Me, You and Tiramisu

by Charlotte Butterfield

  ‘Does it make me sound like I’m a bit up myself? I don’t want people to think I’m a wanker.’

  ‘I’m only kidding – no, I think it’s perfect.’ Jane smiled.

  ‘Yes, it’s exactly what I’m after,’ retorted Will, ‘it’s got a lovely feel about it, like it’s the deli-equivalent of Cheers. Minus the grumpy postman; no space for misery in here.’

  ‘Cliff? He was a national treasure, wash your mouth out,’ Abi jibed.

  ‘Abi, you’re the national treasure,’ he flapped the design at her and kissed her cheek, ‘Thank you so much, this is The Chosen One. Now I’ve just got to make 300 copies of it.’

  ‘Where are you going to put the flyers?’ she asked.

  ‘My beautiful girlfriend over here,’ he did a ta-da with his hands at Jayne, as though she was a magician’s assistant, which she responded to by putting her hand on her hip and fluttering her eyelashes, ‘has kindly agreed to stand outside the deli all day today and hand them out to everyone passing who doesn’t look weird.’

  ‘I did remind him that it’s one of the busiest weekends of the summer, which means I may be keeping more leaflets than I give out.’

  ‘I’m not meeting Dirk until about eleven, so can help you for a couple of hours, if you like?’ Abi offered, gathering up the rest of the designs and shuffling them into an orderly pile before stuffing them back into her straw-basket bag.

  ‘Who’s Dirk? And why does he have a name like the lead character in a 1970s cop show?’ Will asked, wincing as he burnt his finger on the side of the muffin tray he’d just taken out of the oven.

  ‘My new man. His real name is Derek, but everyone calls him Dirk,’ she replied defensively.

  ‘When you split up we can call him Dirk-the-Jerk,’ Will shouted over the din of the coffee beans grinding.

  Jayne tried not to laugh, she’d been hearing rather a lot about Dirk in every break-time for the last few weeks, so felt as if she knew the advertising account manager from Lewisham rather intimately. Too intimately. At least Rachel kept the minutiae of her eclectic sex life shrouded in a healthy veil of unhealthy secrecy, whereas Abi was only too ready and willing to divulge the length, and quite often the breadth, of each and every encounter.

  It was nice to see her so smitten, though, Jayne thought, she’d flipped from one bad bloke to another in the ten years she’d known her, almost like a game of draughts – leaping from one to another, hoping to reach the end. She was at that blissful beginning stage now; she could see it in her eyes, which wistfully glazed over when she was talking. Jayne knew that even now, over a year into her relationship with Will, she was still like that, when every simple thing she did every day reminded her of him. Picking up a jar of paté in the supermarket, Will makes his own paté. Putting her shoes on, Will has lovely feet, big too. Buying a single-journey tube ticket, Will has an Oyster card; I saw it in his wallet. Putting a spoonful of sugar in her tea at work, Will grinds his own coffee beans. Fairtrade, that’s very important. Shooing a stray cat away from her front door, Will once owned a rabbit called Debbie, as in Harry.

  ‘You’re not listening to me. What are you thinking about, you’ve got a weird-ass grin on your face. Are you drunk?’ Abi peered into Jayne’s face, so close she could smell the chocolate on her breath from the warm muffin she’d just inhaled.

  ‘Sorry, miles away. Right, Will, we’ll take these over the road to the copy shop and get them printed – 300 did you say?’

  ‘Yep. You’re both superstars, can you flick the sign to open as you leave?’ he yelled from behind the counter, where he was carving some Parma ham into tiny bits to put on taster trays. In order to get around the horrible truth that a nauseating, yet fairly substantial, percentage of the population omit to wash their hands after visiting the bathroom, he’d stabbed cocktail sticks into each sliver. If anyone was getting NoroVirus, it wasn’t going to be from his shop.

  ‘So what convinced him to do these classes finally?’ Abi asked Jayne later as they smiled enticingly, thrusting their leaflets at a group of yummy mummies navigating the narrow pavement with their designer prams.

  ‘Our rent?’ Jayne replied flippantly. ‘No, of course it’s a little financially motivated, these premises are stupidly expensive, but also, he just loves what he does. I really hope it takes off; he’s so excited. He’s planned out the whole eight-week course of what to make each week. I’d be so gutted for him if no one’s interested.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to do our very best, then, won’t we?’ Abi smiled mischievously as she unbuttoned another button on her already low-cut shirt.

