He wasn't in a terribly good mood anyway, because Georgia, home for the weekend, had been nagging him all morning to take her shopping. Why she wanted to do this when she had been in Milan, Paris and then London over the last few weeks was completely beyond him.
The only shopping he was prepared to do was in cook shops, but he had no spare cash.
'I'm really far too busy,' he said, which was a complete lie, because they had hardly any lunchtime bookings at all, everyone having deserted him (only temporarily, please, God) for the Café Anglais.
He had the sort of headache that would inevitably turn into a migraine if it found itself in Harvey Nicks in Leeds, which was where she wanted to go. Plus, he was desperate to spend some training time with Sally and some choux pastry, which she was trying to fill with a rum and chocolate cream but which didn't seem to want to stay there.
Not for the first time, he said: 'How I wish you would learn to drive.'
She glared at him. 'Have you forgotten, my last instructor said some people were just too sensitive to cope with cars?'
'Yeah, but your problem is that you are too stupid,' said Kate, but very quietly, her head in a box of vegetables.
'You can get there by bus. You take the number twenty-four to Windermere, oh, except there isn't another one until after lunch. No, take the six up to Carlisle – they go every ten minutes past the hour. Then if you knew your way round Carlisle you'd be able to get a train, except I'm not precisely sure if there is one that goes direct, so you would have to change. Really you would be better to –'
'Is this person serious?' said Georgia.
'What would Georgia be better doing, Kirsty?' asked Jake gently.
'Going to Manchester instead.'
'Thank you for your help. Godfrey?'
'Sorry, Boss, but I had to drive the tractor to work this morning.'
'No, that wouldn't do,' said Jake gravely, trying not to laugh at the picture this induced.
'Well, why can't she take me?'
Kate emerged from the vegetable box, furious. Who the hell was she calling 'she'?
'It's true that I won't need two waitresses for the miserably small amount of meals we will probably do today.'
'So, are you saying you will actually pay me to go shopping?' said Kate.
'Ah, but you've never had the shopping experience with Georgia, have you? You'll need stout shoes, oxygen tanks and a bar of Kendal Mint Cake to stand a chance of returning in one piece.'
'Jake, I am not laughing,' reminded Georgia, in a voice that would have frozen hot tamales.
Georgia's perfect brow furrowed when she saw Kate's car and she would only get in after Jake had lined the passenger seat with kitchen towel. 'I know you think I'm being fussy but this coat was rather expensive.'
Kate grinned. 'It probably cost more than the car did,' she agreed, without rancour. She didn't think there was any need to add that in her line of work, something shabby but fast was essential. She had had to leave places in a bit of a hurry sometimes. Also, being tatty, it didn't matter if it got pelted with things, as it had been once when she was doing a story about a councillor who was bonking his daughter's under-age school friends.
As they sped off towards the motorway, Kate giving absolutely no quarter to tourists who wanted to amble along in the middle of the road at twenty miles an hour, she shamelessly asked questions about Georgia's life as a model.
'My parents would have had a fit if I'd said I wanted to take up modelling as a career. Not that they would have had me,' she laughed.
'No,' agreed Georgia. 'Luckily, of course, I have the looks and Mummy was behind me all the way.'
'It's a tough job, though,' said Kate, thinking of young girls, predatory men and drugs.
'It is. People are so bitchy, which is so unfair. I mean it's not my fault I look the way I do. Mummy had to take me to a counsellor after one of the girls told me I was a pound overweight.'
'How shocking!'
'So, what size are you? You're a size twelve, aren't you?'
She said this accusingly, as if she was expecting Kate to lie.
'Yeah, pretty much, most of the time.'
'Doesn't it bother you?'
'Not as much as it should, apparently,' said Kate drily. 'Really, I don't think about it much, as long as I can fit into my clothes.'
'Of course, some of the girls I know are completely obsessive about their weight. Luckily I've never been like that. I only have to weigh myself twice a day.'
God, I'd hate to see what you're like with an obsession! 'Anyway, I had to throw my scales away.'
