I reach into my bag to take out my phone, to turn on a playlist or tune into a comedy podcast… Or maybe, I could ring Rachel. I look up to the clock; with the time difference, she’d just be getting up around now and wouldn’t have to be at work for an hour or so. I smile to myself; what a perfect idea. I can’t wait to hear her voice, tell her about all the good things that are in the pipeline. I might even tell her that I’m planning on serving piccalilli to the most sophisticated palates in London; she will just love that, I know she will. I rustle around to the bottom of my bag, but I can’t feel my phone anywhere. I recheck my pockets, then the counters, drawers, shelves, my locker, and then back to my bag to empty the entire contents on the floor.
But there’s nothing. My phone is not there. It’s not anywhere in here, it’s nowhere to be found.
I rack my brains. I definitely didn’t take it out in Martha’s room and the last time I checked was at the Italian place – so I either left it there and it’s probably been stolen by now or I’ve dropped it whilst riding here and it’s smashed to pieces somewhere on the roadside.
I hold my hands in my head. Please. Not this. Not now. All of my contacts, hundreds of screenshots of desserts and cocktails and deli counters and everything that influences me and makes my heart skip a beat. But mainly all my photos; they can’t be replaced. Scans of Rachel’s baby, pictures of my brothers on expeditions, my nights out with Alice, a couple of photos of me and Ben that I couldn’t bear to delete, and almost every single picture I had of my little restaurant. Without any photos, it really will be like it never existed. What have I done? What if someone hacks all my accounts and runs up a huge debt? I just can’t absorb that right now; I haven’t got enough left. I’m running on empty as it is, trying to keep myself afloat. And now I’m phoneless.
I slide down the wall tiles on to the lino floor, my head on my knees. Tomorrow is my last chance to stop the ripple effect of previous failures from ruining yet another part of my future. I love seeing Martha but this job here at the home is all wrong. I can’t stay on at Alice’s any longer, so, as much as I love her and we love being together, I’m going to say goodbye to our London dream of being two city success stories. We work all the time, and by the end of the week I have no money and Alice has no energy to do anything as basic as even going out or having fun. The truth is we are living nowhere near a dream. We are shattered, we are beaten. We are the rat race. We are what the rats chase down. If I don’t get the job tomorrow, I’m going to give it all up, stop pretending, change tack altogether. Give up on cheffing. Give up on London. Give up generally.
I will pack the few things I’ve got left worth salvaging and book my one-way budget airline ticket home. When people ask where I’ve been, I’ll just tell them ‘nowhere special’. Because the truth is I’ve now been in Parklands longer than I’ve been anywhere else – so technically, this is my place, this is my story, and this is not special. When they ask me, ‘What did you do?’ I’ll tell them the truth, nothing special, nothing even average. And I’ll change the subject. I’ll talk about weather or TV or holiday destinations or anything else. If tomorrow goes tits up, I’m going home as Dad has suggested. But if he does sell the house, I’m not sure what kind of home that’ll be. I’ll have to find somewhere new. I’ll have to start from scratch. Again.
I sweep up the contents of my bag and unfold my new menu. This is my ticket. This is my last shot. I pat my trouser pocket to make sure I’ve got Martha’s keys. I take them out and thread a piece of string through the small circular key chain and tie them around my neck. There’s no way I can lose these. Absolutely no way. I double-knot it just in case.
I’ve got to keep hopeful. Because, with this menu, everything could work out just fine if I pull it off tomorrow. I’m excited, not scared to share these dishes; they mean the world to me. Martha seems to think I have a fighting chance. And the more I learn about her expertise as a diner, the more I realise that it’s high praise indeed when she approves. And Martha Rosenblatt hasn’t been wrong yet. So even if I doubt myself, somehow I don’t doubt her.
I’m a finalist.
I’m still in the game.
I’m good at what I do and I deserve to be there just as much as anyone else.
I’m going to give it my everything.
