by Tayte, Megan
No, I decided resolutely, Jude or no Jude, Michael was not alone. Not on my watch.
‘Come on,’ I said, standing up. ‘Come and meet the others with me.’
And as I led a somewhat stiff Michael to the front door, behind which raucous laughter was ringing out, I reflected that really neither of us had good reason to be nervous. After all, what could two Ceruleans – people with power over life itself – possibly have to fear from dinner with a graphic design student, a fashion designer and a chef? Well, other than the dinner itself, perhaps, given my track record in the kitchen…
4: HUNGER
‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Scarlett, wow – this is really, really good.’
‘Mmmm-nnn. Dlshhh. Sheaven.’
I sat back in my chair, letting a forkful of warm chocolate and pear fondant and vanilla-pod ice-cream melt on my tongue, and smiled serenely across the table at my guests. Finally, once the gooey, sweet mouthful had slid down my throat, I said lightly, ‘Just something I threw together, you know?’
It was the same kind of response I’d given all evening to the regular flow of compliments – for the starter, courgette and parmesan soup with crispy pancetta garnish; and the main course, beef Wellington with a porcini and chestnut mushroom duxelle, served with dauphinoise potatoes, oven-roasted vegetables and rich beef gravy. Tonight, I was Twycombe’s answer to Nigella Lawson, it seemed (at least that’s what Luke had murmured in my ear at one point in a tone that suggested Nigella to him was on a par with Theo James for me).
All in all, a success on the culinary front, and judging by the constant hum of chat and laughter, the social side of the night was on track too.
After a quick round of introductions for the benefit of Michael, who’d seen Cara and Luke from afar before but never spoken to them, Si broke the ice at once by telling us about his parents’ latest art acquisition – a marble sculpture by a notable London artist that looked, according to Si, a lot like snogging seahorses. I could have hugged Si for the choice of subject when, straight away, Michael joined the conversation to explain that in fact the work was a reimagining of Rodin’s ‘The Kiss’.
From there, the conversation had moved through movies, music, building renovation, recipes, fashion, surfing and the relative merits of Coke versus Pepsi – all safe, light topics. If Si and Cara and Luke were taken aback at all by Michael’s humourless delivery, they gave no hint of it, remaining friendly and interested in all my Cerulean guest said. And Michael followed suit, pushing past his usual quiet nature and asking us all questions. I was touched by the effort he made, but it fuelled my anger with Jude: if Michael could manage to join in, why not Jude?
Of course, I concealed my disappointment that the evening wasn’t what I’d wanted it to be. Unsuccessfully, it appeared however in Luke’s case. Leaning over as Cara and Si gave a lively account of a recent ‘Foofoo and Flounce’ fashion show at Plymouth University, he whispered, ‘You okay?’ I smiled and told him I was great, but he didn’t look convinced. He knew me too well.
*
When the dessert plates were scraped clean, we abandoned – at my insistence – the mess in the kitchen and settled in the living room. Exhausted as I was, it was heaven to sink into the soft, squishy cushions on the sofa. Luke sat beside me, right against me, and rubbed a thumb absentmindedly on my thigh, which sent tingles right through me.
‘What a fabric,’ commented Si, stroking a hand down the arm of his chair.
You’d think, given the fact that the material in question was a loud 1980s’ floral number, that Si was teasing. Not so.
‘Thanks,’ said Cara. ‘Took an age to source it, but it’s pretty close to the original fabric that got smoke-damaged.’
Michael was looking lost, so I stepped in to fill the gaps. ‘Luke renovated the cottage while I was gone, with Cara’s help.’
‘My way of moving on, without actually moving on,’ said Luke.
Michael was still blinking in confusion, so I said, ‘A fire. There was a fire here, the night I… the night I left. The cottage was damaged.’
‘Oh,’ said Michael. He stood up. ‘The portfolio, Scarlett?’
‘Right. Yes. Over there.’ I pointed to my grandfather’s writing desk, where I had laid the portfolio, and Michael crossed the room and began carefully untying the cords that held it closed. We all watched – me expectantly, the others curiously – but it soon became clear this was a slow process.
