For two blissful years with Max after that first meeting at her school, Eleanor had never doubted that they would end up together. It was a ‘when’ not an ‘if’.
Everything seemed set and everything seemed simple. Max loved his job. Max loved Eleanor. And then suddenly and entirely out of character he started stressing completely irrationally about money.
‘Oh for goodness sake, Max, we’ll manage. We’re far better off than most.’
‘But what about down the line – if we have a family, Eleanor? If you go part time. Then the numbers aren’t going to crunch. Not if we want to buy somewhere half decent. Somewhere where you won’t get bloody mugged. Somewhere with a decent school.’
‘Jesus Christ, Max. We’re still single and you’re talking schools?’
‘You know what I mean,’ he was blushing. ‘People have to think of these things. Think ahead. You can’t be an ostrich.’
‘But you’re doing great at the university, Max. Good prospects.’
‘Rubbish money.’
‘Oh it’s not.’
‘Compared to a lawyer or a doctor, it is.’
‘I don’t want to be with a lawyer or a doctor. I want to be with a university professor, thank you very much. A university professor who is brilliant and respected and loves what he does.’
‘And live on the breadline.’
‘And now you are just being silly.’
‘Really? The only reason we’re so flushed now is we’re both working full-time. No dependants. It’s a temporary phase, Eleanor.’
This tetchy to and fro went on for a few weeks with Eleanor failing to make Max snap out of it. She tried everything to distract him, but he seemed suddenly almost depressed. This was most especially ridiculous as he was riding high at the university. One of his papers had suddenly been picked up by the local media and – out of the blue, he was invited to do his first television interview. He claimed to be nervous but turned out to be an absolute natural – bylined as an economics expert with an inside track on the savings and loan crisis in America. The subject was hot as more and more financial mess unravelled. A clip from Max’s interview was used by the national networks. This in turn was used internationally.
Max was suddenly seen as a man who could make complex economics understandable. A bit of a star and ipso facto suddenly in demand.
The university was thrilled. Over the following month there were many more media approaches from national newspapers with one Sunday supplement carrying a lengthy interview on Max’s take on the economic mess. Several American magazines quickly followed suit.
Eleanor could not have been more thrilled for him. Suddenly he was feted at the university with the press office delighted at what the team called his new ‘currency’.
And then one fateful Thursday Max was on the phone to Eleanor, almost exploding with excitement. He told Eleanor he had booked a Michelin star restaurant that night to explain everything.
Eleanor was quietly ecstatic. The university must have given some pay rise to finally snuff out the worrying.
She wore the dress he loved most. She put on his favourite perfume. She took trouble to find matching underwear. Coy. Excited. Nervous.
‘OK, Eleanor? So I have something important to tell you. And to ask you.’
Eleanor put the final forkful of mint pea puree in her mouth and tried to stay calm. She patted her mouth with her napkin and was wondering if he would go down on one knee. She glanced around. Would everyone watch?
‘How would you like to move to New York with the new Communications Adviser for the Unit Two Bank of Minnitag?’ Max was beaming. Ear to ear.
Eleanor had no idea what to say, the room suddenly moving. The air thicker and hazy.
‘America? I’m not understanding. I don’t know what you mean?’
‘I got a call yesterday and they confirmed the details this morning. Offer in the post.’
‘Who? I don’t understand.’ Aware suddenly of the pulse in her ear.
‘The Unit Two Bank of Minnitag. Three times my current salary – Eleanor. Flat provided until we sort ourselves out. Manhattan.’
‘But isn’t that the one that’s been in the papers. The one that’s in the shit over this savings and loan crisis. All the stuff you’ve been doing analysis on.’
‘Which is precisely why they need someone like me. Someone with a real understanding of what’s been going wrong and how to put it right – especially with all the new regulation which is bound to come in as a consequence. I’m perfect to advise them. And to handle questions with the media too.’
‘You are kidding, Max?’
‘No. Like I say. I got the job offer confirmed this morning.’
‘But it’s toxic. All the savings and loan mess. You’ve said so yourself.’
Max’s face was now changing.
‘They just want you because of your profile on this. Your integrity. Your paper and your years of research. They want to use you.’
‘Oh thank you very much for your vote of confidence.’
‘Oh come on, Max. You must see that. They’re all going down and they need someone to wheel out at press conferences as the shit continues to hit their fan. The professor from a top British university. On our side.’
‘I might have guessed you would be like this.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I get this amazing offer. New York. More money than I had ever dreamed of earning. Security for us. For our future. And this is how you react.’
‘But Max. You’re just not thinking straight. This would be the end of your career, not the making of it. The end of your reputation.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘The Unit Two Bank of Minnitag, Max. Duh?’
‘It’s no worse or better than any other bank.’
‘Which is precisely why you shouldn’t go near it. Not with this whole savings and loan thing going on. I don’t pretend to understand it all. But you do. And you have integrity, Max. A great academic future. You’re a specialist in your sector. Respected. This would finish all that.’
