They freeze as someone passes the door.
‘I’d better be off before someone comes to check on you,’ whispers Harriet. ‘That really would put the cat among the pigeons. Anyway, I think you should rest.’
‘Oh rest, rest! That’s all anyone says to me. I’ve got another two days of this. Do me a favour, will you?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t leave me alone with them. I haven’t got the strength right now.’
‘But . . .’ Harriet doesn’t fancy being referee in this awkward love triangle.
‘I know it’s not fair to ask you, but please . . . please . . .’
And Mary looks so forlorn with her white face and her pleading eyes that Harriet gives in. ‘It’s not going to make me very popular—’
‘They’ll have to lump it,’ says Mary with surprising vehemence.
But Harriet hadn’t been thinking of Ron or Rhona. She’d been thinking of Hester.
‘Harriet!’
Scuttling quickly along to her own room, Harriet is startled to hear Hester calling her name. Guilt, she’s not quite sure why, assails her. ‘Oh, I didn’t see you,’ she says lamely.
Her sister eyes her suspiciously. ‘We’ve been looking all over for you, Lionel and I. Wherever did you get to? One minute you’re in the garden, the next you’ve disappeared.’
‘I went to have a chat with Mary.’
Hester gives an exasperated sigh. ‘Hasn’t she enough people fawning over her? Really, Harry, you’re such a sucker for a sob story. Leave them to their own devices, for heaven’s sake.’
‘What did you want me for?’ says Harriet in a conciliatory tone.
‘Lunch,’ says Hester. ‘Lionel asked if he could have a go at his linguine again while the hotel is quiet, bless him, and he’s been busy in the kitchen most of the morning. I thought it might be nice if we enjoyed the fruits of his labours together.’
‘Oh, I’ve already—’ Harriet stops herself just in time. She really mustn’t rebuff Hester’s overture. Not given their recent reconciliation.
‘Already what?’
‘—been wondering what delights there might be for lunch. Lionel’s pasta! How delicious.’ She beams at Hester.
Hester breathes out, only now aware how nervous she’d been about issuing this invitation. ‘Ten minutes in the bar? Lovely! We can have a pre-prandial. Alfonso has just taken delivery of a local Montepulciano he’s raving about. I thought we might give it a go.’
A glass of wine, thinks Harriet. Exactly what I need. Her smile broadens. ‘Let me freshen up. I won’t be a mo’.’
‘Harriet?’
She’s just picking up her room key from the dressing table when she hears the faint knock. What does Hetty want now?
She opens the door to find Rhona on the threshold. ‘Oh! Hello.’
‘Hello,’ says Rhona, eyes darting over Harriet’s shoulder and about the room. ‘Are you alone?’ Without waiting for a response, she steps forward, forcing Harriet back to allow her access. ‘Could I have a word?’
‘I was just about to—’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ interrupts Rhona, ‘but I really need to talk to you. About Mary.’
Harriet’s heart sinks.
‘I just wondered if she’d said anything.’ Rhona has fetched up by the window, is peering out into the garden cautiously as though afraid of being spotted. ‘About me. Us. I mean, you know: the situation. Since you seem to have her ear—’ an unmistakable tinge of bitterness here ‘—I thought she might have confided in you.’
Harriet finds herself in a cleft stick. Mary has indeed been confiding in her, but admit that and she risks making their friendship (if that’s what it is, after so short an acquaintance) seem something more to someone like Rhona, who is clearly feeling vulnerable and is unquestionably prone to jealousy. Harriet opts for an ambiguous sigh and shake of her head. ‘I don’t know what to tell you.’
Rhona spins around from her position by the window, eyebrows knitted fiercely. ‘What do you mean by that?’
To buy some time, Harriet says, ‘I mean . . . I think she’s still shaken up by the accident. And having you both here, you and Ron, well, it’s awkward.’
‘Obviously,’ snaps Rhona, then pulls herself together. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Obviously it’s awkward. It’s awkward for all of us. But what else was I to do?’
Well, you didn’t need to come tearing over here. You could have waited. Let Ron bring her home.
‘I think,’ says Harriet carefully, ‘that perhaps she’s still a little confused. The head injury, you know? She’s finding it difficult . . . to order her thoughts.’
