Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  He exhales as though he’s just reached the end of a very long and draining race. ‘Had to ask . . . you know, you wonder. Any other family out there. What if you bumped into them one day? God! I never expected to feel so nervous! The waiting and anticipation has been torture.’

  There’s nothing she can say.

  ‘Haven’t been able to sleep for weeks. Wasn’t at all sure about this plan of your sister’s—thought it might backfire. But hey! It’s done. We’ve met, nobody’s got overexcited, we’re both adults, we—’

  ‘Stephen—’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, always do this when I get uptight. Talk too much. I’ll shut up. Let you say . . . whatever.’ He is kneading his left cheek. ‘Please, tell me what I need to know.’

  ‘There’s only one thing you need to know, Stephen.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Hope and fear war in that one word.

  ‘I’m not your mother.’

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘What a charming girl,’ says Isabelle, who is filling the kettle, when Ben returns to the kitchen after a quick stop in the bathroom. Delving into the cookie jar, he locates half an oat crunch. One of his. He crams it into his mouth.

  ‘Who’s been at these?’ he demands, thwarted, looking around for something else to satisfy his sudden hunger.

  ‘At what, love?’

  ‘My biscuits.’

  ‘I thought you made those for your father.’

  ‘I did, yeah.’

  ‘So . . .?’

  ‘What, he’s eaten the lot? Greedy—’

  ‘Ben!’

  He grabs a packet of Frosties and starts shovelling them into his mouth straight from the box.

  ‘Ben, honestly!’

  ‘I’ll have to make some more,’ he says, ignoring his mother’s protests and making for one of the cupboards. ‘Could do with a break.’

  ‘You’re going to start cooking at this time of night? It’s a quarter past ten!’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You need to get some sleep.’

  ‘Not tired.’

  ‘You’re always tired!’

  ‘I’m not tired now, am I?’ He starts pulling down flour, oats, ground almonds, dried fruit.

  ‘Well, if you went to bed earlier . . .’

  ‘Oh here we go. I told you, there’s piles of research that shows—’ He yanks open the fridge door. ‘Oh, Mum, not again!’

  ‘What, darling?’

  Ben thrusts a block of butter under her nose. ‘This is salted. How many times? Unsalted. Jesus!’

  ‘Language!’ barks George, coming in unexpectedly. Neither of them had heard the car. ‘What’s going on?’ George habitually returns home like a soldier returning to the battlefield. Tonight seems no exception.

  ‘Butter,’ mutters Ben, head buried in one of the lower cupboards in search of the mixing bowl.

  ‘Butter?’

  ‘I bought the wrong sort apparently,’ murmurs Isabelle, torn between contrition and indignation.

  ‘Again.’

  ‘Butter’s butter, isn’t it?’ says George mildly, stepping squarely on a mine.

  ‘Oh, George, please don’t get him started—’ cries Isabelle, leaping in to change the subject. ‘How was your meeting?’

  ‘So-so,’ says George absently, weighing up the pros and cons of tackling his son’s bad manners. He decides the cons, as usual, outweigh the pros. ‘Peggy Verndale turned up.’

  ‘Peggy . . .? What, that loud woman from Pellington? Plays bridge with Hester and Harriet? She doesn’t even live here.’

  ‘Wanted to give us the benefit of her vast experience dealing with the planning authorities. You know, all that business of the field behind her house?’

  Isabelle vaguely recalls seeing something about it in the local paper. ‘Doesn’t that belong to—’

  ‘Teddy Wilson, yes.’ A glance in Ben’s direction, but he’s busy weighing ingredients, humming away contentedly, earbuds blotting out the parental conversation.

  ‘Practically hijacked the entire meeting,’ George continues irritably. ‘I tried to explain as courteously as possible that, while we appreciated her generosity, we had our own campaign plan—but would she listen? Starts distributing reams of photocopies—we did this, we didn’t do that—while I struggled to maintain order. Then Brian Nairstrom puts in his penn’orth and they end up practically having a slanging match.’ George is still smarting from Nairstrom stepping in; he could have sorted things out perfectly well if only the other man had given him time. There was absolutely no excuse for that sort of language. ‘Next thing, he’s asking why we weren’t supporting this dance he’s organising. Thank heavens I was able to plead a prior engagement.’ He notices Ben turning on the oven. ‘What on earth are you up to?’

