by Jane Green
Reece stands and looks at her, not sure what she is talking about, and then he remembers, from last time, that this is what people do when you are sick: they cook for you. But how do you say yes? Last time, when Callie was having chemo, she was still seeing everyone, she was dealing with everything. He never had to field offers of food, and he’d feel oddly helpless and vulnerable if he said yes, even though it might be really nice to have her cook for him.
Honor had been doing the cooking, but now she is tending to spend her days in the hospital with Callie and picking up food from the market to bring in for the kids, because she says she doesn’t have the time.
Reece has been getting home so late, up until today, that he usually grabs a slice of pizza on the way home, or a bowl of soup at the diner next to his office. Often, if Lila has been to the house to watch the kids, she will have brought something delicious, but to have a neighbor he barely knows cook for him? That’s just weird. Nice, but weird.
“That’s so kind of you,” he says. “But my mother-in-law is staying with us, so it’s really not necessary.”
The next morning, when he leaves to take the children to the bus, he finds two aluminum trays, one lasagne, one chicken and spinach, on his doorstep, still warm. No note.
Grateful, he takes them inside, and puts them in the fridge.
Chicken and Spinach
Ingredients
2 packages frozen chopped spinach, defrosted and liquid squeezed out
8 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless
Salt and pepper to taste
1 medium jar mayonnaise
1 medium carton Greek yogurt
1 small carton half-and-half cream
1 tablespoon curry powder
¾ cup bread crumbs
Method
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Cover the base of a large rectangular dish with the spinach. Place the chicken breasts on top of the spinach and add the salt and pepper.
Mix together the mayonnaise, yogurt and half-and-half; add more or less curry, according to taste. Spread the mixture liberally on top of the chicken breasts and spinach until all is covered.
Sprinkle the top with bread crumbs and cook for 45 minutes.
Chapter Twenty-one
Mason thought he had seen enough British films, read enough books by British authors, knew enough about the culture to know what to expect, but he is finding it is almost entirely different from his expectations.
Not that he expected all Londoners to be charming chimney sweeps with bad cockney accents à la Dick Van Dyke, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite the melting pot it is, nor had he expected people to be quite so brusque—good Lord, there were times when he felt as though he were still in New York.
There are things he is finding he loves. He is fascinated by the design, the architecture, the sophistication. He walks the streets, just as he does in New York, but in London he looks up every few feet, amazed at the sheer brilliance of the architecture.
And the food! What an unexpected pleasure to find that the food in London equals, and often, in fact, surpasses that in New York. He wanders around the markets, delighting at the fresh produce; it is far smaller than anything he is used to seeing in New York, but the taste! The flavor! Never has he enjoyed biting into a juicy tomato as he has here.
He delights in the black cabs, quizzing chatty cab drivers as they weave through the streets in a way that made his heart almost stop the first week, but which he now trusts.
He had always thought that New York was the most vibrant city in the world, and perhaps it is the energy of London that has so surprised him.
It is palpable on the streets, and in his business. The marketing departments are run by bright young things who love what they do; the editors are exciting and excited; the publishing house feels more alive than anything he is used to.
And yet he wakes up every morning, conflicted.
This morning he woke up at six, showered—and yes, it is entirely true what they say about English showers being hopeless—and dressed, then crept past Olivia’s bedroom—her door was closed, meaning she was asleep, and doubtless would be for the next three or four hours—and past the vast arch into the living room toward the kitchen.
Sienna and Gray were both sitting on the sofa, mesmerized by a television show, not seeing Mason, nor hearing when he tried to say good morning.
He was about to ask if anyone wanted pancakes when a door opened and quick, heavy footsteps came down the corridor.
“Oh! Mr. Gregory!” Nanny Bea stopped, startled. “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize the children were watching television. Come along, children, you know the rules. No television in the mornings. I do apologize,” she said, turning to him. “It won’t happen again.”
Mason laughed, awkwardly. “Don’t worry about it, Nanny Bea. And please, you can’t call me Mr. Gregory. It makes me feel so old. It’s Mason. Please.” He’d quite like to call her Bea, or her full name, Beatrice, because it feels so silly, always prefacing her name with “Nanny,” but she made it clear from the outset that she should always be called Nanny Bea by the children, and by the adults.
“Of course, Mr. Gregory. I mean . . . Mason.” And a slight blush rose on her cheeks.
“Don’t worry so much,” Mason said gently. “It’s fine if the children watch some TV. God knows, they watch it all the time at home.”
“But Mrs. Gregory made it quite clear.”
“Mrs. Gregory makes a lot of things quite clear,” Mason said with a sigh. “But if you won’t tell, I won’t tell.”
For a moment, fear left the nanny’s eyes. “Really?”
“Really, and it’s not like she’s going to know. She doesn’t emerge from her crypt until at least nine, right?”
Nanny Bea’s eyes widened in shock and she tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. “You’re a very good father,” she said. “Relaxed. It’s good for the children.”
