What, like in Mad Men? Oh my God, and you left, to come here and peel carrots at the frigging Zanzibar?’ Her eyes were uncomprehending, but then her expression flickered into doubt. ‘Oh, wait – unless you got sacked or something . . . Shit. Awkward. Um.’

  ‘I didn’t get sacked. It was a . . . life change,’ Rosa said, deciding not to go down the whole Max story. ‘I wanted to do something different, something I enjoyed. So that was my decision.’

  ‘Riiiight,’ Bea said, clearly unconvinced. And although Rosa seized the chance to start talking about something else, the girl must have been wrestling with the information for a while because later on, tucking into the cinnamon-spiced apple crumble, she brought up the subject again. ‘But, I mean . . . Can’t you just be a chef somewhere instead of, like, a skivvy? Because you’re really bloody good at it.’ She pointed at the steaming, custard-laked crumble in front of her as if citing evidence in court. ‘Like, really, properly good.’

  Rosa had felt quite touched by the praise. She knew Bea well enough by now to know that her tee
nage neighbour was not one to mince her words about anything. ‘Thanks, but it’s not that easy,’ she’d replied. ‘I can’t just walk into a chef’s job when I’ve hardly got any experience. Things are tough, restaurants are closing down all the time and there are people way more qualified than I am.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . . Can’t you just start your own place then?’

  ‘Hmm, maybe, if I had a spare half a million quid.’ And the rest. Rosa had some savings salted away still and the rent coming in from her Walthamstow house, but that was her emergency fund; back-up should things go wrong here. ‘It’s fine, honestly. I’m learning stuff every day, I get to see amazing chefs at work . . .’

  Bea didn’t sound convinced. ‘I bet you’d rather be cooking nice food, though, rather than all that peeling and chopping.’

  Rosa didn’t reply immediately. Truth be told, she had sometimes fantasized about opening her own little restaurant; it was a particularly lovely daydream that she liked to indulge in now and then. Just a tiny restaurant, a bistro really, with ten or so tables and a small, beautifully curated menu; a friendly sort of place where she knew her customers and would come out to share a brandy with them at the end of the evening, basking in the warm glow of their compliments about her food, of course. ‘Well, obviously, but . . .’

  ‘Butternut!’ Brendan yelled just then, interrupting her little reverie and her hand shook on the cleaver. ‘Jesus wept, woman! Are you with us today, or are you away with the fecking fairies? Get on with that godforsaken squash before I come over there and shove it somewhere unpleasant!’ he bawled, spit showering from his mouth.

  Enough dreaming. Rosa snapped guiltily back to attention, the kitchen jerking into focus once more as she mumbled, ‘Yes, chef’ and turned her attention to the squash mountain. Hack, hack, chop, chop. If nothing else, it was doing wonders for her biceps.