by Prue Leith
Eduardo said, “What are you doing tonight? Can I come round?”
“No. I’m working. I’ve got a photo-shoot this afternoon, and I don’t think we’ll finish early.”
“We? Who is we? I thought you took your own pics?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her. He thinks I’m fobbing him off, thought Carrie. Good. Let him sweat. She said, “Not always. I only take pics if the client is too cheap to hire someone better.”
“Fine. That’s perfect. I’ll come round at 9 p.m., and if you aren’t finished I’ll wait.”
“But Eduardo. It may be much later . . .”
Eduardo cut her off. “Look Carrie. I’m coming to see you. OK?” And he hung up.
*
That evening, working on the shoot, Carrie mostly forgot about Eduardo. Nick, the photographer, was the best, and they worked well together. His pictures had a magical quality, something that made you look at them longer than you’d usually look at pictures of food.
Gastroporn was how he described it.
He took enormous pains, fussing over the tiniest detail. Lighting his subject took forever, and by the time he was happy with his sunlight streaming through the kitchen louvers or with the soft glow of tallow candlelight, Carrie would be dissatisfied with the lack of shine on the grilled edge of tomato or the plumpness of a chicken-breast, or she’d want to redo the salad because the curled fists of lamb’s lettuce were looking tired. One way and another it took a long time.
By 9:15 when the doorbell rang, they were only halfway through the last set-up.
Carrie opened the front door. Eduardo kissed her on both cheeks in his usual way, and Carrie let him, thinking she would embarrass them both if she made a thing about it. She led him into the kitchen and said, “Nick, this is my brother-in-law, Eduardo.” Nick ducked under the giant silver umbrella and a spotlight on a tripod to extend his hand. Eduardo had to lean over the jumble of photography equipment to shake it.
“Nick, Eduardo can sit on the sofa and watch, can’t he?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Carrie gave Eduardo a bottle of red and a glass, and went back to tipping browned pumpkin into the cast-iron Karahi. The shot was going to be good. It was for an Indian cookery book and was of a half-made pan of Kaddu Mulai, set on a trivet on her battered wooden table. She’d added slivers of cooked onion, shiny and brown, shreds of fresh green and red chilies, and a handful of coriander leaves. Then she’d turned the ingredients carefully to look as though they’d been tossed and stirred in the pan, not carefully positioned.
Nick took test shots with his ancient polaroid, warming them in his armpit to speed up development, peeling off the backing, consulting with Carrie. At last they were both happy with everything: lighting, food, props, design. The actual shooting of each set-up took less than two minutes: click click click, in three different exposures.
“That’s it,” said Nick. “It’s a wrap.”
“Thank God for that,” said Carrie. “Here, have a jar.” She picked up the bottle from Eduardo’s feet, and poured two more glasses.
In half an hour Nick had packed his gear and gone, and Carrie had cleaned up the kitchen. Now she’d have to let Eduardo have his say.
But for a minute she stalled. She was tired. The wine was sending relaxing messages from inside out. She’d really like to order a pizza and pig out in front of the television for an hour, then fall into bed.
“Shall we go into the sitting room?” she said.
“I like it here,” said Eduardo. She followed his gaze round the familiar room. Since she worked in it almost every day, and she and Richard practically lived in it, she had ceased to look at it. But now she saw it afresh.
It was a big room made by knocking front and back rooms together. The two halves were furnished in distinct styles. The cooking end, with windows that gave onto the street, was all stainless-steel efficiency, with the latest in commercial kit. This end, with French windows onto the garden, was country-cottagey with pine dresser, Spanish plates, sofa covered in an Indian throw, and a big old table that had once been in a Victorian dairy. There was an Aga cooker with a double wrought-iron pot rack above which housed copper pans of every size and shape, and from which hung various old-fashioned skimmers and strainers, whisks and ladles. The Aga wasn’t on. Carrie cooked in the modern end, but the old stove was useful for photography backgrounds, or when she was so busy she needed all the ovens. In the corner was a stinkwood chest she’d brought from Africa. It had claw and ball feet and ornate brass handles and hinges.