‘Pardon me for hoping you would be excited. Pleased for me. Pleased for us.’ He was looking away; across the restaurant.’
‘How can I be pleased?’
‘Are you saying you won’t come?’
‘Max. You can’t be serious about this?’
There followed the worst three weeks of Eleanor’s pre-married life. Max displayed a stubbornness and blindness that she had no idea he was capable of. He stuck to his guns. He tried very hard to persuade her that she was wrong. That she was naive. That this was what all grown-ups had to do. To shelve their ideals to chase the best future for the people they loved. To grow up.
Eleanor said it was not growing up, it was selling out and it would end badly. Also it was not the way she wanted to live. She would rather have less money. In Britain. If he wanted the Big Apple and its Big cop-out salary, he would have to bloody well go on his own.
She never believed for one second that he would.
Until he was gone – realising too late that they were both capable of extreme stubbornness; each fully expecting the other to cave. This was before mobile phones, so that daily they each checked their answerphone, expecting some message of climbdown. But no. The row went right up to the line and across the Atlantic.
Eleanor took to her bed for days – phoning in sick to school with the excuse of a migraine. Every hour she checked her answerphone. A plea for forgiveness. But it did not come.
She drank too much wine. She spent hours with her closest friends, going over and over the detail of what had so suddenly unravelled. How she had lost the one thing in life that mattered? And was she right? Should she have swallowed her pride? Her principles? Gone for the money? Followed the man?
All the while knowing that she did not want to live in New York. She hated big cities. She had no desire whatsoever to live in a country where anyone and everyone carried a gun, and she hated fat, stinking banks
and federal loan companies who were apparently ripping everyone off while caring not a jot for the consequences.
* * *
Eleanor ran her finger again over the pages that she had stuck together in the book for Melissa and winced at the paper cut, pulling her finger back sharply to stop the pearl of blood from spoiling the page. She then sucked the finger hard as she dialled Dr Palmer’s secretary yet again – only for her to confirm that Sorry. The test result was still not back and they were doing everything they possibly could to try to speed things up. Really they were.
28
MELISSA – 2011
That first weekend home from Cyprus, they ended up staying overnight with Sam’s parents to help settle Marcus, and then, once back at the flat, Melissa explained about the cardboard box in the garage and asked Sam to help her.
It took a double espresso before she was ready to face the contents – Sam diplomatically holing up in their bedroom under the pretence of working while she opened it on her own.
Melissa tried to mentally picture the items inside the box from her memory of that quick check a couple of years back when Max had first brought it over. She imagined that this would prepare her.
It didn’t.
This new context, with her mother’s voice in her head, made the first sight of the mixer, as she lifted it from the padding of the towel, almost unbearable. She had expected it to be tough. The uncomfortable familiarity of it. She had expected it to trigger a difficult response, just as it had a couple of years back. Hadn’t she, even before the journal, sealed the box back up immediately to protect herself from this?
But she hadn’t expected it to so completely break her. Sobbing so loudly and uncontrollably that Sam had come straight through from the bedroom.
‘Oh, Melissa. Oh, shit. You want me to pack it all away again? Oh Jesus.’
She just shook her head, sitting on the breakfast bar stool, staring at it. The white and blue of it on her marble counter, picturing it exactly on that other worktop in the corner of her mother’s kitchen.
‘No. It’s OK, Sam. I just need a few moments. Sorry. I feel a bit ridiculous.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He looked helpless and a little guilty, fidgeting and glancing around for a box of tissues – in the end settling for kitchen towel which she accepted gratefully.
‘I’ll be OK. Really. I’ll be all right in a minute. It’s just a bit full on.’
‘Sorry. When I suggested the cooking, I didn’t realise—’
‘It’s fine, Sam. I need to do this. It’s just an adjustment.’ She got control of herself then, letting out little huffs of breath and staring for a moment at the ceiling. Then she stood back up to make them both more strong coffee before bracing herself to check what else was in the box.
‘You sure you’re OK, Melissa?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine now.’
There were a few baking trays which would need to go out – rusted from their time in storage – but also some Tupperware boxes with plastic cutters and piping bags and the like, much of which was fine.
Deeper down there was a much larger Tupperware container with the original instruction manual for the mixer along with all the accessories.
‘Do you think it will still work?’ Sam was clearly intrigued as Melissa began flipping through the manual. She paused then, not sure if she was ready to face the possibility of the motor failing. The mixer being defunct. But Sam could not help himself, wiping down the surface of the machine and cleaning off the flex before plugging it in and turning to Melissa for her approval. She did a little shrug and finally nodded.
Sam flicked the switch and there it was. The familiar noise of the motor and with it the echo of Eleanor raising her voice as she talked over it.
Will you pass me the bag of sugar, honey?
Melissa put her hand up to her mouth.
‘That’s amazing. So how old would you say this is?’ Sam, the engineer, was now in a different gear, impressed by the longevity, muttering about quality build and wanting to try out all the attachments, but Melissa was no longer listening. Inside the shock was now turning into something else entirely. She was thinking – what a relief that she had not sent the box to the charity shop. So relieved – yes; and so pleased that she had this now.