* * *
The clock strikes midnight and I wipe down my area for the final time tonight. That’s my last shift done for the week so I’m happy to wave this place goodbye. I unhook the apron from around my neck, take off my hairnet and shake out my hair whilst gathering my things from the locker. I take a deep breath as I push through the double doors and psych myself up to ride home through the darkness. I zip up my coat and bring my collar to my chin. It’s freezing; the wind is whipping around my ears. It looks like it’s going to teem down with rain so I better pedal extra quick tonight if I’m going to escape the downpour.
As I head out of the driveway, there’s a figure by the gate that looks incredibly familiar, but I can’t be sure. It’s so late, the blackness unrelenting except for the pale yellow beam of the security lights, and my heart is starting to pound in my chest.
‘Hey! It’s me! Katie, over here, it’s Ben!’ shouts the figure. It certainly sounds like Ben.
But really? Ben? What on earth? What in God’s name is he doing here? At Parklands in the middle of the night?
I shake my head in confusion and gesture a finger to my lips.
‘You’ll wake the residents!’ I whisper loudly.
‘Sorry!’ he yells back, with absolutely no effort at all to lower his voice. I guess he doesn’t fully realise that all the residents are octogenarians.
He waves a hand in the air. ‘I brought you something.’
As I walk my bike towards him, a smile breaks his lips, because my phone is in his hand in one perfect unsmashed, unhacked piece.
‘How did you know to find me here?’
‘I called Alice from your contacts and she gave me the address.’
Heat rushes into my cheeks that Ben now knows where I work, that for all my sacrifice and burning ambition, I’m here on the late shift at a care home. But he doesn’t say anything, saving me the embarrassment. I take the phone from his hand and place it into my bag. ‘You are a lifesaver.’ I hold it to my chest. It’s back. Things are starting to look up. Maybe all’s not lost just yet. ‘Thank you so much, I couldn’t bear the thought I’d lost this.’
‘I knew you’d be panicking so I thought I’d come and find you,’ he says with a mock salute. ‘Lost and found!’
You could say that. And some.
Chapter Eighteen
We shuffle in the gravel, it’s cold, the wind is blowing around our ears and it’s beginning to drizzle.
‘I can walk you home if you like,’ says Ben. ‘Now that I’m here anyway.’
And then I get a brainwave. ‘Actually, I’ve got to go somewhere close by, I promised to pick something up for a friend if you fancy coming along?’
Ben clasps his hands together and nods. ‘I’m intrigued. Any more clues or do I have to guess what you are talking about?’
‘Well, telling you will mean revealing my secret weapon for tomorrow. And obviously, you are the opposition.’
This means trusting him with the extra secret of my menu. But it is Ben after all. Not just any other competitor. And I really don’t want to try and find Martha’s house in the dark all by myself. He’s never let me down before. But then again, the stakes have never been this high before, never have I competed with him so directly or over something so life-changing.
‘Right. Well, to make it fair, how about I tell you my menu?’ he says.
‘You sure? You don’t have to.’
‘Actually, I want your advice on it. I know we are technically in competition, but the menu is only one part of that. Admittedly a big part, but we’ve got to cook, plate and serve the thing too…’ He holds out his hand. ‘So. Let’s help each other do as well as we can and then leave the rest up
to the judges, eh?’
If I win tomorrow, I will lose Ben. He will move on to another top job somewhere else or go back to the ship, and our time together will end as quickly as it began.
If I lose tomorrow, I will also lose Ben because I will have to buy my one-way ticket home.
So with everything to lose as well as everything to play for, I shake his hand, curling my fingers around his warm, soft skin. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’
* * *
It’s only about a twenty-minute walk to Martha’s house. We chat the whole way so it feels like no time at all until we turn the corner into Martha’s street, just in time to escape the downpour. This is a lovely part of town, spacious and tree-lined with large double-fronted red-brick houses with beautiful gardens. We reach Martha’s door and I slide the key into the lock, turning it carefully.