'Why?'
'Well, my friend and I got drunk one night and we were trying to cook rice, only I'd misplaced the kitchen scales, so Lydia got the other ones from the bathroom and for some reason we decided it would be a good idea to stand on them together, but I think I must have jumped on them too hard and . . . anyway, they broke,' she finished lamely. It was quite hard trying to tell a silly story to someone whose face was about as expressive as a security fence. 'Anyway, I refuse to starve myself just to conform to standards set by anorexic American actresses,' she finished firmly.
'Yes, but what other sort of standards are there?'
'Well, it must be hard watching what you eat when you live with such a fabulous chef.'
'Is he? I can't stand the stuff he cooks, myself, and anyway I hardly ever think about food.' She went on to explain how thoughtless Jake was, always wanting to watch cookery programmes on television.
'I could really identify with poor Princess Diana. There are three of us in our relationship, except that one of them isn't even a person – it's that awful job of his. He just doesn't understand how stressful my work is, and do you know' – she lowered her voice as if imparting some deep secret – 'I am a very sensitive person. Mummy always says I need a lot of attention.'
'Oh, how awful for you,' said Kate, well aware that sarcasm was a signal way out of Georgia's orbit.
'Yes, Mummy says I've got less layers of skin than ordinary people. It's really hurtful that Jake is being so selfish at the moment.'
'Well, he's certainly work-obsessed and ambitious.'
'But I wish he was. I mean, who is going to notice him up here in the middle of nowhere? And of course he's lucky that he's so insensitive to his surroundings, not like me; all these horrible fields and puddles really fray my nerves.' She gazed blankly out at a scene so lovely that John Ruskin had described it in awe as the gateway to paradise.
Georgia went on to explain at length her extraordinary sensitivity. 'If I have to spend much longer in that awful flat of Jake's, I may get my depression back. It's really unlucky, but I am one of those people who needs to be surrounded with beautiful things before they can be happy. My doctor, Win Ko Lon – oh, you must have heard of him – he was extensively featured in the style section of the Mail on Sunday recently – anyway, he says I have a very fragile psyche. It is very rare, apparently. He's only ever treated one other person with a psyche more fragile than mine. He says that it is simply not strong enough,' her voice lowered, 'to deal with Jake's weirdness.'
Kate's mind whirled. Cross-dressing? Occult rituals? Surely not?
'He gave me such a fright the other night, thrashing about in this bizarre nightmare. He said it was about a food critic who was laying into him because there was salt in the butter! I mean, he knows I am the sort of person who shouldn't have to hear weird things like that. I simply daren't tell Mummy – she will be so worried about me.'
It was on the tip of Kate's tongue to offer to drive this pathetic creature to Mummy's right now but they were already in Leeds, and she was desperate to get out of the car.
Georgia zoned in on Harvey Nicks like a heat-seeking missile. Inside, she sighed, like a pilgrim who has reached Mecca. Her shopping creed was simple: go straight to credit card – do not stop at price.
Kate waited until she had gone. Then she got out her phone.
'Lydia, hi, are you busy?'
'W
eeell . . . that depends, doesn't it, on your definition of busy.'
'OK . . . are you actually engaged in an activity that qualifies you for a wage?'
'Don't be silly, of course not. It's lunchtime, but I've only just got back from having my nails done and I really must get through Heat magazine before the boss gets back. Why?'
''Cos I've completely screwed up. Somehow I have ended up on the shopping trip from Hell with an insane woman who eats half a Rice Krispie for breakfast. If she's treating herself.'
She held the phone away from her ear so Lydia could get the laughing over with. Kate's idea of a good shopping trip was a tour of all the bookshops, followed by lunch.
'So where are you now?' said Lydia eventually.
'Outside Harvey Nicks.'
'I am surprised you've even heard of it.'
'Ha ha.'
'Well, you did your entire season's shopping at Primark last year, didn't you?'
'And your point is? I think I looked rather good!'