Dear God.
Her mother’s Kenwood Chef mixer.
Which, amazingly, still worked.
29
MELISSA - 2011
The next day – Sam’s final off work – they cooked the cupcakes together, then the biscuits and finally the butternut squash soup recipe, which was outstanding.
The mixer was going great guns but Melissa was still disorientated and hence very protective of the journal itself. There was no way she was ready to hand it over to Sam to read freely – fearing especially that he would notice and comment on the pages still sealed together. So she used the cookbook stand made of Perspex – designed to slot the journal behind the protective and transparent shield. It meant Sam, who took on the role of commis chef, could not turn the pages. She caught him a few times reading the jottings visible alongside each recipe. His eyes saddening. But he was sensitive enough, especially after her reaction when unpacking the mixer, not to push it and so remained unaware that the later content of the journal was changing in tone.
At least he was right about the cooking itself, which proved surprisingly cathartic. The cupcakes recipe in particular. It was a very generic, pretty basic recipe, but when she was zesting the orange, Melissa felt the strangest, quite overwhelming sensation – her expression of puzzlement immediately noticed by Sam.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m not quite sure.’
‘Is the orange manky?’
‘No. It’s fine. It’s—’
Zest of an orange (crucial – remember?)
Melissa had a new tantalising glimpse – this time of sitting on a stool. Yes. A white, painted stool alongside the kitchen table. There was an orange on a white, porcelain plate in front of her and she had the sense of her own voice whining. She looked up, narrowing her eyes. Trying to remember why she was moaning and what exactly her mother was doing…
‘Just a memory. Something from when I was a kid. I can’t quite place it.’
Sam smiled and then winked. Melissa took a deep breath and turned back to the bowl – today rubbing the flour and butter between her fingertips. She was now also making the cheese straws ready for the following evening. The Wednesday supper with her father.
Max had been bemused at first when she messaged suggesting that they have dinner at her flat. Sam, on his return to work, had a supper invitation that same evening with senior colleagues. He was rather nervously hoping it would be a formal offer to join them as a partner. So Melissa had decided for certain it was the night she would tell Max about the journal. And there was no way she was doing that in public…
Max had phoned and protested: ‘But it’s not a birthday treat for you if you have to cook, Melissa? No. I’ll book us a nice restaurant.’
‘No, Dad. Please. I want to. Come round for 7.30.’
She had been a tad anxious, given her very basic skills, over trying the boeuf bourguignon recipe but Sam came up with the very sensible suggestion of cooking it the day before. Casseroles were apparently always better cooked ahead, allowing the flavours to ‘gel’ before reheating. And if it all went horribly wrong, she could try again.
Melissa had an extra week off work, during which she was supposed to make a decision over the freelance contract, so she had plenty of time in hand. And in fact the recipe worked out just fine.
Eleanor had specified a heavy, quality pot and so Melissa was delighted to find a large Le Creuset casserole dish at the bottom of the cardboard box. Small wonder it had been so heavy.
She could not quite believe the cooking time suggested in the journal. Hours. But the smell which filled the flat was unbelievable. As was the finished dish. Sam, when he sampled it, pulled a face she had never seen in thei
r own kitchen before.
This is seriously good, Melissa. No kidding.
And now – finally here was Wednesday. Her father looking just a little bit uneasy, evidently wondering what was going on.
‘Cheese straws? Good God, Melissa. I love cheese straws!’
They were sitting on opposite sofas – Melissa trying to appear relaxed, with her shoes kicked off and her feet up, hugging a cushion to her stomach.
‘These are really good. Phooo,’ he took a glug of wine. ‘Hot, mind. Just how I like them.’
‘I made them myself.’
‘You are kidding me?’
‘No. Honestly.’
Max pulled a face.
‘You know your mother used to make these for me. One day she played this trick. Put in practically a whole jar of cayenne. Nearly choked to death.’
Melissa smiled. Max glanced away.
‘You can stay over, you know, Dad. If you fancy. I mean, I’m assuming you’ve spent ridiculous money on good wine. Shame for you not to enjoy it.’
‘I’m fine. Will get a taxi if need be. See how we go.’
Max always picked good wine. The two bottles he had brought sported impressive mesh covers. It would be wasted on Melissa but she was pleased to see him savouring each mouthful.
‘So what’s going on here, Melissa? I thought you didn’t much like to cook?’
‘On holiday we had such terrific food, Sam and I decided it was high time to make more effort. We’ve made a pact to do better. Might even go on a course.’
Max pulled a face of both surprise and approval. ‘Very good idea. I’ll drink to that. Something is certainly smelling good in the kitchen tonight,’ he reached forward for another cheese straw.
‘So come on then, Dad. What was all that stuff when we were away. Am I sexist? You’re not in any kind of trouble at work, are you?’
‘No. Anyway. It doesn’t matter now…’
‘Yes, it does. Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it up. Sent that text.’
‘You could have phoned if you were that interested?’
Recipes for Melissa Page 17