  ‘I’m not sure that perverts are his target market, Abs.’

  ‘Hey, you want numbers, I’ll get numbers.’

  Jayne liked to think that it was her wide smile, approachable demeanour and impeccable sales technique that made forty-two people call and book lessons in the coming week, but she was pretty sure that Abi’s ample bosom played a part, not to mention the fact that it was Will taking the classes. ‘Who’s running the cookery school?’ a few women had asked. When she pointed inside the shop, they paid up front. She couldn’t blame them; she would have done too. Just keep your hands to yourselves ladies, she thought.

  Chapter 8

  Three months later and the cookery school was a huge success, but then Jayne had known that it would be. Will had an infectious enthusiasm for food that made you want to squash a kumquat and mix it with dandelion leaves, just to see what it would taste like. He’d even taken on a wonderfully chirpy gent called Bernard to help out part time in the deli so he could concentrate more of his time on menu-planning and prep for the different classes.

  Bernard (never Bernie, as they had found out about sixteen seconds into his first shift) had taken early retirement from his senior-management job at an oil company the year before. Six months later he found himself with a pension that would make ninety-eight per cent of the population blush and a feeling of nagging unfulfillment with the prospect of spending the next thirty years watching Cash In The Attic and re-runs of Fantasy Homes by the Sea that were filmed three property booms previously. His descent from sharp suits to comfy drawstring trousers was rapid and potentially terminal, until he spotted the small, neat handwritten card Will had pasted to the deli window. The moment Bernard donned a crisp white apron and started dicing up small cubes of Parmesan to hand around as tasty samples, he became alive again. He was how Jayne imagined Will to be twenty years down the line: unnervingly charming, but with a frisson of barely tamed naughtiness lurking close to the groomed and gently greying surface.

  Jayne’s timetable didn’t allow for much time off during the week, as deputy head of department the diminished hours in the classroom were replaced by unending hours of admin and strategy and Ofsted prep and reports, and staff-training, and lots of things that didn’t resemble teaching at all. But on Tuesdays she finished mid-afternoon and after her weekly Skype to Helen, it had become something of a cherished ritual to sit on a stool at the far end of the counter chatting lazily to Will and Bernard until the commuters stopped pouring out of the tube station opposite or the chiller cabinet emptied, whichever happened first. They chatted about everything from the size of Putin’s ego to the appeal of Monty Python; the Japanese obsession with Hello Kitty to why Brussels sprouts are essentially little cabbages but taste so vile. They paused their easy banter only to refill their mugs or to exchange cheerful pleasantries with a customer.

  Watching Will sprightly discuss the merits of pimento-stuffed olives versus their Parmesan-filled counterparts with an elderly lady wearing a transparent pac-a-mac, Jayne remembered a bollocking she’d given him a few weeks into their relationship. She had sat in the exact seat she was currently perched on, watching him hastily spoon some chargrilled peppers into a pot for a customer, while clutching his mobile between his chin and his shoulder. His voice had risen to that terse volume one notch under a proper yell, but above the level comfortable for witnesses. He’d taken the woman’s mon
ey, thrust her change back across the counter together with her bag, all without interrupting his angry tirade about a late delivery.

  ‘You weren’t a very nice character in that lady’s story today,’ she had said that evening as she handed him a beer and emptied half a bag of pretzels into a bowl, before putting them on the breakfast bar between them.

  ‘A what in her what?’

  She had ignored his bemused raised eyebrow that mocked her and continued, ‘You know, everyone has a different story of their day – of their lives – with people like their parents, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives, children, all playing the principal roles, and then during the course of a day, you have minor bit-part extras coming into their story, affecting it in some way. That customer today that you ignored while shouting to your cheese man has cast you as a bit of a dick.’

  ‘But I’m not. I was just angry about the cheese.’

  ‘I know that, but that’s only because you’ve got a bigger part in my story. I’ve had the pleasure of watching you in different situations, for longer acts, but you only had one scene with that lady and in it you were a dick.’