'You did, but probably only you could carry it off.'
'That's because I've got chutzpah,' said Kate smugly.
'Pardon? Who told you that?'
'My new friend.'
'Hmm. At a guess – male, bit keen on cooking?'
'Yes, and, sadly, also the boyfriend of the shopaholic bimbo. Why do clever men end up with stupid women?'
'Because even if they are clever, they are still simple. They are completely incapable of thinking round corners.'
'Lydia, I'm not going to be able to prise brain-dead Barbie away from this place for hours. I may go mad with boredom and stab her with a coat hanger.'
'OK, I can hear the desperation in your voice. Your mission – and you've bloody got to accept it, so stop bleating – your mission is to learn and use the following codes. This season's colour – blue; this season's length – so short we are practically talking porn; this season's style – straight. So last season – frills, purple, swish. Anything that swishes is so out, you'd need a telescope to find it. Key words – angular, mannish – think Marlene Dietrich – think Marlene Dietrich strangling Doris Day with a black silk tie, but it must be black. Not blue.'
'What a load of –'
'Hush your mouth! How dare you think of uttering profanities near the holy temple of the great religion that is fashion retail?'
'OK. I'll give it a go, I suppose.'
'Well, for goodness' sake! It cannot be any worse than pretending to be a waitress!'
'Actually, I am rather enjoying it. Jake says –'
'Funny how he keeps cropping up in your conversation. Listen, missy, no passing the time with fantasies about you and your new best friend cavorting in the kitchen department!'
'Now, why would I do that?'
'That is up to you to figure out. Gotta go, sweetie – bye!' Because she was currently getting two wages, one from the paper and one from Jake, Kate could indulge in some retail therapy of her own. If she could only get the hang of it. How on earth could anyone get so excited about the choice of a skirt with embroidery on the pocket or embroidery on the hem?
'Get a grip, woman – embroidery is so last year,' she muttered, and went to find Georgia. If anyone could give a master class in shopping, it would be her.
It was amazing how, for such a very thin woman, Georgia could take up so much space. She had already commandeered two of the changing rooms and three of the assistants.
Thank God for their sakes that they had recognised her, thought Kate.
'Even darling David knows that my aura is allergic to green and he's absolutely promised he won't ever make me wear it,' she was saying to one of them, who nodded, rapt. They were all drinking in every word while the goddess was with them.
'Purple, no – blue is so now, isn't it?' offered Kate, hoping she had got it right. They all stopped what they were doing to stare at her, so she stroked her jeans, rather self-consciously.
'Baggy,' said one of them in awe, and Kate was about to protest when she realised that this was a compliment. They were actually Jonathan's jeans, comfortable, but yes, so baggy she had only put them on because she thought she was on kitchen cleaning duty that day.
'They are going to be so big next season,' said one of the girls.
'Yeah, I can already fit both hands down them – oh, I see what you mean.'
'Of course that look is great for women who can't really do the skinny fit,' sniffed Georgia, who so could.
She carried on trying on clothes with the ease of someone who was used to walking around naked in front of other people. In a detached way, putting aside her dislike of Georgia, Kate could admire the way her angular, bony body made the dresses hang so beautifully, because the material wasn't impeded by any bumps at all. I could use this opportunity to pump her for information about what it is like to be an icon for thousands of anorexic teenagers, she thought.
But really, the woman was so bloody annoying! After two hours of Georgia dressing up, Kate's vision had become blurred. There was so much stuff about, it looked a bit like when Angel had gone mad with the poster paints.
'Please, I am starving. Can't we have a coffee break?
'Honestly,' Kate said, dragging an unwilling Georgia up to the restaurant, 'you must have tried on dozens of dresses. When are you going to buy any?'
'Never. Well, not today, here. I get loads of stuff free from the designers. I just like trying things on. I don't know why you've brought me here,' she grumbled, looking round. 'I never eat during the day.'
