‘My fridge? There’s nothing for you in my fridge,’ I say, but it’s too late.
‘This ketchup is a year out.’
‘Ketchup lasts forever,’ I say.
‘Your red pesto’s gone green, and your green pesto’s gone blue …’ she says, pulling an appalled face at the contents of two jars that, to be fair, have seen better days.
‘I didn’t see those two, they were stuck behind the mustards …’ I say, under my breath.
‘Right. So stuff that’s lingering at the back is going to get forgotten. Front line or bin,’ she says.
‘You’re brutal.’
‘What on earth have you got these old pieces of cheese rind wrapped in plastic for?’
‘Parmesan rinds? They’re brilliant for putting in soup, they add real depth of flavour. Don’t you read Nigel Slater?’
‘I’d have thrown them away months ago.’
‘You never know when they’ll come in handy. You can make something good out of these things.’
‘You hold onto absolutely everything, don’t you? Every last thing. Just get rid of this stuff. Christ, no wonder you can’t get over that man …’
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing. Listen, do you want my help clearing up or not?’
‘Not,’ I say. ‘When you say “that man”, I presume you’re referring to Jake?’
She nods.
‘Dalia, it’s not like I cry myself to sleep every night.’ (Just occasionally drink myself to sleep.)
‘I don’t think you really miss him anyway,’ she says. ‘You just miss having someone.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘What do you actually miss about him?’
‘Everything.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s been well over a year,’ she says, exasperated. She sounds just like Mrs Suddes, our GCSE maths teacher. Susannah Rosen, why can you still not grasp the concept of quadratic equations? Because I can’t – that’s why!
I know I shouldn’t miss him any more but I do.
‘If you do miss him that much then why don’t you just call him?’
Every day I fight the urge to do just that. And that’s probably why I’ve run out of self-control by the time it gets to alcohol.
‘Is he still going out with her?’ she says.
I shrug.
‘Show me her Facebook pics again.’
‘Why?’
‘It might make you feel better about the whole thing. She’s such a poseur, Jake must be bored out of his brains.’
‘She literally has over a thousand photos of herself on Facebook,’ I say.
‘Such a pathetic need for constant validation,’ says Dalia.
‘And she posts on Twitter every five minutes: In Selfridges, trying on new season Rag & Bone skinny jeans – AMAZING!!’ (I mean, I only know this because I’m following her Tweets, but that is NOT THE POINT AT ALL.)
‘Anyone who spends that much time online isn’t actually having fun,’ says Dalia. ‘She just wants the whole world to think she is. It’s so insecure and attention-seeking … Go on, let’s have a look.’
‘OK then, you make tea, I’ll get my laptop.’
‘You do know your teabags are past their use by date?’
‘Just put the kettle on.’
I sit on the sofa and log into my account. God, I hate Facebook so much; right, Little Miss Lip Balm, here we go …
‘Here she is,’ I shout into the kitchen. ‘She’s changed her profile pic again.’
‘Let me see, let me see … oh God, she is so full of herself,’ she says, looking at the photo of Leyla in a tiny silver bikini, standing making a star shape on a grassy lawn.
‘She’s got no body fat at all,’ I say, thinking how actually this isn’t making me feel better in the slightest.
‘That tattoo is so trashy,’ says Dalia. ‘Go to albums … seventy-five albums? Jesus, that’s more than the Rolling Stones. They’re all of her in no clothes with stupid accessories … that Russian hat is so try-hard.’
‘You don’t think she looks good?’ I say.
‘No. She looks like a fashion victim. Look at that one!’ She points to the screen. ‘Who puts photos of themselves in a see-through nightdress on the internet?’
I might, if I looked like that in one.
‘And this one with the pole and the sunglasses, pouting like she’s a supermodel, it’s so embarrassing …’
‘That’s enough for one day,’ I say, wearying of our bitchiness.
‘Just one more, hold on … click on that – “Holiday Italia!”’ says Dalia, clicking on an album with fifty-five photos in, added last week.
In this first photo, her bare, tanned feet rest against Jake’s torso as he lies back on a lounger beside a swimming pool.