Leave it to Cara to create a distraction:
‘It’s no good! It’s coming off!’ she declared dramatically and, executing a pelvic thrust in her armchair, she started wrestling with the belt on her retro mini-dress.
‘Underwear!’ yelped Luke, shielding his eyes.
Gentleman as always, Si reached over to yank down his girlfriend’s very short dress so that it was almost decent once more.
‘There... oh, that’s heaven.’ Cara threw her belt joyously into the air and nearly took out the light fitting.
‘Cara!’ snapped Luke. ‘Behave yourself!’
‘What?’ said Cara. ‘It’s Scarlett’s fault. She’s the one who made all that stupendous food. Did you learn to cook on the island then, Scarlett?’
Thankfully, I was saved from answering by Michael clearing his throat. We all turned to see him standing awkwardly at the end of the sofa, holding out a stack of thick sheets of paper.
‘Here,’ he said.
Looking confused, Luke took the papers. When he saw the sketch on the first one, I heard his breath hitch. He took in the design carefully, and then laid it down on the sofa and examined the next, and then the next and the next. Finally, he looked up.
‘These are stunning,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand…?’
‘They’re just ideas,’ said Michael. ‘At this stage. To fit with the ocean theme. When we meet in the venue, we can firm up concepts.’
‘Er…’ Luke looked to me for help.
‘A gift from me to you,’ I explained. ‘I’ve commissioned Michael to paint for you. Artworks for The Project.’
‘You’re a genius, Blake!’ announced Cara. ‘Quick, let me see, let me see!’
As Cara commandeered the sketches and bent over them with Si, Luke kissed me with smiling lips. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
Then he stood up so that he was level with Michael and said, ‘I’m blown away. This is absolutely brilliant.’
‘It’s what I do.’
‘Well, you do it with style, mate.’
Result. Luke was now officially friendly with a Cerulean, and I had added another – peace-making – Cerulean to the group, to lessen the focus on Jude and bridge the yawning gap between the two warring parties. I was confident Michael, albeit in his awkward way, would soften Luke’s distrust of Jude; after all, Michael and Jude were friends and had known each other all their lives.
‘Look, that’s us surfing – that’s us in Twycombe cove!’ cried Cara, pointing to one of the sketches she’d laid out on the coffee table. ‘See, there’s you, Luke, taking the wave, and there’s Scarlett, wiping out, and there’s Si coming in to me, sitting on the beach...’
As Cara and Si and Luke huddled around the table, chattering excitedly over Michael’s sketches, I watched the artist watch those who were so clearly impressed by his talent. There was something in his expression that unsettled me; he looked vulnerable, hungry almost. I had seen him look that way before, I thought, but when?
He caught my eye then, and I covered my confusion with a smile of gratitude. He returned the smile and said, ‘It’s time I left.’
*
Since my return home, I’d developed an obsession with the news: reading it online, watching it on TV, listening to it on the radio. Before now I’d avoided it, seeing it as thoroughly depressing and having little to do with me. I could just imagine the lecture my grandfather would have given me on social responsibility. But I was eighteen, and what eighteen-year-old wants to think about pol
itics and legislation and international conflicts and – worse – death and depravity and cruelty all around? Well, me apparently, now that I was a Cerulean.
The local news was a source of masochistic torture for me:
An old lady found cold at the bottom of her stairs a week after having tripped and fallen.
A young mother beaten in front of her two children by a stalker.
A family pitched out of a speedboat and then run over by it.
A toddler mauled by a dog on an outing to a park.
A man stabbed in the street while trying to break up a fight.
Each item haunted me. Time and again, I tortured myself with the thought, Could I have helped? Should I have helped? At night, I tossed and turned with dreams of who may have been behind the violence of the most shocking stories. And as I tore myself from each nightmare there was always one image left emblazoned on my mind: my sister standing over an old man slumped in an alleyway, a look of satisfaction on her face.