It feels like we’re trespassers despite the fact that I’ve been instructed to come here and was given the keys. Nonetheless, we whisper and pad our way through the darkened porch, careful not to disturb anything or anyone. Once inside, we close the heavy door behind us and switch on the hall light.
Oh my, Martha’s house is like a bazaar! She is indeed a magpie. We gaze, fascinated by the bookcases crammed with such a vivid wealth of colourful and curious things. Hand-drawn calligraphy in foreign languages alongside flags and hats and rugs and pottery and little pipes and bright mosaic tea-light holders. And that’s just the hallway!
As we step through to the living room, it’s clear that Martha has picked up and brought home a little bit of every place she’s ever been to. And by the looks of things, she’s trekked across the globe more than once. It is dazzling, utterly impossible to stop your eyes from darting from one curio to another. Glass cabinets of tribal jewellery and intricate beadwork are strewn for display alongside gorgeous lacquered boxes and stocky phallic wood carvings. Ben nudges me at the sight. I cannot help but giggle. Martha, knowing you now, it is no wonder these treasures caught your eye. In my eyes, you’re the treasure.
On the mantelpiece in front of an enormous fireplace, I am drawn to the dozens of framed photographs. Some sepia of Martha as a young debutante, perched on a staircase, legs crossed laughing to the camera with her unmistakable smile. As I walk along the gallery of her life, I see her proudly linking arms with Oskar at the Taj Mahal, then with a lovely chubby baby in her arms, then that chubby baby as a well-groomed smiling school child, a football captain, a graduate. Then that same smiling boy as a young father holding a baby girl of his own proudly in his arms.
I point to the photo of Martha and her son together, laughing as they raise two champagne flutes, and begin explaining to Ben how my relationship with this special old lady began, and how it’s developed, and how she’s managed to turn my life upside down just when I needed it most.
‘Her son looks so much like her!’ I explain to him.
Ben leans in for a closer look. ‘That’s Leo Rosenblatt.’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Sir Leo Rosenblatt.’
‘Sir Leo?’
Ben raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know him?’
I shake my head.
‘He’s a famous businessman. A self-made tycoon. He’s got investments in everything you can think of. He’s been on the ship a few times, Captain’s table, obviously. Nice guy, always sends his compliments to the kitchen, which is rare with people as rich and powerful as he is. I heard he went through a messy divorce with a supermodel a while back, it was in the news… you know the one, she did the perfume ads for that scent you used to wear, the one with the silver bottle…’
‘Oh my goodness, you mean Julianna Marquez!’ I exclaim. ‘Wow. She cheated on him with an actor I’d not heard of, I read all about it in a magazine.’ I look up at the mantelpiece and, sure enough, there are no photos of the golden-haired, leggy Julianna. Martha must have edited her eclectic gallery to reflect the changed circumstances.
‘Well, that might explain why her son lives in America now. Martha misses him and her granddaughter like crazy.’ Poor Martha… One moment she lives independently surrounded by all her memories and belongings, has her family on the doorstep, the next they move away, she loses her soulmate and she has to move into a home.
Ben turns on all the lights and opens the doors to have a look around, breathe some warmth into all the sealed, still rooms. It feels like a museum at night, somewhere we certainly shouldn’t be and I’m terrified of setting off an alarm, breaking something or disturbing the house in any way.
‘Right, let’s get what we came for,’ I announce. ‘To the cellar.’ I open the door and look down the narrow dark passage.
A cold, damp feeling descends upon me.
Ben stops and looks at me. He flicks the light switch but it’s not working.
The cellar is completely black; I can’t even make out the second step, it is so dark. And cold. And fathomless. I shake my head. Nope. I can’t go down there. The sherry was a lovely touch, but I know I won’t be able to convince my feet to take one step into that cold underground room.
I begin to imagine all the horrors the darkness may cloak. Spiders, rats, escaped snakes. My mind flits to scenes from horror films that my unsupervised brothers used to make me sit through after Mum died. People being buried alive, scratching at their coffins, dark dungeons and torture chambers where the undead hid until…
‘You okay, Katie? You’re white as a ghost.’