‘I don’t want to look any more,’ I say.
‘She’s got horrible little feet,’ says Dalia. ‘And her toenails are weird.’
I stare at the next photo on screen, of Leyla on a beach, and my heart instantly aches.
‘That bikini doesn’t leave much to the imagination,’ says Dalia. ‘I don’t know why she bothers wearing anything at all.’
It can’t be that beach … it is, it is that beach damn it. How could he take her to that beach?
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ says Dalia. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You know what, let’s not do this right now. I’m not in the mood.’
‘OK …’
‘Let me go and sort out some veg for you,’ I say.
‘For me?’
‘For dinner,’ I say.
‘Did you not get my text?’
‘Yeah, you said protein and greens …’
‘I sent you one later saying I can’t stay for food, Mark’s bought cinema tickets.’
‘You’ve got to be joking?’
‘What?’
‘You did not send me that text. And I’ve put the chicken in the oven already.’ And it’s Saturday night and you don’t ditch your mates on a Saturday night twice in one month.
‘I did send it, I’m sure I did …’ she says, looking almost convincing.
‘Whatever,’ I say, sighing. ‘I’m knackered, I’m going to go and have a lie down.’
‘Don’t be angry with me,’ she says. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I thought I’d sent it. My phone … it’s so old I think it needs an upgrade …’
Yep – a bit like this friendship.
‘Don’t be pissed off with me,’ she says, as I show her to the door. ‘It was a mistake.’
I nod and kiss her goodbye.
A mistake.
I make a lot of those myself. Like looking up Leyla on Facebook.
That beach.
Three summers ago Jake and I went to Sicily. I had wanted to collapse by the pool every day but Jake, being Jake, was always looking for adventures. One morning he’d set an alarm for 5.30 a.m. so that we could drive along the shore to Marsala to catch a ferry to Favignana, one of three tiny islands off the west coast. ‘It’s too early, this is meant to be a holiday!’ I’d wailed, as he pulled me out of bed, bleary eyed from the previous night’s wine.
We’d nearly missed the boat. Five minutes before we were due to set sail Jake had insisted on darting back to the bakery we’d bought sandwiches in, to buy an espresso. He was so disorganised sometimes it drove me mad. He’d raced back across the quay as I’d stood with one foot on the drawbridge, pleading with the captain to wait just another sixty seconds for us. When we finally boarded I’d been about to bollock Jake for being so last-minute, always. But then from his rucksack he’d produced a small white paper bag in which nestled half a dozen mini chocolate and pistachio pastries, so warm Jake must have persuaded the baker to whip them out of the oven specially for us. ‘Worth getting up early for, right?’ he said, as we’d wolfed them down.
‘Tell me about this place then,’ I said, resting my head on his shoulder as the boat chugged steadily through the water. ‘Why are we going here again?’
&
nbsp; ‘Well …’ he said. ‘Favignana used to be a prison. And then it was a massive tuna cannery …’
‘You’ve dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night to visit an old jail that smells of fish?’ I said, raising my head and looking at his smile to see if he was winding me up.
‘It’s not a jail any more.’
‘Seriously, tell me, why are we going here? What’s so special about it?’
‘Trust me, it’ll be worth it. When have I ever let you down?’
We’d arrived at the dock, two of only a handful of tourists, and made our way over to a hole in the wall bike shop. For four euros we’d rented bikes from an old man with a face like a walnut. Jake had given him one of our pastries, and the man had called him un uomo di mondo: a man of the world. Jake had liked that nickname.
Even at 8 a.m. the sun was hot as we’d set off in search of Jake’s mystery destination. We’d cycled and cycled along roads, then a sea path, a bumpy dirt track, and then back up into hills covered in wild fennel and purple flowers; all the while the sun was growing more fierce and beating down on our already tender shoulders. My thighs were burning from the heat and those hills – Jake was barely breaking a sweat but I could hardly breathe. And then, just when I was about to suggest we stop in the shade, or abandon this mission altogether – we’d probably already missed the turning – we’d rounded a bend and seen a small handpainted sign that said ‘Cala Rossa’. Jake had turned down an even narrower track, cacti on both sides, and I’d followed him till we reached the edge of a cliff.