Carrie sat at the table and said, “Have you eaten? I’m up for a pizza if you are.”
“Can’t we eat some of that lovely stuff you were photographing?”
“You can. I’ve been smelling and tasting it all day, and I’d rather bin it.”
“Carrie. You can’t.”
In the end they had a sort of picnic, Eduardo eating the curried pumpkin with two fried eggs on top, and Carrie eating cream cheese spread on bread with a dollop of pesto and a lot of salad. They ate at a corner of the big table, and opened another bottle of red wine.
Carrie knew she should summon up her previous anger, ready to do battle for her sister, but the food and wine had this mellowing effect and Eduardo was at his nicest. He said, admiration in his voice, “Carrie, I’ve never seen you working before. You’re really good.”
“Of course I’m good!”
“OK, OK. But I’ve never seen it. Of course I know you’re a good cook. But watching you is something else.”
“Why?” Carrie knew that this was a charm offensive. But she liked it. To have impressed the ever-critical Eduardo was something.
“It’s the way you go about it. So economically. Never a move wasted. You carry things this way and that, change this, fix that, toss the next thing, all in an apparent whirl, but with no sense of muddle.” He half patted, half stroked her shoulder. “You are a well-oiled cooking machine.”
Carrie laughed and said, “Cooking machine maybe. Well-oiled, not enough”, and she reached for the bottle. Partly she wanted to fill her glass. But she also wanted to make him drop his hand from her shoulder. She wasn’t going to let him get off Scot free. She took a breath and plunged in, “So why are you cheating on Poppy?”
Eduardo looked as if he was ready for that. He gave a fractional shake of his head, and said, “Carrie, that’s why I wanted to see you. I know that’s what you thought . . .”
Carrie interrupted, her tone cynical. “Oh. And I thought wrong?”
Eduardo turned to face her more directly, his forehead creased, dark eyes earnest.
“Yes, you did. I’ve known Michelle Ward for ages. She’s just a friend.”
Carrie wanted to believe him. He looked so believable, his eyes troubled and sincere. But she knew he was lying. She opened her mouth but he got in first, “Carrie, I love your sister. We have a great marriage. I wouldn’t do that to her.”
Carrie began to get angry. It was obvious he thought she’d be a pushover. She said, “Don’t give me that crap, Eduardo. Do you think I’m blind or something?”
“Carrie, she is . . .”
“Bollocks.” Carrie could feel control going out of the window. She stood up and leaned over the table. “And that’s why you were registered as Mr. and Mrs. Santonini, I suppose? In a suite?” Her voice was rising.
Eduardo’s face went blank. She’d hit home there alright. She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. Now she was shouting. “That’s how you treat all your old friends, is it? With champagne in a bucket by the bedside?” Anger made her fluent. The words came out slick and perfect. “With fancy dinners for two in Michelin star restaurants? When did you last give Poppy dinner in the Pizza Express, never mind a weekend in Paris?” She spun away from him, then back again.
Eduardo stood up. He put his arms out as if to take her by the shoulders, bu
t she dodged back, face on fire. He said, his voice steady, “Carrie, try to understand . . . Poppy is so busy with Lorato and . . .”
Carrie cut him off, shouting, “So you have to screw some bimbo because Poppy is a good wife? A good mother? Is that it? Next minute you’ll be telling me your wife doesn’t understand you.”
Eduardo’s expression hardened. So did his voice. “Carrie, I do not have to account to you. I came to see you because I hoped you would not make trouble with Poppy. But I see you are determined to play the righteous sister.”
“Well, that makes a change from your being the righteous brother-in-law, doesn’t it? Always preaching about my life. At least I’m bloody honest about it. Not sneaking off ‘on business’ so I can have a bit of rumpy pumpy on the sly.”
“Oh no? So that Irish muscleman you were with was an old friend too, was he? Old friend of Richard’s perhaps?”
For a second Carrie stood nonplussed. Then she took a breath to shout at him again, tell him that she wasn’t married to Richard, that she hadn’t slept with Kevin, that she wasn’t the slag he thought she was, but Eduardo didn’t give her time. He turned and headed for the door.