‘I’m sorry, Ben. I can’t go down there.’
‘How about I go first and you follow me down.’
I shake my head again.
‘I’m happy to go down for you but only you know exactly what you’re looking for.’
I clench my eyes shut and take a deep breath. Thank god Ben is with me because if he wasn’t I’d never be able to go down in that cellar all by myself. I would have legged it by now, that’s for sure.
But he is here and I’ve made it so far. Even if I do get startled, he’ll be with me. To either calm me down or be captured and tortured with me.
‘Okay, but I apologies in advance if I scream my head off. Or cling to you too tightly.’
And I wrap my arms around his chest as tight as I can, pressing my face deep in between his shoulder blades as we descend down the staircase into the cellar together.
Ben feels along the wall, and finds a second light switch. This one works, but only just, but a very weak, flickering light is all we need to find the incredible bounty that is before us.
On our left-hand side, there are floor-to-ceiling racks full with at least a hundred bottles. We try to work out Martha’s system, but then give up and decide we’ll have to take a close look at each one until we find it. She’s got everything here; whisky, bourbon, rum, port, cognac and, finally, the inkwell bottle, which I spot and point out to Ben. Versos 1891.
He carefully slides it from its place and holds it towards the light to read the label. ‘This is a seriously impressive gift. They are going to love this, Katie. It’s special, very special. This old lady Martha, she must like you a lot,’ he says, holding the bottle up to the single crackling bulb.
I smile to myself. ‘Yes, I guess she really does.’ And for a second, I don’t feel like I’m in the bowels of the earth, but on top of the world. ‘Come on then, let’s get upstairs and pour ourselves a little taste.’
Once upstairs, we can hear a full-blown storm rage outside, whipping against the windowpanes and making the whole house rattle.
Ben is the one to suggest that we wait till the worst of it blows over. ‘No use us getting soaked to the skin when we’ve got shelter here?’
As I am more than happy to stay inside a little longer out of the cold and wet – and dark – I turn on the gas fire and snuggle up on the couch, trying to warm myself up after our cellar expedition while Ben opens the bottle of sherry, selects two cut-crystal sherry glasses from Martha’s drinks cabinet and pours us a generous share each. I know Martha would certainly want us to take shelter and stay in the warmth for an ho
ur rather than venture out and get drowned in the gale.
He lifts his glass to eye level, swirling the dark red nectar to study the colour and the way the light takes it. ‘Do you actually know anything about sherry?’ I ask, teasing.
‘I do actually. It’s not just for your nan at Christmas, you know, it’s massively underestimated. I agree with your friend Martha. This is great stuff. Great for pairing with food. Superb with Spanish cheeses, Manchego in particular. There’s a range, from super sweet to bone dry. Generally, the darker, the sweeter. So I’m guessing this is going to be very sweet indeed.’
We take a sip. Wow! A sip is about all I can manage, such is the sugary punch. But I like it. I really like it. It’s warm, dark and oaky, with a distinct nuttiness and caramel coming through. Perfect to sip during a storm to warm you right to the core.
I take another sip. And soon another. Each time it’s going down easier than before. If sherry is an acquired taste, then I’ve acquired it. Soon, we are pouring ourselves a generous second glass to ‘warm our bones’ as the wind continues to whistle through the house.
‘So, talk me through your menu,’ I say as we both sit on the couch, huddling to feel the heat from the gas fire. Ben slips his hand into his jeans pocket and hands me a folded piece of paper, his scrawled handwriting instantly recognisable in black pen.
Roasted cod with champagne and honey
* * *
Crispy oysters with pickled vegetable salad and citrus mayonnaise
* * *
Chocolate orange mousse, spiced fruit brioche and yoghurt sorbet
‘What do you think?’ he asks me.
One Way or Another: An absolutely hilarious laugh-out-loud romantic comedy Page 13