‘Does that look like a prison to you?’ said Jake, pointing down below us to a vast still bay of crystal clear turquoise water, seeping into aquamarine, peacock-blue and then navy out towards the horizon. Water so clear that even from up here you could make out each stone under the surface, each patch of seaweed. Surrounding it, high sharp white volcanic cliffs; the whole vista like something lunar, like nothing real I’d ever seen.
He’d held my hand as we’d stumbled up and down over the rocks for another ten minutes, weeds scratching at our calves, till we’d reached the far right curve of the bay. Along the way a smattering of men in tight white Speedos and mahogany women were laid out at strange angles on the rocks as if dropped in by alien tanning police. Setting our towels down in an isolated corner, Jake had flung off his clothes and launched himself off the nearest rock straight into the sea. I’d stepped gingerly over to where he’d jumped from, the soles of my feet burning on the hot stone.
‘You have to come in right now, Suze,’ he shouted, standing a short distance out into the water. ‘You can see every last grain of sand at the bottom, it’s so clean.’
The rock I was on was too high, but with one hand steadying myself I’d picked my way down through a series of ever smaller, slimier rocks till I’d found one about half a metre above the water. I’d sat, resting my feet on a stone, hypnotised by the red and green algae, miniature ferns swaying gently under the sparkling surface.
‘Hurry up!’ he shouted, and I’d had to force myself to slide down into the sea.
‘OH MY GOD, SO COLD!’ Ice cold. Freezer cold. But cold like the answer to a prayer. Almost like being punched awake. ‘I think I’m in shock!’ I shouted over to him.
‘Just keep moving and you’ll be fine … here, swim to me, my love.’
I’d moved quickly through the water. Further out, a sprinkling of little white boats dotted the horizon, but when I reached Jake it was just me and him, him and me. He put his arms around me tightly, pulling me to his chest, and his wet, cold mouth met mine and we kissed. Who knew salt could taste so sweet? He pressed himself against me and I could feel him, hard, against my thigh.
‘How can you have an erection in this ice bucket, Jake? It’s like minus twenty degrees in here.’
‘It’s you, it’s you, it’s always you …’ he said, sliding his hand up and under my bikini top. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, as I tried, half heartedly, to push his fingers away. His other hand moved slowly down into my bikini bottoms. ‘Oh God I want you,’ he said, slipping two fingers inside me as I turned to check no one was watching from the shore.
‘I’m not doing it in the water, it’s too teenage!’ I said, laughing and pushing his hair back from his forehead. The sun rising above us shone right into his eyes, making them almost amber. I kissed him softly on the side of his mouth. ‘Besides, we’ll drown and none of those tan-a-holics will jump in to save us.’
‘It’ll be worth drowning for,’ he said, trying to tug down my bikini bottoms and pulling my legs around his waist. ‘I promise, we’ll die happy.’
‘I can’t,’ I said, moving his hand away. ‘It reminds me of Showgirls.’ I stroked the back of his neck. ‘Kyle McLachlan from Twin Peaks, shagging that stripper in a swimming pool, all that over-the-top splashing about.’
‘Oh I like that film! Isn’t that the one with the scene in the dressing room where all the girls …’
‘Trust you to remember that bit.’
‘Hey, you’ve got goose bumps,’ he said, tracing his finger along my arm.
‘It’s freezing in here, that’s why!’
‘I just offered you a shag, that’d warm you up a bit.’
‘Piggy back instead?’ I said, feeling his biceps. ‘I’m sure there’s a bit in Showgirls where Kyle gives his exhausted, overworked girlfriend a piggy back because he loves her so much, and it shows how big and strong and manly he is.’
‘That sounds more like a Jennifer Aniston movie. But if it makes you happy …’
I’d clung onto him, my arms draped loosely over his chest, and we’d waded around in the water, the sun warming my shoulder blades.
‘Does m’lady want for anything back there?’ he said.
‘I could do with a glass of cold Chardonnay, butler. But if not, then I’m just fine thanks. Are you OK – I’m not too heavy?’