Suddenly that was exactly what Carrie did not want him to do. She cried out, “Eduardo!”
He turned back, eyes weary, questioning. Then he shook his head ever so slightly, and put out his hand to touch her sleeve. It was a gesture of resignation and tenderness. I can’t explain, it said, and you don’t want to hear. Then he turned away again.
Carrie knew she was going to cry, and that made her furious all over again. How dare he refuse to explain? How dare he walk out now? She ran at his back, fists flailing at his body. Even as she was doing it, she thought how childish, and how ineffectual. Eduardo was a big man, and his body was hard and impervious under the cotton shirt. He just stood there at the door, not even facing her, while she let fly at his back and shoulders. When all energy had gone from her punches and she was sobbing out loud, he turned round and put his arms round her, clamping her arms to her sides.
“Carrie, Carrie, stop now.” He spoke to her as he might to a wild animal, his voice deep and calming. She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her.
She was still sobbing and yelling at the same time, “How could you? Eduardo, how could you? Poppy lives for you.”
He didn’t answer, just said, “Shhh. Shhhh. It’s OK”, and pressed her head into his chest.
Carrie fought away from him, lifting her face to stutter, “I thought you were different. I worshipped you, you bastard.” She was still crying, her face distorted with anguish.
He just held on to her, very close. Gradually she stopped sniveling. She could feel the dampness of his cotton shirt where she’d been crying, feel the warmth of his body, breathe the soapy smell of him. It flashed into her mind that it would be nice to just stay like this, leaning on him, smelling him.
And then she realized that what she was feeling was desire. Oh God No. I can’t, she thought. That’s evil. She leaned back, looking up at him in distress.
He let her back away enough to see her clearly, then he said, “It’s alright, it’s alright.” His eyes held hers. She couldn’t look away, trapped like a rabbit in the headlights. Then he dropped his face slowly onto hers, his mouth on her hot cheeks, kissing her tear tracks. She thought, Oh God, this is all wrong. Jesus, it feels so good. Maybe it’s alright, he’s just comforting me like a brother. Maybe it’s just me that’s randy. He kissed her eyes, first one, then the other. Her insides dissolved with longing. Then he was kissing her mouth, which felt divine under his, swollen from crying and lust. Oh Jesus.
Then they went at each other as if it was a fight. As soon as Carrie responded to his kiss, as soon as her arms went up around his neck, and her mouth opened, Eduardo unfastened the strings of her big white apron, tied in front, unwound them and yanked the apron away. His mouth was on hers as he undid the buttons of her chef’s coat. They were stud-buttons in a double row and his violence sent a couple of them clicking across the floor. Then he pulled the cuff of one sleeve and she spun round so he could pull the jacket off.
She undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and glued her mouth to his neck. She lost patience with the other buttons and pulled his shirt up so she could kiss his chest. He pulled the shirt off over his head, and she had a clear run at his body. Her hands were everywhere, exploring him, caressing his armpits, biceps, his belly. She pushed her body against his, and he forced his hand up under her bra. The feel of his big hand on her tit, and the way the bra elastic tightened round her other breast and round her back forced a groan of longing from her. He undid her bra, dropped it on the floor and led her to the sofa.
Within seconds they were both naked, his trousers lying on top of her chef’s checks on the floor. He pushed her back on the sofa with the words “Christ, Carrie, you are beautiful”. She felt beautiful, beautiful and powerful. She arched her back, her arms behind her head, then stretched toward him, an open invitation.
But the sofa was too short, and they slid together to the floor. It was a swift, unceremonious coupling. When it was over they lay together, heaving, and Carrie felt a great wave of content. As Eduardo rolled off her, and sat leaning against the sofa, she felt nothing but lassitude and fulfillment. He’s right, she thought, I’m an immoral cow. But I don’t care.
Chapter 8
“Do you mind if we go through the car wash?”
Carrie craned forward to look at the old Espace’s bonnet and said, “No problem. You do seem to have collected half the mud of Oxfordshire.”