This news obsession had become my guilty secret – a compulsion it was easy to hide from others, given the many hours of solitude I endured each day. And now that Cara and Si and Michael had said their thank yous and good nights, and Luke was outside locating Chester (who’d been suspiciously quiet throughout the meal), I couldn’t resist turning on the radio.
I was listening to a report of a train derailment outside Plymouth – a bad one, it sounded, with emergency services dispatched from all over the county – when a voice behind made me start guiltily and drop the dish I was rinsing into the sink.
‘Busted!’
I didn’t turn around. I carried on washing up, cursing the colour I could feel flooding my cheeks. It wasn’t from shame, but anger. So I was a news junkie? This was who I was now, someone who cared, someone who was meant to care. Couldn’t he understand that?
‘Scarlett Blake…’
‘I’m just washing up,’ I said somewhat testily.
A handful of cardboard sleeves was thrust under my nose. The printed text on the top one read: Gourmet Meals to Deliver Ltd – Meals by Top Chefs Delivered Straight to Your Door! – Beef Wellington with Porcini and Chestnut Mushroom Duxelle.
Oh! I had to smile. Partly with relief – we weren’t going to have that conversation tonight – but also with humour.
I looked beyond the packaging to the dancing blue eyes of my challenger. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Scattered across the lawn,’ said Luke.
‘That blasted dog!’
He laid the offending articles on the counter and said, ‘Where did you get these?’
I sighed. Nothing to do now but ’fess up.
‘Mum,’ I said. ‘She sourced the dishes from a company – she’s been researching caterers for her wedding planning business. UPS brought them this afternoon in refrigerated crates. But I hid that packaging thoroughly in the recycling bin!’
‘Ah yes,’ said Luke. ‘The bin that Chester’s upended.’
At the sound of his name Chester appeared at the door. In his mouth he carried a drool-soaked gravy container.
‘I should’ve tied you up,’ I growled at him, jabbing a washing-up brush threateningly in his direction.
The dog gave a little whine but then set to wagging his tail. We both knew I’d never tether him; he was too much of a free spirit and I was too much of a softie.
I sneaked a look at Luke. He was leaning on the counter and looking at me with raised eyebrows.
‘I thought,’ he said seriously, ‘since you got back, we’d agreed a total honesty policy, Scarlett.’
‘Er…’
He grinned. ‘Relax! You’d have pulled it off if it weren’t for Chester. At least now I don’t have to worry that you’re the better chef.’
‘Ooo,’ I said, ‘competitive much?’
‘A little,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘But mainly I just like you best as you. Culinarily challenged and all.’
‘Hey!’ I chucked a handful of bubbles in his face.
He ducked, laughing, and then pulled me in for a long, soggy kiss.
‘Forgive me,’ he murmured in my ear, teasing my earlobe with his lips. ‘What I meant to say was that you did an amazing job of heating up dinner.’
‘Luke,’ I protested weakly, ‘I’m washing up.’
‘Leave it until tomorrow,’ he instructed, working his way down my neck.
And with his hands now untying the apron strings at my back, and his mouth moving across my collarbone and down to the neckline of my top, there was nothing to do but surrender and demonstrate that in fact I really could do an amazing job of heating things up.
5: ENOUGH
A little later I gave Luke a long, lingering kiss at the front door.
‘Love you,’ I told him.
‘Love you,’ he told me.
He touched his forehead to mine and we stood silently for a moment, eyes closed.
‘I wish I could stay,’ he said.
I had to swallow a lump in my throat to reply: ‘Me too.’
Thumb under my chin, he gently tilted my head up. He frowned as his eyes searched mine.
‘Something’s upsetting you.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing. It’s him, isn’t it? You missed Jude tonight.’
‘I said it’s fine, Luke.’
He dropped his hand. ‘Isn’t it enough, Scarlett, just to be with me?’
What could I say? Of course I wanted to be with him, only him. But no, he wasn’t enough. I needed more in my life than him. I needed to be more than Luke’s girlfriend.