‘No, no, not at all. It’s nice actually, you’re protecting me from the sun.’
‘Oh shit, I haven’t got any sun cream on … Five more minutes and we’ll go back, I just want to be in the water a little bit longer. Look at the way everything is magnified under the surface.’ I pointed my toes to a small rock to our left. ‘It’s like a giant fish tank.’
‘It’s the nicest sea I’ve ever been in,’ he said.
‘It’s amazing,’ I said, kissing the back of his neck.
‘It’s amazing,’ he said, tickling the bottom of my foot.
And it was. It was amazing, that beach.
Afterwards we swam back to the rocks and he scrambled up with ease, then held out his arm to help me out of the water. We spread our towels on a large flat grey rock and I lay on my back while he rested sideways, his head in my lap.
‘Sandwich?’ he said, stroking my tummy.
‘Sure,’ I said, reaching into his rucksack to grab the paper bag from the bakery. Inside were two tomato and mozzarella sandwiches on sesame-seed-sprinkled rolls. I took one for us, then wrapped the other for later. ‘Here,’ I said, tearing the soft bread roughly in the middle, trying to keep the bright red tomato flesh from spilling out.
Propped up on our elbows we ate in silence. Sweet, fresh tomatoes, springy, creamy mozzarella, and chewy fresh bread. A dribble of olive oil so fruity you could drink it, and a sprinkling of salt to make everything taste even more like what it was. Perfection.
‘That’s about the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten, ever,’ said Jake, finally resting back in my lap.
‘Not much in the world that’s better than that,’ I said, nodding. ‘All you need, isn’t it? Simple things …’ I reached down to tousle his hair.
He turned his head to the side and kissed my navel, smiling softly.
‘Do you think we’ll always be this happy?’ I said, staring up at a sky so bright and deep it was almost overwhelming.
‘Of course we will,’ he said, gazing up and fixing me with a serious look. ‘We’ll be at least this happy, perhaps even happier.’
‘No
w with more happiness …’ I said, ‘Sounds like a jingle.’
‘Even more happiness, guaranteed, or your money back,’ he said, reaching out to take my hand, holding it in front of his face and kissing my ring finger, then placing my palm on his chest. His skin was dry already. I felt his heart’s steady beat, warm, under my palm.
I’d never been happier than at that moment. I have not been as happy since. I did not want it to end.
So yes, I miss him, I still miss him, I do. I miss him.
Sunday
I dream the most vivid dream of being back together with Jake. In the dream we are sorting out laundry in his parents’ house – the least exotic dream I’ve ever had – and yet I am filled with so much contentment within this dream that when I wake I feel momentarily happy. And then instantly deeply deflated and alone.
This is no use.
I get out of bed and make myself a cup of coffee and work out what I can do to cheer myself up. I’ll make banana bread for breakfast for a start – with those three manky bananas in the fruit bowl. Then the flat will smell happy. And then I’ll go and buy myself a new outfit for Polly’s wedding!
Banana bread – the perfect silver lining to a hideous cloud: overly ripe bananas. I can barely eat a banana unless it’s green. Yet if I miss that green window and they start to go brown, then right at this point of grossness – when they’re so soft the skin has almost melted into the flesh – they can be transformed, nay transmogrified, into something spectacular.
I’ve adapted a Nigella recipe to suit my needs: half the quantities – I’m a family of one. And I’m too impatient to soak sultanas so I leave them out and just add a good swig of bourbon and these cool mini fudge cubes I found in the Lakeland catalogue. It takes less than five minutes to assemble and just short of an hour to bake. I grab my recipe file and make a note that I’ve added an extra handful of toasted pecans that Dalia tried to throw away yesterday, just because they were four months out of date.
The loaf tin has been in the oven for all of five minutes when I hear Caspar clomping about upstairs. That’s OK, I think. He’s allowed to walk around. Why he has to wear hob-nail boots to do so I do not know, but still, let it be. Just as long as he doesn’t whack on the Michael Bublé … oh for goodness’ sake! It’s 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning! He can’t be having sex on a Sunday morning, and if he is, why can’t he at least have a cooler soundtrack?
Leftovers Page 13