  ‘Making biscuits,’ says Isabelle quickly, rolling her eyes in a ‘please don’t start anything’ appeal.

  George wilts, shrugs, reaches for his tea and starts for the stairs. ‘’Night, Ben.’ He taps his son on the shoulder.

  Ben whips round as if he’s been bitten.

  George repeats his adieu. He can’t stop himself adding, ‘Not too late, eh?’

  Ben sighs dramatically and addresses himself once more to his task. Isabelle tentatively comes to his side and reaches up to kiss his averted cheek. Ben, exulting in his imminent freedom and a whole parent-free weekend, relents, and, in a lightning change of mood that totally wrong-foots his mother, turns to wrap his lanky frame around her. ‘Sorry.’

  Isabelle’s heart melts, resentment and rancour vanishing in the comfort of his embrace, his distinctive minty, slightly oily smell, overlaid with deodorant. He’s a good boy, really, under all that bluster and attitude. Just a typical stroppy teenager in thrall to his hormones. ‘I liked your little friend,’ she says shyly. ‘Lovely manners. And what extraordinary hair.’

  Ben curbs an immediate riposte that she’s not his friend, that she’s a money-grubbing little smart-arse, that she’s not fit to kiss the feet of her adorable sister whose hair is spun from pure silk and wreathes her in glory. It’s never wise to give Isabelle any ammunition; she’s terrier-like if she gets the bit between her teeth. ‘Yeah,’ he says grudgingly, ‘she’s all right. S’pose.’ Capitalising on this rare accord with at least one parent and in a bid to assuage his nagging guilt over the enormity of his subterfuge, he says, ‘How about I make that pineapple tarte tatin again for you tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, darling!’ Isabelle beams, touched beyond words. ‘You are such a love. Isn’t it a lot of bother?’

  ‘Not for you, Mum.’ Ben is doing a very convincing impression of a doting son.

  ‘That would be gorgeous.’ A thought. ‘Oh, I know! Could I take it with us? To Auntie Lynn’s party? Seeing as you can’t be there yourself, it’d be a sort of present for her. She’d be thrilled.’ Ben doubts anything he does is likely to thrill the old bat, but he smiles his agreement anyway.

  Isabelle squeezes his arm. ‘Well, night-night then, darling. Enjoy your cooking.’

  Ben nods, reaching past her along the counter for the tablespoon.

  ‘Oh!’ she says, stopping in the doorway and pointing at first her face, then his. ‘Sweetheart, I think you’ve got toothpaste or something on your . . .’

  THURSDAY

  CHAPTER 21

  With the dawn comes pity and anger. Pity for Stephen, doubly bereaved. Anger at Hester, so self-righteous, interfering, destructive. Harriet’s resentment bubbles up, accelerating her heartbeat, tightening her chest. In the aftermath of her terrible headache, in that state of woolly recovery, the full import of Hester’s accusations the night before hit her afresh, as sharp and wounding as Hester had undoubtedly meant them to be but which, in Harriet’s state at the time, had not always found their mark. She reviews their conversation—hardly a conversation, she had barely opened her mouth—forensically, reconstructing it word by hateful word. It feeds her fury. Is that what Hester really thinks of her? Her own sister? The demands of her bladder force her to pad through to
the bathroom, where she takes a couple of paracetamol, just in case. She looks in the mirror at a stranger’s grey face, eyes shadowed with more than fatigue. Five past five. She crawls back into bed and closes her eyes, desperate for the annihilation of sleep.

  It does not come. But Stephen’s face does, by turns sorrowful, mistrustful, heartbroken. Her physical pain—awful yes, but mercifully transient—had been nothing compared with his, a pain of such loss and bewilderment that for one mad moment she had almost lied, said, ‘Yes, yes, it’s me’—anything to expunge that look of despair when she had gently pushed the birth certificate back over the table to him. There in careful loopy handwriting was her name, Harriet Grace Ribbleswell, listed plainly as the mother of Stephen Mark. There too the date: 3 August 1972, Liverpool Maternity Hospital. It is then that a door cracks open a fraction in her memory. She needs time to consider the implications. Speaking softly and quietly in the seclusion of the garden, she had held his desperate gaze, washed afresh with regret for the children she and Jim had never made, though not from choice. She could see in Stephen a solid, decent, lovable man, someone she would have been proud to call her own. But he is not and she cannot.