‘I love you,’ I said again.
His shoulders slumped and he sighed. ‘I love you too,’ he said. ‘I’d better head off. Let you rest.’
‘Don’t go,’ I whispered.
He smiled sadly. ‘You know I have to. You have to let me go.’
He kissed me once more, with none of the passion of moments before, and then he walked to his van, calling for Chester. I bit my lip and watched silently as he wrestled the dog into the van, got in himself, gave a half-wave and then drove away from me for the second time that day. Only when the rear lights of his van had faded into the black did I say softly the words I’d held back: ‘And you have to let me go too, Luke.’
‘First sign of madness, you know, talking to yourself,’ commented a disembodied voice in the night.
I yelped and stepped back beneath the amber lamp that lit the porch. My searching eyes made out a figure in the gloom, but before I could so much as think Ahhh! Intruder! into focus came a figure I knew well: tall and lithe, with cropped blond hair, stormy eyes and a rueful smile.
I relaxed: it was Jude. Then I tensed up: it was Jude!
‘Hey, Scarlett.’ He stopped in front of me, hands in his pockets.
Admonishing the bit of me that itched to throw my arms wide and hug him – after all these weeks, he was a sight for sore eyes – I frowned and crossed my arms.
Jude cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Er, about this evening…’
‘This evening was meant to be about you and Luke burying the hatchet,’ I reminded him coldly.
‘Yes, I know, but –’
‘Which you promised me – via rubbish one-line texts, I might add – you would try to do.’
‘I know that, but...’
‘I needed you to come, Jude. I’m going insane playing human here.’
‘Okay, but –’
‘Michael came! He made the effort!’
‘But he didn’t –’
‘And I made a big effort too, Jude! I spent hours this afternoon preparing dinner!’
Jude’s eyes widened. ‘You cooked?’
‘Yes, I cooked!’ I snapped. ‘Well, kind of… Anyway, that’s beside the point. It was selfish and cowardly and... and... and just plain mean of you to blow me off, Jude.’
‘Scarlett.’ He rubbed a hand wearily over his face. ‘Won’t you invite me in for a cuppa? It’s been a pig of a day.’
I
thought about telling him where to go, but the part of me that was so happy to see him after all these weeks clamoured for me to lose the attitude. So I sighed and turned and led the way down the hall. In the kitchen the radio was still on, the news having handed over to a late-night love show, and Ronan Keating was crooning that song from the Notting Hill film. I clicked the radio off before Jude could take inspiration from the idea of saying it best by saying nothing at all, and clicked on the kettle.
‘Tea or coffee?’ I asked, banging mugs around with unnecessary force.
‘Better make it coffee,’ said Jude. ‘Full-caff.’
I turned to look at him then. He’d slumped at the table and I saw, in the bright light of the kitchen, that he looked exhausted and paler than usual. An unpleasant suspicion began forming in my mind. Had I been totally unfair?
Quietly, I finished making the coffees, set them down on the table and settled in the chair opposite him.
He took a sip and winced, then smiled a little. ‘I forgot about your coffee.’
I took a sip myself. ‘Tastes fine to me.’
He raised his eyebrows and said lightly, ‘And your dinner, did that taste fine?’
‘It did. You’d have liked it.’
I sat back and looked at him expectantly.
‘I was going to come,’ he began. ‘Honestly. Look’ – he shrugged off his jacket to reveal a smart grey shirt in place of his usual t-shirt – ‘I was dressed and ready.’
‘So what happened?’
He looked down into his drink. ‘There was an accident,’ he said. ‘Many people were hurt. Killed. Several of us went, to help. It was… We were there a long time. We did what we could. We saved some, at least.’
I stared at him in horror. I had been unfair! All evening I’d been assuming the worst of him, and he’d been out there, being the very best.
‘The train derailment,’ I whispered.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How did you…?’
‘It was on the news. I’m sorry, I never thought…’ My eyes filled and I blinked the tears away furiously – what right had I to be upset now? ‘I’m sorry, Jude,’ I repeated bleakly.