“Thank you, Nanny Bea, and you’d feel even better if you relaxed a bit more around Olivia, I mean Mrs. Gregory. I know, I know—it’s hard. I’ll talk to her. How’s that?”
“Please don’t tell her I said anything . . .”
“Absolutely not. She just seems to have these ridiculous expectations since we moved here. I won’t get you in trouble. Promise. Now, how about coming into the kitchen with me and I’ll teach you how to make proper American pancakes?”
“Would you?” Nanny Bea’s face lit up. “Count me in.”
Mason thought about it all morning, how Olivia seemed to be taking more and more of a backseat with the children—if, my God, that was even possible—since they moved to London, but at the same time had become frighteningly controlling.
She finally had what she had been waiting for all these years: a proper English nanny. She had grown up with one, as she never tired of telling anyone, and when the children were still babies she had attempted to bring one over, but they had never worked out.
Now, with Nanny Bea, she had a uniformed, vocational English nanny, and seemed to think that her job as a mother was to instruct Nanny Bea on how to do all the things that Nanny Bea had clearly been doing for years, and to micro-manage her children’s lives, even though she didn’t seem to be around to witness the results.
All of a sudden, Olivia insisted the children should watch only twenty minutes of television a day, and only once they had been bathed. They were not allowed white flour, refined sugar or anything processed. However, this did not include the hot dogs that entirely filled the freezer as a safe fallback for when the children failed to eat their gourmet dinner, which Olivia now called “high tea,” as they almost always did.
They were to spend at least half an hour a day practicing their reading, and Nanny Bea was to take them out to the park, or a museum, for at least one hour a day.
The Xbox and Wii and PlayStations—all the tools that Olivia had relied upon as alternative babysitters until the actual babysitters showed up—were banished now t
hat she had a full-time live-in nanny, and they were only allowed to use the computer if it was for educational purposes.
Sienna and Gray had always been relatively ignored by Olivia, and this new obsession with what they were doing all the time seemed out of character. And where was she, anyway?
She seemed to have found a crowd of girls almost immediately. A handful of wealthy ex-pats from New York and some of the London society girls. They were lunching every day and, as she was jumping on committees for various charities, she had picked up exactly where she left off, but now there was theater as well.
She was never home, and Mason’s presence at her side seemed to be required even less than it had been in New York.
He was using the opportunity to get to know London. After he sat with the children during their evening meal, then read them a story, he waited until they were asleep and then he went out, leaving Nanny Bea in charge.
He would take the tube to different neighborhoods and wander around, getting a feel for the place. When he found a restaurant he liked the look of, he would have dinner by himself, with a couple of glasses of wine, and listen to the conversations at the surrounding tables. The insight he was getting into the human condition was fascinating and he wondered why he had never thought of doing this before.
The only place he had ever been truly comfortable eating alone before now was Joni’s. Ah, Joni’s. How he missed it. For however fascinating the neighborhoods here were, however much he was enjoying being an innocent abroad, he missed the feeling of walking in somewhere and feeling at home.
He missed catching sight of Steffi, who, he was somewhat startled to realize, he considered a friend long before there was talk of her living in his house; he missed seeing her long hair scraped back off her face as she dashed around the kitchen making sure everything was fine.
He missed the way she would look through the hatch to check on the tables and see him there, in the corner, a delighted smile flashing onto her face as she waved to him. And he missed how she always came and sat with him at the end of a busy lunchtime, when the restaurant was almost empty, and teased him, made him smile, made him forget about the weight that was his life, if only for a while.
He could do with a friend here, he realized. A big city can be a very lonely place for a man on his own, which was how he felt much of the time.
Which was why he walked the neighborhoods—walking meant he didn’t have to think about being lonely, he could, instead, soak up the atmosphere, learn things, make notes about the areas he loved. He fell in love with Bayswater, with Queensway, and how everything stayed open so late. He had the best chicken he had ever tasted in a tiny Moroccan restaurant off the beaten track, and sat drinking Turkish coffee, feeling as if he were in Beirut, long into the night.
He adored Westbourne Grove for its chic boutiques and great cafés. He had cappuccino and a croissant at Tom’s Deli early one morning, before a meeting, and delighted in the people watching.
He poked around Pimlico, and wished they were living in Barnes.
The only place he didn’t love, the only place he felt no desire whatsoever to explore, was Belgravia. His doorstep. The vast stucco sweeps of houses with imposing front doors flanked by perfectly groomed topiary plants. The streams of maids and housekeepers going in and out through the basement. American accents everywhere he turned, for it seemed to be most popular among his countrymen, sent over here for work.
He didn’t love it, didn’t desire to know more, because it felt soulless. It didn’t occur to him that it wasn’t the neighborhood that was soulless, it was his marriage.
Mason sends his assistant out and closes the office door. Eleven-fifteen. Surely Olivia will be awake now? She will have had her morning delivery of Starbucks, will be ready to talk.
He dials home, listens to the answering machine pick up and puts the phone down, swiftly dialing her mobile, imagining her digging in her bag, then her face falling when she sees it is him.
Sure enough, she answers brusquely. “Hello?”