  ‘I know how bitterly disappointed you must be, Stephen. But I’m not the woman you are looking for, despite what that says. I’m happy to take any test you like to prove that to you.’

  He had shaken his head briefly, eyes glittering. She had stumbled on. ‘I don’t think this is a case of mistaken identity, I really don’t. Would you be prepared to give me a few days? To try to find your mother for you?’

  ‘Then you know—?’ he had started, but she cut across him.

  ‘No. Not definitely. I need to be certain. I don’t want to send you down another blind alley. I have my reasons. Good reasons, Stephen, I swear. Trust me.’ And with that scant comfort, broken, he had gone away.

  Tears track down the side of Harriet’s face and soak the pillow.

  ‘Good morning, Hetty,’ says Lionel, sliding once more into the seat opposite. ‘Caffè, per favore,’ to the hovering waiter. He leans across the table, face crumpled with concern. ‘Have you spoken?’

  Hester shakes her head. ‘Not a peep. I thought she might have the common decency to come and see me once Stephen left.’

  Lionel, recalling his own whereabouts last night, is privately thankful Harriet hadn’t.

  He glances at Hester’s phone beside her plate; she intercepts the look. ‘I thought he might text.’

  ‘Stephen?’

  ‘Considering all the trouble I went to, arranging the rendezvous.’

  ‘He must be in a bit of a state—it can’t have been an easy encounter. Perhaps you could contact him . . .’

  ‘I hardly think so!’ she snaps. He recoils as if slapped. ‘I beg your pardon, Lionel. There’s no reason for me to take things out on you. But I’m rather out of sorts.’

  ‘Not at all. Quite understandable. I’ll just get myself some . . .’ He hurries away in the direction of the breakfast buffet.

  Hester toys with the remains of an apricot cornetto, brooding. Her antipathy towards her sister hardens. She’s prepared to bet Harriet will wait until she and Lionel are out of the way at their class before she creeps down to breakfast. Coward! I will never forgive her for this, she thinks darkly. Never!

  Harriet wakes, dry-mouthed, stiff-necked. She squints at her watch, then groans. How on earth can it be nearly ten o’clock? From the corridor comes the squeak of the maid’s cleaning trolley. Stumbling into the bathroom, she stands for a few blessed moments under a shower just the wrong side of comfortable, masochistically enjoying the jets pummelling her still-tender scalp. She rakes a comb through her towel-dried hair (must get Ben to give me a trim when we get home) and slips into a loose dress and sandals. She is just picking up her room key before setting out in search of a cup of tea when she spots Mary’s phone beside her bag. The events of yesterday come flooding back. She must get to the hospital and ensure her new friend is prepared for the arrival of her husband—and lover. She must start to fulfil her promise to Stephen. She must—eventually—talk to Hester . . .

  But first, she must find some tea.

  Franco Riccardi is in an inexplicably good mood this morning. He is—it hardly seems credible—beaming, his little red lips stretched wide in the vastness of his beard.

  ‘Buongiorno, signore, signor! Come state?’ Unusually, he is in the kitchen ahead of his students, treating his assistant Enrico, they note to their astonishment, with near civility, even affection. The hapless lad is, admittedly, extremely slow and clumsy (four glasses and three plates down so far this week), but Hester attributes this more to his state of perpetual terror than any innate personal shortcomings. She must remember to tell Ben about Enrico to disabuse him of any notions he may have of waltzing into a position with an experienced chef and expecting to enjoy a comradely partnership. All she has ever read about the most successful in the field suggests that they are stern taskmasters who, like consultants with their housemen in hospitals, mete out to their unfortunate underlings the sort of treatment they received in their own apprenticeships, almost as a rite of passage.