Poppy headed for the filling station. “I know. Who would have thought I’d become a Pony Club Mum?”
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Pulling the pony trailer?” said Carrie.
“I have. I can even reverse in a field without jack-knifing the thing now. Which means the other horsey mothers deign to talk to me. I tell you, the Heythrop Pony Club is more of a challenge for me than for Angelina.”
Carrie looked at her placid, no-make-up sister with affection and thought that it would take more than a county squire’s lady to put Poppy down. Poppy went on, “Angelina wants to marry a horse when she grows up. In the meantime, she’s content to drool over fences at them, plait their tails, oil their hooves and spend weekends camping with them in muddy fields.”
Carrie turned round to look at her niece in the back seat, but Angelina had her earphones on and her eyes shut. Her lips were moving and her head nodded to the beat. One each side of her, Lorato and Tom were strapped into child seats. Tom was asleep. Lorato met Carrie’s gaze with her usual unflickering stare.
Poppy swung the car into the filling station forecourt and said, “Remember those Basuto ponies we had? Mafuta and Thabili? That was fun, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t think we’d have won any pony club rosettes though,” said Carrie. “As I remember, we hardly ever groomed them, we didn’t clean their tack and we mostly rode them bareback.”
Poppy smiled at the memory. She drove into the car wash and turned to check that Angelina was still lost to her Walkman. She dropped her voice and said, “One day I’ll buy myself a horse so I can ride with Angelina. She longs to have her pony at Manor Farm instead of at the riding stables. I’d love to do it now, but there’s talk of a big West End part. Eduardo thinks I should take it.”
Carrie’s immediate thought was that Eduardo had said nothing to her. And why was he encouraging Poppy to take a job? It was much better when Poppy stayed at Manor Farm, leaving London and Eduardo to her. She said, “What’s the part?”
“Filumena. At the Gielgud. Great role. Not bad money. It’s tempting.”
“Filumena?” Carrie had never heard of it. But while she asked the question, her mind was dashing along its own track: with Poppy in town it would be hard for her and Eduardo to get any whole nights together. He’d have to invent more trips abroad. On the other hand,
Poppy would be safely at the theater six nights out of seven. Carrie hauled her thoughts back to what Poppy was saying,
“Italian comedy by de Felippo. Filumena is a feisty ex-whore who tricks a rich old boy into marrying her. It’s a wonderful part. Perfect for me.”
Carrie smiled. It was true. Poppy had this extraordinary power on stage. She could be anything she wanted to be: beautiful, mad, whacky, wonderful.
Poppy swiped her credit card through the car wash slot, and punched the Full Wash and Wax button. There was a low roar, then the great pink and purple brushes of the car wash began their predatory progress up the sides of the car.
Carrie snuggled back into the passenger seat and said, raising her voice over the noise of the machine, “I love car washes, don’t you? Reminds me of hail on our tin roof at Kaia Moya. Quite a turn-on really. Imagine being trapped in here with Brad Pitt.”
She was interrupted by a scream from behind. Both women swung round to see Lorato cowering in her seat, her hands flailing. She was yelling and crying, her eyes wide and filled with horror.
“Oh my God. I didn’t think,” said Poppy, frantically trying to undo her own seat belt so she could get to the child. But Carrie was quicker. Unencumbered by a steering wheel she knelt up, leaned through the gap between the front seats and released Lorato. She hauled the little girl into the front and handed her to Poppy.
By now Tom was crying too. Angelina pulled off her headphones and said, “Mummy, what’s the matter? What’s happening?” Carrie caught the anxiety in her voice and, raising her own voice to be heard above the din, said, “Lorato is frightened of the car wash. Can you look after Tom? Let him out, and hold him. OK?”
Angelina did as she was told. She let Tom climb onto her lap and shouted, “Why don’t we stop it then?”
Poppy looked round wildly to see how to stop the machine, but she couldn’t see a stop-button. And you couldn’t just drive out of the tunnel, because now huge roller brushes were bashing the bonnet, steadily and inexorably rising to the windscreen.