“Hi. It’s me. How’s your day?”
“It’s good.” She softens slightly. “I’m getting ready for a lunch. Scott’s in Mayfair. It should be fun.”
“Excellent food,” Mason says. “You’ll like it.”
“You’ve been?” She sounds irritated.
“For business lunches,” he assures her. “Don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything.”
There is a pause. “I’m kind of busy,” Olivia says eventually. “Was there something you needed?”
“I just wanted to know how you thought Nanny Bea was doing.”
“I think she’s great.” Olivia is on her guard. “Why? Is there something I should know?”
“God, no! I think she’s wonderful and the kids adore her. It’s . . . well . . . I notice that she seems to be a little intimidated by all the rules and, frankly, by you. I thought it would be easier if she were a little more relaxed, but, obviously, that’s hard with all the rules she has to enforce.”
Another pause. “Has she said something to you?”
“No!” Insistent. “Absolutely not. It’s something I’ve become aware of, and I thought I should say something. You know, the kids managed perfectly well without all these rules. I think life would be more fun for everyone if things were a bit less structured.”
“We’ve had this discussion before,” Olivia snaps. “You and I have very different ways of parenting. I think Nanny Bea is doing a fine job, and to say she’s, what, frightened of me? Well that’s just ridiculous.”
“You know what?” Mason feels his temper rising. “It’s not ridiculous. You bark orders at her like she’s the staff.”
“Which she is,” Olivia interjects.
“No. She’s not. I mean, technically, perhaps, because we employ her, but she isn’t ‘staff,’ ” Olivia. We aren’t living in a bygone age. She’s part of our family and we should treat her as such.”
“How you can even think you know the first thing about how to treat staff is beyond me.” Olivia’s voice is icy cold. “Given you grew up on some fifties ranch with nothing, I find it extraordinary that you would even have this conversation. You have no idea.”
“Maybe not, Olivia. But here’s what I do know. These children are growing up with a mother who’s too selfish, and too self-absorbed, and too intent on social climbing even to have a conversation with them. You don’t care about them, you barely see them, you hand them off to whoever’s willing to take them, with thousands of pointless instructions that you think makes you look like a good mother.”
“Oh my God!” Olivia shrieks. “And you think slapping some pancakes on a grill in the morning makes you a good father? Are you kidding me? How dare you!”
Mason’s shoulders collapse. He cannot believe he just said what he said. He cannot believe he had the courage, and it is terrifying, because once the words are out there, words that perhaps should never have been said, how can they be taken back? Where is there to go?
“I’m sorry,” he says, not knowing what else to say. “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry.”
There is a long silence.
“I’ll be home tonight,” Olivia says quietly. “We need to talk properly. There’s . . . we need to talk.”
Moroccan Chicken with Tomatoes and Saffron Honey Jam
Ingredients
Salt and pepper to taste
8 pieces chicken, cut up
Olive oil
1 large onion, roughly chopped
3 crushed garlic cloves
2½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
1½ teaspoons ground ginger
1 ¾ pounds diced tomatoes (I use canned)
1 cup chicken stock
½ teaspoon saffron threads
5 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon orange flower water (I order mine online, but you can
substitute orange juice)
Handful toasted flaked almonds
Small bunch cilantro, roughly chopped
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Method
Salt and pepper the chicken pieces and quickly brown them in the oil in a casserole dish. Remove and cook the onion in the same pan until soft and just coloring. Add the garlic, cinnamon and ginger, and stir for about 1 minute. Pour in the tomatoes, mix together well, turn the heat down and cook for another 5 minutes or so, stirring from time to time.
Boil the stock and dissolve the saffron in it. Pour over the onions and spices and bring to a boil. Set the chicken pieces on top, together with any juices from the chicken, and spoon the liquid over them. Turn down to a gentle simmer, cover and cook until the chicken is tender—around 30 minutes.
Remove the chicken pieces, set aside, cover and keep warm. Bring the juices to a boil and simmer until well reduced—there should be nothing sloppy about it. Add the honey and continue to cook until it is well reduced and jamlike. Add the orange flower water. Put the chicken pieces back and warm through in the sauce.
Serve scattered with the almonds and cilantro, with couscous or flatbread on the side.
Chapter Twenty-two
Steffi cups her hands around her Lemon Zinger tea and digs her feet deeper into her Uggs as the chickens peck around her, then reaches next to her for the cookbooks stacked on the bench.
This morning she is going to meet Amy Van Peterson, and she needs to impress. They had a great phone conversation yesterday, although Amy could hardly be heard with children shouting in the background, but she managed to convey that they liked simple, fresh food, and she was desperate to wean her children off the chicken nuggets and pizza they had been force-fed at their previous school before they moved here.
Steffi sat at the kitchen table last night preparing some sample menus. She wanted it to be delicious, without being too complicated. Good, fresh food. Guacamole, hummus and cut-up vegetables that the children could eat when they got home from school. Soy lime chicken, turkey and lemon meatballs, with whole-wheat pasta and brown rice.