Kate ordered a large latte and a scone with jam and cream, and watched in horrified fascination as Georgia, after an agony of indecision, ordered tea. Carefully, almost to the drop, she measured out half a teaspoon of skimmed milk and added it reverently.
'How can you stand to live your life like that?' Kate burst out.
'Like what?'
'Tinkering around with food in that obsessive way.'
'Huh! Well, Jake is just as bad!'
'Yes, but . . . that's because he wants to make it taste perfect.'
'Well, I have to keep my body looking perfect.'
'Oh, fair enough, I suppose.'
'You have no idea,' continued Georgia, sipping tea delicately. 'I am under almost unbearable pressure to look good all the time. Obviously I wish I was ordinary, like the rest of you, but I'm not. I never know when someone will try to take a photo of me, so I always have to be prepared. People even hang around airports at five in the morning, hoping to catch you out looking scruffy.'
Oh dear. As a trainee Kate had been sent off to Heathrow with a photographer to do just that. She remembered it now as endless hours hanging around in ugly departure lounges drinking vile coffee, being told off by the staff for smoking, followed by mad sprints down corridors when a plane landed. If it was someone really famous, then there was a mad scrum of hacks all behaving badly, kicking each other in the shins and poking their mikes up your nose just when you were about to ask a question.
It was very off-putting to eat in front of someone who so obviously didn't and she was glad when they split up for a while so she could browse round a bookshop. She bought two books of journalists' memoirs, which she made the assistant double wrap, as if they were bottles of meths, so paranoid was she about being outed as a reporter, and spent the journey home nodding absently every so often at Georgia, while looking forward to starting one of the books with a bubble bath and a bottle of wine.
Jake eyed Georgia's modest collection of bags with some relief when they got back. 'You've been very abstemious,' he teased. He had had a very pleasant afternoon and was trying not to dwell on the fact that this was because he hadn't spent it with Georgia.
'What does that mean? Is it a real word or is it one of those foreign ones you are always using? This is all we could get in the car. The rest is being delivered. I found this fabulous furniture shop. It's time the flat was smartened up.'
Jake went paler than the rarest truffle. 'How much did you spend, exactly?'
; 'Not a lot, considering I got a new settee, a coffee table and a darling hand-woven rug from India – or was it China? Anyway, you should be pleased. Your flat is a tip and I am sure that sofa has got fleas. Look, I bought you two lovely silk ties.'
He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a tie. At school probably. He couldn't think when he would ever need to wear one, let alone two. For the love of God, why had she bought a new sofa? He never had time to sit on one anyway.
He was tired and he could feel his temper rising, but he tried to hold on to it. 'I simply haven't got spare cash for things like that,' he began, but she interrupted.
'But you said you were doing really well!'
He took a deep breath. How could Georgia, who once got paid £20,000 for an afternoon's work, understand that in his world, doing well meant being able simply to pay the bills?
'You think that because a couple of punters pay a hundred quid for a meal, it all goes into my pocket, don't you? No – don't interrupt – I'll tell you where it goes.
'Firstly I have to pay the mortgage. And the rates. And gas and electricity, because we can't cook by candlelight. I can't run a restaurant without staff and they all need to be paid. If I want to cook food and serve wine, I have to buy it first. This isn't a charity shop, you know – it doesn't get donated.'
'I know that. I'm not stupid!'
'Do you know something, Georgy, if I'm really really lucky, that hundred pounds, and all the others I sweat blood to earn, might just cover all those bills, and if that means I have to sit on a lumpy sofa for ten minutes a week – if means I don't have a fucking sofa to sit on at all – I don't care!
'Maybe I could use these ties to truss the chicken tomorrow night! Or maybe I could give them to my bank manager instead of repaying the loan. Do you think he'll be happy with that?' He was furious now and he couldn't stop. He had only just been keeping a lid on his fear of not being able to pay the bills, before Georgia had sucked more money from their now threadbare joint account.
'I know you can pay for your half of all this stuff, but I've only got enough spare cash for one of the sofa cushions. It isn't going to work, is it?'
Recipe for Disaster Page 14