‘Order her thoughts?’ repeats Rhona, baffled, as though Harriet were speaking Chinese. ‘What do you mean?’ Clearly not one of life’s optimists, she immediately puts the worst possible construction on Harriet’s comment. Face crumpling in despair, she collapses onto the bed. ‘Oh God, she doesn’t want me any more, does she? I knew this holiday was a mistake! It’s over, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
‘She’s on her way,’ says Hester to Lionel happily, popping her head around the kitchen door. ‘Everything under control?’
Lionel has been given a small station with a compact hob in the corner, so as not to disturb the staff ’s regular routines. The rest of the kitchen is filled with a band of sous chefs and kitchen porters, each of them busily intent on the task in hand, chopping, peeling, frying, basting, boning, filleting, as the head chef keeps a beady eye on them all. A hand on the shoulder here, a pursed mouth there, a brief but welcome nod: language appears superfluous as the well-oiled machine grinds on. Saturday lunch at Il Santuario is a buffet, to accommodate the different arrival times of those guests booked in for an activity holiday. The coming week offers photography, yoga, life coaching (‘What on earth’s that?’ Hester had sniffed. ‘Learning how to live? They’ll be teaching breathing next!’) and mindfulness meditation (‘Oh, ver’ popular,’ Marco told her. ‘Many peoples!’), but no cooking.
Lionel transfers his linguine from the drying poles into the pan of bubbling water. He’s bubbling himself after last night. ‘Should be ready in about ten minutes.’ He swirls the pasta around the saucepan, then turns his attention to the adjacent frying pan, filled with a creamy sauce speckled with green. Beside the hob sits a bowl of more chopped parsley.
‘Ah!’ says Hester, spotting a saucer of grated cod roe on the counter. ‘Bottarga sauce?’
‘Oh, Hetty! It was supposed to be a surprise. Off you go!’
‘Sorry.’ Hester goes to leave, then stops. ‘But shouldn’t the linguine be—’
‘Made with squid ink. Yes,’ says Lionel regretfully. ‘They didn’t have any.’
‘Details, details,’ breezes Hester, tastebuds already preparing themselves for the treat. ‘Just remember—’
‘No parmesan!’ they chorus, laughing, smug in their companionship.
‘Harriet!’
Harriet is en route to collect her handbag, having eventually coaxed a shaken, teary Rhona back to her own room, following several minutes of sobbing and importunate pleas for Harriet to intercede with Mary on her behalf. ‘Honestly, Rhona,’ she had said, disconcerted that this superficially feisty and resilient woman had fallen apart so comprehensively, ‘it’s really nothing to do with me. I barely know Mary!’
‘But she listens to you!’
‘Rhona,’ Harriet had said gently, ‘I’m sorry, but the three of you need to sort this out between you. I’m not a marriage guidance counsellor.’ I’ve troubles of my own, plenty of them, thank you very much. And she had steered Rhona firmly over her own threshold and pulled the door closed before hurrying back towards her own room, conscious that Hester would be wondering where she had got to.
‘Harriet, forgive me.’ Hand on her door handle, she turns to find Ron beside her, anxiously scanning the corridor and crowding her into the room. He closes the door behind him and says in an urgent whisper, ‘I’m sorry to ambush you like this, but I really need to ta
lk to you. About Mary.’
Hester, two large glasses of Rosso Conero Riserva in front of her, peers over towards the restaurant entrance, expecting Harriet at any moment. How long does it take her to freshen up, for heaven’s sake? It’s not as though either of us is prone to primping and preening, she thinks, absent-mindedly fingering the unfamiliar smooth skin between her eyebrows. Why, on one of their Scilly holidays they had once both overslept and still managed to dress and pack in five minutes and made their ferry, albeit in a rather flustered and dishevelled state.
She sips the rich maroon wine, rolls it around her mouth, savours its signature cherry, plum and tannin notes, and then takes a proper mouthful. Alfonso had not been exaggerating its qualities. She is just about to rise and go in search of her sister when an aproned Lionel sashays through the kitchen’s swing door, expertly using his hip, a tea towel protecting his hands from the two sizeable and steaming bowls. He stops in surprise, halfway to the table.
