by Jo Kessel
Anthony was surprised. It was one of San Diego’s premier attractions and he had it on the itinerary for later in their stay.
“Mummy filmed there, but we never went.”
Anthony was delighted. Not that Claire had filmed there. That actually unsettled him. Maybe her career was going better than he’d given her credit for. But Legoland was perfect and Jasper would be too young to enjoy it anyway, so at least Ali wouldn’t feel she was missing out. Plus Ali had an aversion to theme parks. Ah-ha, suddenly another idea popped into his head. Whilst the word Disney made him feel slightly queasy, with all its stomach-churning rides and plastic saccharine sparkle, it might just be the answer to his prayers.
On the television screen, a hippy Californian lady was busy constructing her own homemade organic pork sausages, mincing the meat and piping it into casings. Miriam stared at the screen transfixed. Anthony was thinking why bother, it would be much easier to buy them from the butchers.
“Would you like to go to Disneyland?” he asked.
In a flash her attention shifted from the sausages to him, proof of the power of Disney.
“Really?” she asked, her eyes popping out of her head.
Anthony hadn’t cleared it with Ali, but why didn’t he and Miriam go to Los Angeles for a few days? Disneyland was easily reachable from there and it would offer a change of scenery. Plus, at least that was somewhere she hadn’t yet been.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“You bet,” she said. “That would be awesome.”
There was an American twang to the way Miriam now spoke. She was definitely emulating Martha and a stop needed to be put to it.
Miriam flung her arms around Anthony’s neck. It was the nicest she’d been to him since he’d fetched her.
“Thank you so much Daddy,” she said.
“It’s a pleasure darling.”
He grimaced over her shoulder as they hugged. Now all he needed was for Ali to agree that she and Jasper should be left behind. Much as Anthony would prefer not to go there himself, it would definitely be worth it. Because crucially, this Disney trip would definitely, unequivocally and cunningly be coinciding with Martha’s party.
--------------
Sleep deprived as a result of Jasper’s unsettled nights, Ali didn’t fancy cooking dinner so Anthony ordered takeaway pizzas: pineapple and ham for himself, margherita for Ali and pepperoni for Miriam. Anthony raised an eyebrow at the pepperoni. “Are you sure?” he checked. When it came to pizza she always played it safe with cheese and tomato. “Martha always has pepperoni,” she explained. A muted ‘huh’ left Anthony’s throat. Of course it had something to do with Martha.
Nonetheless, the pizzas went down well and even though Anthony doubted that she would, Miriam did eat the pepperoni. As her father, he knew he should be delighted not only that she was broadening her culinary horizons, but that she was making new friends and seemed happy. If only it were that simple. He wanted her all to himself and was jealous. A bigger man might have been able to handle this complicated scenario better and risen above the green-eyed monster. Nobody taught you how to deal with creating new, blended families. It was hit and miss, trial and error, and a torturous journey of making it up as you went along. So far, the merger of everyone’s twisted lives felt like a complicated, knotted ball of wool. Untie one knot, but then you find another. The ball of wool wouldn’t and couldn’t ever return to its former shape, tug, pull and try as he might. Not that he would ever admit it to her but Claire had handled everything much better than he had.
Their rented apartment wasn’t huge, but it was comfortable, especially the lounge with its plush suede sofa suite and its showpiece, wall-mounted flat screen TV. Chilling in front of the television chewing pizza was a nice way to round off the day. Perhaps that’s what they’d all needed. An easy-going twenty-four hours to recharge and regroup. Jasper had thankfully fallen asleep early, leaving just the three of them to enjoy some peaceful grown-up conversation. Ali was having a nice chat with Miriam, asking about her stay in San Diego. Miriam was responding and opening up. It felt like the two of them were bonding and Anthony was grateful to just sit back and flick between sports channels as they spoke, with one ear on their dialogue. He yawned and checked his watch. It was 8.55pm and they were going to LegoLand tomorrow.
“Princess,” he interrupted their discussion about some funky clothes boutique in Coronado. “I think it’s time for bed. We’ve got a big day ahead.”
“Oh my God,” she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I nearly forgot. What time is it?”
“Five to nine,” said Anthony, laying down the remote control next to him on the sofa.
Miriam picked it back up and starting flicking through the channels until she reached ABC.
“Mummy said she might be on at 9 pm. There’s this pilot for a new family-friendly food programme and she’s in it.”
For once Anthony resisted the temptation to guffaw and say “unlikely”, even though he thought it was just that. Why on earth would Claire be on American TV, prime time, Saturday night? Miriam had surely got it wrong but he didn’t dare risk the wrath of his daughter, not when everything appeared to be slowly getting back on track. Miriam kept looking at the face on Anthony’s watch. 8.57….8.58….9.00….9.03…..No, it definitely wasn’t going to happen, he was certain of it.
“Come on princess,” he stood up, “perhaps you got the day muddled.”