  He’d taken a small sip of beer and while a large part of him must have thought, and not for the first time, that his new girlfriend was nuts, he did look a little bit chastened.

  ‘So what can I do to change my part from a baddy to a hero?’

  ‘You can’t. Not in her story, anyway. You’ll be forever cast as a dick’

  ‘What am I in yours?’

  ‘An enthusiastic and talented lover with some dickishness, which I’m doing my best to iron out.’

  Jayne smiled as she remembered how Will had spent the rest of that evening showing her exactly how enthusiastic and talented he was.

  But this afternoon was a rare treat to have Will’s company as well. As their evenings had now been commandeered by eager food-lovers, and the odd disillusioned house wife just wanting to enjoy Will’s perfect cheekbones at close quarters, Tuesday afternoons had become rather more precious.

  They were experiencing the mid-afternoon lull before the after-school rush descended with harassed mums dragging their reluctant offspring in to pick up some slices of homemade sundried-tomato quiche for dinner, or a sweet treat to reward a history project well done. ‘How many people,’ Jayne pondered out loud, ‘try to pass Will’s cooking off as their own, do you reckon?’

  ‘I’d say four out of five,’ Bernard replied, handing her a vanilla latte, made just the way she liked it with skimmed milk to counteract the two shots of vanilla syrup. ‘Just think about it, on Fridays and Saturdays most of the customers are picking up things for dinner parties they’re hosting, and I’m not just talking ingredients, I’m talking whole pies or cheesecakes. We’re in the throwing-money-at-the-situation-to-make-life-easier era.’

  ‘Well, the more money they put in that till certainly makes my life easier!’ Will quipped, hearing the tail end of the conversation as he staggered in through the back door carrying a precariously balanced pile of crates crammed with fresh vegetables. He now taught four nights a week and all day on Saturday, but rather than making him tumble into bed each night world-weary, he skipped into the flat each night, brimming with stories, laughter and general merriment. ‘Can you help me out preparing the salads, Bernard? I just want to do a little bit of prep so I’m not rushing later.’

  ‘Of course, Chef, no problem.’ That was another endearing trait of Bernard’s, thought Jayne. He insisted on calling Will Chef, purely out of respect and reverence to his employer’s background and culinary skills and without a hint of irony. At first, through embarrassment, Will tried to sidestep this new moniker and yet soon realised that any resistance was futile. Discernible only to Jayne, he seemed to stand a little straighter and gave an almost unnoticeable flicker of a smile whenever Bernard addressed him like that.

  ‘What’s the topic tonight, Chef?’

  ‘Tonight’s class is called ‘Appetising Appetisers – Not a Melon Ball in Sight’. You can thank Jayne for the comedy subtitle; she thinks my original names were too dull.’

  ‘Which they were,’ Jayne mumbled into her latte.

  ‘Which they were.’ Will repeated, smiling at her. ‘Now, guys, since I have you both here, I need your honest advice on something one of the people in my class said last night,’ Will started ripping the cellophane off an arugula lettuce and tearing off its outer leaves. ‘There’s this woman who has missed a couple of lessons due to her child being ill, or something, and she asked if she could have a catch-up session. Then another bloke in the class said the same thing as he has to go on a business trip next week, but doesn’t want to miss learning about seafood, which is the next class. Now I physically don’t have time to do extra lessons for those that miss them, but equally I don’t want them to be pissed off that I’m not doing more to help them learn what they’ve missed when they’ve paid for the whole term. Bernard, can you pass me that colander? Thank you. So then the man, Philip, suggests me doing a little video of the dish I’m teaching that week and posting it on YouTube, and everyone who signs up for the class subscribes to that channel so you never miss anything.’

  He ran the colander full of cherry tomatoes under the tap and shook them out before wiping his hands on the cloth that was tucked into Bernard’s apron string. ‘Then Jackie piped up that the video would really help her recreate some of the dishes from the class at home, because she can do it in the class, then as soon as she gets home she’s forgotten it, so watching me explain it again would really help. And everyone seemed to agree. So I then asked my other classes if they felt the same way, and almost everyone said yes.’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Jayne said encouragingly, ‘and it would be so easy to do.’

  ‘Are you sure, though? It’s not a bit ‘look at me, I’m making a video of myself’?’