‘Oh!’
‘I know,’ says Hester crossly. ‘No sign of her. She said she was on her way.’
Lionel hesitates. ‘Shall I . . .?’ He gestures back towards the kitchen.
‘Certainly not. No reason why ours should spoil just because she’s late.’
Lionel, the heat rapidly penetrating the flimsy cloth, is only too pleased to set the bowls on the table.
‘We might as well eat,’ says Hester, picking up her fork. ‘Don’t want it to go cold.’ She nudges the spare glass of wine across the table. ‘Try that.’
Lionel, thinking of the third plate of pasta cooling by the hob, sits reluctantly. ‘Would you like me to—’
‘No,’ says Hester. ‘Just tuck in, Lionel. It’s her own fault.’ Disgruntled and embarrassed at her sister’s rudeness, she twirls her fork into the middle of the pasta and lifts it to her lips. ‘Smells gorgeous.’
Lionel waits nervously for the verdict. Hester chews and swallows. ‘Absolutely delicious, my dear. D’you know, I think the squid ink might have been overkill. The roe and parsley really comes through. Great pasta, by the way.’
Lionel, gratified, digs in himself. ‘Mmm. You’re right. I think I’m really getting the hang of this pasta malarkey. It’s very satisfying, making your own, don’t you find? Not too much garlic?’
‘Not at all,’ says Hester. ‘Just perfect. Do try the wine. It really complements the dish. Unless you’d rather have a beer?’
‘No, no,’ he says hastily, lifting the glass, ‘wine’s just the job. But what about Harriet?’
‘What about her?’ says Hester, reaching for her own glass.
CHAPTER 40
‘Thing is,’ says Ralph, smoothing out the paper on the pasting table and fingering the age-dried edges dubiously, ‘ideally, you’d want to use lining paper first. ’Specially for a house this age. Was there lining paper on before?’
Ben and Nats exchange an uncertain look. ‘Dunno,’ says Ben, ‘we just ripped it off quick as we could.’
‘Do you still have it? The paper you took off?’
Nats hoicks a black plastic bin liner in from the hall.
Ralph feels inside, pulls out a long, curling strip and examines it. ‘Yep, see? Lining paper.’
‘We haven’t got any,’ says Ben, itching to get on with things. It’s already five o’clock and they haven’t got a single strip up yet—
‘Hmm,’ says Ralph, thinking. ‘Well, the DIY places open at ten on a Sunday—’
‘We can’t wait till tomorrow!’ Panic overwhelms Ben. His eye lights on the banister, still resembling an abstract sculpture—a very poor one at that. How long does it take to repair a simple staircase? Barry has been sawing and planing for hours with only a huge pile of wood shavings to show for it, as far as he can see. Plus a growing number of coffee mugs, courtesy of Daria.
‘—line the walls tomorrow morning, day to dry out, start wallpapering Monday. Except I’m off back to uni tomorrow . . .’ Ralph is talking as much to himself as to any potential listeners.
Nats takes control. ‘Ralph, the problem is we really need to get this done, like, now? See, the aunts are back Monday and we’ve got to sort the wall, re-lay the carpets, move all the furniture back . . . so, see, we don’t have time for lining paper and all that.’
‘Pity,’ says Ralph, ‘it makes it look much more professional.’
‘Done is what we’re after, frankly—bugger professional.’
‘Fair enough,’ says Ralph cheerfully. ‘Let’s get cracking. Got a plumb-bob or spirit level, have you?’
Nats gives Ben a withering look that says unequivocally ‘told you so’. ‘Nope.’
‘No worries. Find us a length of string and . . .’ He looks round the space, frowns, settles finally to the right of Nats’ face. ‘Can I pinch that earring for five minutes?’
Ralph is marking plumblines at intervals along the wall with his improvised instrument, Ben holding the stepladder steady. Nats has disappeared, ostensibly to make some much-needed tea but also to spend some time with Milo, who is very vocally demanding entertainment. Nats’ game of ‘Catch my braids’ is proving a source of huge fun, the baby’s shouts of glee echoing around the house.