He offered his hand, trying to pull her up to standing, but she wriggled away from his grip and refused to budge, eyes glued to the screen. Then, sure enough, an announcer introduced a new show called Taste of the Place. The opening titles started running, a montage of fast-cut images which interlaced visuals of different dishes from around the globe with animated shots of both Claire and a preppy-looking all-American male TV Presenter examining food and tucking in.
“Look,” Miriam started jumping up and down, finally on her feet, pointing at the television. “Did you see Mummy?”
Anthony did see Mummy and he was so not expecting it that his eyes nearly pinged out of their sockets. Bloody hell, what was Claire doing on American TV? It was implausible, impossible and inconceivable. Had Jonah Kennedy pulled some strings? The Presenter was called Chad Black. His name flashed up on screen as he started introducing the show, which had a studio audience and a set designed like a kitchen, with two separate work stations. The concept of the programme was to put American food under the microscope by comparing it to international cuisine. He introduced Claire. The name Claire Jackson, with the word Nutritionist written underneath it came up on screen. It was strange for Anthony to see her using her maiden name. For most of his life he’d known her as Claire de Klerk. She smiled, she was calm, she was confident. Goddamn it, she was bloody radiant.
Claire: Thanks Chad. Right, today we’re going to look at hot breakfasts and we’re going to pitch the American breakfast against the good old traditional British version and see which one is healthier. Do you have an opinion which one you think is better nutritionally, Chad?
Chad: I think I might do, but it’s not for me to say. It’s for viewers at home to decide and of course our studio audience. Studio audience, do you have your buzzers at the ready?
Studio Audience: Yes.
The camera panned from a group of obese women towards a couple of stick-thin twenty-something girls. All of them were smiling broadly and had clearly been well ‘warmed-up’ prior to filming.
Chad: Behind me is our health ‘o’ metre. Audience I want you to press your buzzers now, before we get cooking, to tell us which country you think makes the healthier cooked breakfast. Is it the US or the UK? You may vote now.
A clock ticked for ten seconds whilst the camera focused on the health ‘o’ metre graph’s two bars, one labelled US, the other UK. The green line on the bars eventually settled at a 70% to 30% vote in favour of America.
Chad: Ok, that’s the audience’s first impression but, now, to help them properly make up their minds
we’re going to see how the dishes are prepared and to do that we’ve got two very special chefs. For the US team please welcome Mr. Benny from Benny’s Diner.
Studio audience: Big cheer and enthusiastic clapping as Mr. Benny enters stage left.
Claire: And for the UK team please welcome none other than Mr. Gordon Ramsey.
Gordon entered stage right. The audience didn’t cheer for him, they positively roared. Gordon gave Claire a kiss on each cheek as he greeted her and took his place behind his cooking station. Miriam fell onto her knees and crawled right up close to the screen, just so she didn’t miss anything. “Wow, I can’t believe Mummy’s with Gordon Ramsey,” she said. Anthony’s view was now partially blocked but perhaps that was just as well. The range of emotions coursing through his veins was making him feel more multiple schizoid than bipolar. He was jealous. He was angry. He was scared. He was impressed. He was belittled. He was even a little in love. He was bloody, fucking confused. For the next half hour they watched Mr. Benny cook pancakes, apple sauce, syrup, waffles, cream, a couple of sausages and a couple of eggs, sunny side up. Claire and Chad asked him questions as he cooked and after he finished loading up a large oval plate with the goodies, scattering a few token blueberries on top, Claire looked into the camera, holding out her hands, smiled and said voila! Gordon Ramsay was up next. He prepared a feast of scrambled eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, bacon, sausages and black pudding. It all looked so good, it was making Anthony hungry.
“For those who don’t know, what is black pudding?” Claire asked Gordon.
“It’s a sausage which contains pork, dried pigs blood and suet. It’s the dried blood which gives it its colouring.”
“May I?” asked Claire, brandishing a fork.
The camera cut to someone in the audience pulling a disgusted face as Claire put a slice of sausage in her mouth.
“That’s truly delicious,” said Claire. “Anyone in the audience want to try?”
Chad went over to the studio audience brandishing a plate of small pieces of black pudding and a microphone, offering a morsel to anyone game enough to try and then asking what they thought of it. For the next half hour there were discussions about the nutritional content of the two breakfasts. The only remotely healthy thing on Mr Benny’s plate was the few blueberries, and Claire spoke about how this was a super-food full of anti-oxidants which should be eaten plentifully. The apple sauce was apparently not even remotely healthy, despite the fact that its name sounded promising. No, it contained far too much high glucose corn syrup. By contrast, the British fry-up was packed with natural goodness in the mushrooms, baked beans and grilled tomatoes.
All in all, though it pained Anthony to admit it, it was a highly enjoyable show. If he’d been channel-hopping and had stumbled upon it, he would have stayed tuned in, if not just to watch Claire. She was irritatingly pleasing on the eye and lit up the screen. Who would have thought she had it in her? The end credits started to roll.