  ‘It’s entirely ‘look at me, I’m making a video of myself’ but in the name of helping your students, not shameless self-promotion.’ Jayne scooped up the last remnants of froth from the bottom of her mug with her finger and sucked it.

  ‘Which makes everything alright?’

  ‘For what it’s worth Chef I think it’s a great idea too. And jolly good fun to put together I would imagine.’ Bernard added. ‘Do let me know if you want me to steady the tripod or hold one of those big light-reflecting circular things, or, oh I’ve always wanted to do this, snap the clapperboard shut and shout ‘Action’!’

  ‘Whoa!’ Will held his hand up to stop Bernard mid-flow, ‘I would imagine it’s going to be less Universal Studios and more Shaky-Hand Productions.’

  ‘I think shaky-hand productions are banned from YouTube, that’s an entirely different sort of website.’

  Will playfully pushed his bottom into Jayne’s hip. ‘No need for your smutty comments, Brady. And, actually, now you mention it, while we’ve got the video camera out, we could always put it to some other use …’

  Bernard coughed quietly and started busying himself cleaning the already spotless tables while they laughed amiably at his embarrassed expense.

  Chapter 9

  The rain was just strong enough for Will to hear it softly patter against the window as he lay motionless, trying not to think about how a light drizzle would be really good for his newly planted lettuces and berries, because that would make him middle aged and he wasn’t yet. He turned his body really slowly so he could face Jayne without waking her. He watched her soft pink lips gently part with each breath and tenderly observed how her deep-black ringlets bucked and fizzed all over the pillow. She was the most exotic woman he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a few.

  He must have been about twenty-two or three when he first realised that maybe he wasn’t destined to always be the lanky nerd he’d been during his teens. Sharing a house with three other lads at university curtailed any notion of vanity he might have developed had he been around fawning girls or, indeed, reflective surfaces more. He knew he wasn’t ugly, and he’d be lying if he sai
d that he wasn’t vaguely aware that occasionally women looked at him longer than was entirely appropriate. It wasn’t until after graduation, when he had started working in kitchens that he became uncomfortably conscious of the waitresses’ giggles and coy hair-twisting as they loitered around his workstation when the head chef wasn’t looking.

  Belinda followed Amanda, who preceded Caroline and Daisy – an alphabet of flattering yet unfulfilling lays – paraded around anonymous bars and birthday parties, with an arm tightly and territorially linked through his, characterised most of the next decade. He’d had an epiphany around his twenty-eighth birthday, a few months after starting the deli. He’d woken up naked on a Saturday morning next to a very pretty girl called Camilla, who he’d been dating for a few months, lying in the exact-same bed and position as he was in now, staring at this girl sleep and suddenly realised that she didn’t know a damn thing about him. The night before, she’d been hinting about wanting to meet his parents and he realised that he hadn’t even told her that his mum had died. That’s how little they had conversed.

  Gazing at Jayne now, watching her make-up-free face shine in the half-light, her eyes softly closed, he felt this overwhelming tingle inside, almost like the start of an orgasm or a drunken head-rush. The duvet had fallen away slightly so he could see the curve of her breast; she really did have the most amazing figure. So many of the girls he’d dated had grimaced at non-existent inches on their slender bodies, shuffling leaves around a plate. As a chef, cooking for someone counting every calorie was only marginally better than preparing a dish for a lactose-intolerant vegan coeliac. Their first meal together as adults in that Italian restaurant she’d ordered lasagne with garlic bread, followed by tiramisu. He’d known then that he’d be happy with this woman for the rest of his life. He loved her beyond anything he had ever known before.

  She had met him at his most vulnerable, when all his hooded tops had sleeves damp with hastily wiped-away tears and a vocabulary filled with bravado. She’d made him a better person then and still did now, delicately encouraging him, always using ‘we’ instead of ‘you’, and weaving his dreams into her own. She had a knack of always seeing the best in people, even people like Crystal who didn’t deserve her second, third or fortieth chances. Since their visit to Devon, Rachel and he had tried to convince Jayne to call Stanley to enlighten him about his wife, but Jayne refused to. ‘Everyone deserves some happiness,’ she’d said. The world would certainly be a better place if everyone thought like Jayne. His Jayne. With an almost imperceptible smile etched on his face, he started dozing again.