‘So,’ says Ralph, ‘Le Châtelier’s principle. No point wasting the opportunity, we can get this paper up and have our tutorial at the same time. Incidentally, what happened here?’ It’s the first time he’s shown any curiosity about the activities taking place all over The Laurels.
‘Long story,’ mutters Ben, hoping Artem or Nats don’t appear to reveal to Ralph the full and shaming extent of his idiocy.
‘Okay,’ says Ralph equably. ‘Right, so what does the principle say?’
Ben observes with envy the confidence with which Ralph is tackling the job. ‘Er . . . something about dynamic equilibrium—how come you know what you’re doing?’
‘Holiday job. Painting and decorating firm. What about dynamic equilibrium? Come on!’ Ralph sounds suddenly uncharacteristically assertive.
‘Oh! Um . . . if a dynamic equilibrium is disturbed by changing the conditions, the position of equilibrium . . .’
‘Moves, yes . . .’
‘Moves to . . . counteract the change,’ finishes Ben, dredging the definition parrot-fashion from his shaky memory.
‘Good.’ Ralph starts measuring the paper. ‘What sort of conditions?’
Ben rakes once more through his meagre fact store. ‘Temperature . . .’ He pauses; Ralph nods, starting to paste the first strip. ‘Volume . . .’ Another nod, more impatient this time. ‘Concentration . . . pressure . . .’
‘Why is it important?’ barks Ralph.
Jeez, thinks Ben, give us a break: he’s worse than old Fishface at school. Why is it important?
‘Er . . .’
‘For goodness’ sake! If you know the impact on equilibrium you can manipulate the chemical reaction. And why might you want to do that?’
Ben flounders, a thousand wild guesses pinging around his brain.
‘Think of it in terms of cooking. Take ice-cream. What happens when you interfere with the core temperature? By putting it into a freezer?’
‘It freezes?’
‘Well, yes, obviously but what happens to its nature?’
‘It . . . changes?’
‘Yes. And what happens to it if you take the frozen ice-cream out and leave it on the counter?’
‘It melts.’
‘Into what?’
A chink of understanding. ‘The same as before.’
‘So what’s the reason for the changes of state—or equilibrium?’
‘Oh . . . yeah . . .’
‘Yes! Change of temperature. And? Its equilibrium . . .’
‘Adjusts!’ says Ben excitedly. Awesome. Awesome!
They have stopped for tea and biscuits. The chimney breast is now neatly papered, the flowery pattern lining up perfectly. ‘Another couple of hours and we’ll be done,’ says Ralph, chomping on a garibaldi.
Milo is at their feet, dr
aping the offcuts around his neck like cut-price leis, occasionally testing the taste before anyone can stop him. Daria has just rehung the washed, ironed and only slightly damp curtains (‘They dry in here just as well as outside’) prior to taking him home for bath and bed. She pulls the curtains closed and steps back to inspect them critically. Artem joins her.
‘Too short,’ she says. She mutters something under her breath that is unmistakably a curse.
Ralph wanders over to join the inspection party. ‘How much?’
She holds up thumb and forefinger to measure perhaps an inch. Ralph reaches up to check out the heading. ‘Move the hooks up,’ he says. ‘See? They’re on the bottom channel. Move them up to the top and you’ll gain about half to three-quarters of an inch.’
Daria sighs wearily.
‘Leave it. You want to get off. I’ll do it before I go.’
‘You will?’
‘’Course. It’ll only take a few minutes. Ben can help me. We’ll have it done in no time.’
‘Ben,’ says Daria sternly over her shoulder, still not deigning to afford him a look, ‘you are very lucky boy. First Natalie and now this lovely Ralph. You do not deserve such kind friends. I hope you are grateful.’
‘Yeah,’ mumbles Ben, flushing to his roots, ‘dead grateful.’
‘Thank you, Ralph, kind man,’ says Daria formally, then reaches up to kiss his cheek.
Ralph’s hand flies to the imprint of her lips. ‘Oh, I say!’
He is still beaming as he ambles back to the pasting table. ‘Now, Ben, about scum formation . . .’
Ben’s phone rings. Everyone turns to look at him. He fumbles in his pocket, checks the screen. ‘It’s Mum,’ he lies. ‘I’ll just take this . . .’ Waving in the direction of the garden, he hurries out.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 25