“I think your mummy was excellent, darling,” Ali said to Miriam. “Don’t you, Anthony?”
Begrudgingly Anthony nodded, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He rubbed the flat of a palm up and down over his forehead and right eye repeatedly, like a nervous tick. He wasn’t quite sure how to process everything. It was all becoming a little bit too much. He could only hope that the rest of America thought The Taste of the Place was ridiculous.
As he put Miriam to bed, he consoled himself. This was just a one-off pilot, according to his daughter. It might never be commissioned as a proper series. And even if it were commissioned, there were ways and means that Anthony could prevent Claire from ever being part of it. Yes, he mustn’t worry. At least now he had a better picture of the enemy, and that was all that mattered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CLAIRE
Claire had always considered herself to be an excellent keeper of secrets. She despised gossip and if she was ever told to keep a piece of information close to her chest, then that is what she would do. A promise was a promise. As far as she could recollect, she had never divulged a secret and Georgia often told her that this was what elevated her from being not just a good friend, but a great friend. “I’ve always trusted you unconditionally,” she once told her, “and I’m not sure that there’s anyone else I would rely on more than you. Not even my mother.”
The secret that Claire was guarding, however, was proving much harder to keep. She and Jonah had decided to wait at least another month before telling anyone about the twins. Jonah warned Claire that he had a meeting with his agent that morning and left first thing. Before departing he brought her a cup of hot water with lemon in bed and, after she heard the front door close, she sat up against the headboard and turned on her laptop to check emails. The silence in the house without either of the girls around took some getting used to but, although she felt guilty admitting it, there was something nice about it being just the two of them at the moment. It felt like the old days and she knew that these were moments to treasure. She laid a hand on her stomach. They might as well enjoy the peace whilst it lasted. In seven months time it would be mayhem.
She managed to read one email before Orlando Goodman video-called her on Skype. She was relieved to see that he looked vastly improved. Whilst she valued the power of nutrition when it came to health, she also knew it had its limitations. It would not and could not cure pancreatic cancer, much as she wished it were otherwise. And so she’d had another idea. Orlando might have eschewed conventional treatments for his illness but she’d heard good reports about an alternative therapy which involved the injection of mistletoe extracts. Again, this wouldn’t be a cure, but she’d researched this plant and it seemed that it could vastly improve one’s quality and length of life. Orlando had investigated further and had flown to Aberdeen in Scotland, one of the UK’s leading mistletoe therapy centres, to commence treatment.
“I’ve got so much more energy,” he told her, “and I’m sleeping far better. I feel like a new man. Thank you so much for suggesting it.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” she said. “And I’m delighted it seems to be helping.”
There was more colour in his face, his eyes were alive. Gone was his sickly, grey pallor. It offered hope. Perhaps miracles could come true.
“Enough of me,” he said, “tell me about you. It looks like you’re having a fabulous time out there from what I’ve seen on Morning Cuppa. And the California air clearly suits you. You’re not going to want to come back. You’re looking radiant dahling. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
She hadn’t meant to tell him, but withholding the information from him felt wrong. “I’m pregnant,” she squealed unprofessionally, “with twins! But please don’t say anything. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone yet.” He was delighted for her and promised faithfully that her secret was safe with him. The problem was, however, that the moment she hung up on that call, another came in. This time it was her mother. Claire was finding it hard to concentrate. Dolores was filling her in on news about Claire’s father and some grievance they were having with rowdy neighbours and all the time that Claire was politely nodding and interjecting with a smorgasbord of “oh no’s” and “I can’t believe it” she was thinking to herself: shall I tell my Mum?
She was desperate to. She couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she heard the news and was itching to share her excitement. Telling her would be the most natural thing in the world. Should she? Would Jonah care?
“Darling, are you actually listening to me?” asked Dolores.
The sharp tone in her mother’s voice snapped Claire away from her musings.
“Of course I am. Why?”
“Because I just asked you three times to remind me what date you are coming home and you replied ‘I can’t believe it’.”
Claire giggled, although it wasn’t actually that funny. Without meaning it to be, her ‘I can’t believe it’ response was a fair representa
tion of how she was feeling. She couldn’t believe she was going to have to go home. She didn’t want to go home. It felt wrong to go home now. She didn’t want to think about the fact that in three weeks she would be back in London.
“Sorry,” Claire apologised, “but I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Is everything ok there dear?”
“Yes…….no…….yes…..I mean-
Claire burst out crying.
“I’m sorry,” Claire found herself apologising again, laughing through the tears. “I’m not even sad. I’m actually really happy.”
“You don’t look so happy,” said Dolores uncertainly.
Claire couldn’t hold it in a second longer.
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted.
Just telling her mother instantly made her feel better. She wiped her eyes and beamed. Dolores shrieked so loudly that Claire covered her ears with her hands.
“That’s wonderful news,” squealed Dolores, once she’d finally calmed down. “When’s it due?”