  But this morning Franco is bubbling with goodwill, primarily because he has just received news that in a few months he is to host a new, highly lucrative TV show, which means that he will no longer have to endure the purgatory of tutoring any more classes of idiotic amateurs like this. Unless, that is, they take place in front of the cameras. His bonhomie extends not only to Enrico, utterly disconcerted by his padrone’s volte face, but also to Melanie, who has borne the brunt of his criticism and insults throughout the week with a resilience that has astonished both Hester and Lionel and earned their respect. At each setback, the slight, nervous girl has simply shouldered the opprobrium heaped upon her and patiently repeated the procedure until she has mastered it. ‘I’ll never get another opportunity like this,’ she had whispered to Hester after one particularly bruising encounter with the great man over her holey lasagne. ‘I mean, cooking to my mum means beans on toast. When I won the competition, my friends were all, “You’re never going?” and I’m, like, “Yeah, too bloody right I am.” I won’t give that bugger the satisfaction, neither.’ Now Melanie is wearing almost the same expression of mistrust and suspicion as Enrico, watching Franco dancing around the counters with a grace that belies his bulk, showering everyone with Italian endearments. Hester raises a quizzical eyebrow at Lionel, who shrugs his own bemusement.

  Hester had been in two minds whether to attend the course at all this morning. As minute after frustrating minute ticked by in the dining room and Harriet failed to appear, her apprehension and anger had grown, not helped by the lack of news from Stephen. At five to ten, Lionel had said tentatively, ‘Should we go across? I mean, it might take your mind off . . .’ And Hester, conflicted, anxious, had decided that it might.

  ‘So!’ exclaims Franco theatrically, ‘we are all experts now—yes, even you, Signora Melanie!—in the bread, the pasta, the fish, a little meat, the antipasti. Very good! But today—’ he pats his prodigious belly—‘is dessert day.’ He kisses his fingers. ‘Sì, sì! I love!’ He picks up a short metal hollow tube and brandishes it. ‘You like cannoli? Of course! But we don’ buy cannoli, no, we make dough, we roll, we fry, we fill. Beautiful! So! Today is cannoli, is struffoli, zeppole and real Italian hazelnut biscotti, plus maybe gelati. I will see. We work hard, yes?’

  Hard work is what Hester wants, what she needs. She dons her apron and sets to.

  ‘No, no, really, I’m fine,’ Harriet lies. ‘Well, a tiny bit stiff. And bruised.’

  ‘But you managed to sleep last night?’ Alfonso could not be more solicitous and Harriet is happy to accept his concern at face value, not to attribute it to thoughts of compensation, reputational damage or fears about negligence claims.

  She nods and smiles, unwilling to tell an outright falsehood. ‘Could you call me a taxi, please? I want to go and see Mrs Martindale.’

  ‘
Of course. I rang first thing. She had a comfortable night. But no need for a taxi, signora. One of the boys will drive you over in the minibus. No trouble at all. Five minutes, please.’

  Guy, crossing the foyer, spots Harriet as Alfonso hurries away.

  ‘Harriet!’ He hugs her. ‘How are you? Bella and I have been so worried.’

  ‘Bless you. No, I’m . . . well, I’m still a bit shaken up, but I’m off to see Mary.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise? One of us could go.’

  ‘No, really, I’d like to see her. Her husband’s on his way, too. And a . . . friend.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Guy doubtfully. ‘If you’re sure . . .’

  When he has left, Harriet dials Stephen’s mobile. ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Oh! Harriet! I was expecting . . . Yes, just for a mo’. Between meetings.’

  ‘How are you?’

  There is a long pause; in the background she can hear voices, footfalls, a distant telephone ringing. Finally, ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘As soon as I get back, I’m going to see . . . someone. On Tuesday, if I can.’ From the silence, she assumes he knows who she’s referring to. ‘Did you speak to Emily?’

  ‘Yeah. Soon as I got back to the hotel.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  There it is again, that hesitation, as if he’s picking his way carefully through a minefield.

  ‘Stephen?’

  ‘She said, why would anyone do something as wicked as that?’

  ‘Bravo!’ says Franco, inspecting Hester’s zeppole. He picks up one of her tiny, custard-filled doughnuts delicately and pops into his mouth. He savours it. ‘Ver’, ver’ good, Hester,’ he praises her, using her name for the first time this week. He points at the array of different pastries and sweets at her station and says to the class in general, ‘This signora is ver’ good. She watch, she learn.’

  Hester squirms as her fellow students applaud politely. As the great man moves away, Lionel whispers, ‘Teacher’s little pet,’ and pats her back affectionately.