People We Love

by Jenny Harper

  ‘I was thinking about Besalú. There’s a function room at the side.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’ll help, won’t you? And Molly? Carlotta’ll play ball, I know she will.’

  He rolled out his plans while she listened, the need for coffee put to one side. She had grown used to Cameron being around. Like all men, he had good points and bad. Despite his claims on domesticity he was no help around the cottage, but he was lively and gregarious and she enjoyed riding his social energy. And although he liked to present himself as tough, she had seen his tender side – the image of Cameron cradling Edith Lawrence in his arms as she’d opened the box with the baby bootees would never leave her.

  Such unexpected switches between sensitivity and – well, OK, boorishness – intrigued her, but there were enough signs of empathy to make her believe she could build on them. He had never understood her art, but what did it matter, after all, when he was so sexy? Love takes many forms and the chemistry between them was still exhilarating.

  ‘Course I’ll help,’ she said, smoothing her hand over his chest and across the flat expanse of his belly so that he snaked round her again, groaning. She loved the power she had to excite him.

  An hour or so later, Cameron’s battered Corsa disappeared round the corner of the main house just as Molly was arriving.

  ‘Hi, haven’t seen you in an age,’ said Lexie, delighted. ‘Silly, when you’re so close.’

  ‘I’ve been swamped.’ She held up a plate and peered at it. ‘They served petit fours at the dinner last night. Cheesecake bites, marzipan thingies, mini Florentines, weensy strawberry tarts. Have you got time for a coffee?’

  ‘You’re wicked,’ Lexie opened the door wider to admit her.

  Molly followed her into the kitchen. ‘Cameron off to work today, is he?’

  ‘Yup. He doesn’t start till ten.’

  ‘He’s here a lot.’

  ‘What, he shouldn’t be? He doesn’t pay rent?’

  ‘Whoah, why so touchy? That’s not what I meant.’

  Lexie filled the kettle and turned on the power. ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was just an observation.’

  ‘You don’t like Cameron much, do you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you to get hurt again, that’s all. Has he told you why he left yet?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well? Are you going to share in information?’

  It wasn’t so awful, was it? Lexie said, a little hesitantly, ‘He felt he was in too deep and wasn’t ready to commit.’

  ‘And he is now?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  She was sure that Cameron had changed. He told her where he was going, he was around more, he was thinking of settling down, he’d said as much this morning. Lexie picked up a Florentine and rammed it into her mouth. It was chocolatey and sweet and the nuts crunched pleasingly. She ate another, even though it wasn’t nine yet and she didn’t usually eat much chocolate.

  ‘Here’s your coffee. Did you come over to criticise or was there another reason?’

  ‘Actually, I came over to see you, and to bring you some goodies,’ Molly said, her voice rising. She started to stand. ‘Listen, I’ll just go.’

  Instantly contrite, Lexie shot a hand out and pushed her back down again.

  ‘Sorry, Moll. Don’t know why I’m so crotchety this morning. It’s lovely to see you, honestly. Here, have one of these.’

  Molly reached for a tart.

  ‘Have you seen Patrick recently?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered.’

  ‘Will you please stop trying to match make? Firstly, I’m perfectly happy with Cameron and secondly, whatever you seem to think, Patrick isn’t in the least bit interested in me.’

  ‘No. Sure.’

  A banana-shaped piece of marzipan found its way into Molly’s mouth.

  ‘And thirdly,’ Lexie added with great firmness, ‘I’m not in the least interested in him.’

  ‘Right.’

  They sat in scratchy silence while Lexie wondered what had prompted Molly’s choice of conversation. To underline her commitment to her relationship with Cameron, she said, ‘Cameron’s thirty next week. He’s going to have a birthday party at Besalú.’

  ‘In the function room? Should be good.’

  ‘He wants me to organise it.’

  Molly gave a derisive hoot.

  ‘Hah! He’s got a nerve.’

  ‘Oh Moll, don’t say that,’ Lexie pleaded, defensive of Cameron and craving her friend’s approval. ‘Be happy for me.’

  Molly’s mouth puckered, then she smiled.

  ‘I am. If you are.’ She put her hand on Lexie’s arm. ‘I guess you should be the one to decide if he’s changed. So tell me about this party.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d give me a hand. You’re the party supremo around here.’

  Molly groaned.

  ‘I know, I know, you’re busy. But you’re always busy and anyway, I’ll do the work. Just give me some ideas.’

  ‘Well,’ Molly said reluctant before professionalism kicked in, just as Lexie had hoped it would. ‘He was born in the 1980s, wasn’t he? So let’s start with that as a theme.’

  They devised a playlist.

  ‘“Should I Stay or Should I Go?”’

  ‘Not bad. How about, “Come on Eileen.”?’

  ‘Good one.’ Lexie racked her brains. ‘I know! “The Birdie Song.”’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘No listen, stick it in later on, everyone’ll be up dancing, guaranteed.’

  ‘It’s a price to high to pay. Wait, wait, wait.’ Molly beamed in triumph. ‘Got it. “Super Trouper”.’

  ‘Oh yeah, unbeatable. 1980s, 1980s. That was Chris de Burgh, wasn’t it? “Lady in Red”?’

  Molly groaned. ‘Oh, spare us. What about “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go”.’

  Lexie smiled admiringly. ‘You’re good at this. Culture Club?’

  ‘Sometimes I worry about you. How about “Fairytale of New York”?’

  ‘It’s not Christmas,’ Lexie protested.

  ‘Even so, it’s a great song.’

  ‘If you like trading insults.’

  They sipped their coffee companionably.

  ‘It’s ages since we had a party,’ Lexie said. ‘I think it’s a great idea. You will be there, won’t you?’

  ‘Course. If I’m invited.’

  ‘I’m inviting you.’

  Molly stood and rinsed her mug at the sink. ‘I’d better get back. Who’ll get the music together?’

  ‘Cameron,’ Lexie said, ‘right up his street.’

  ‘Make sure he puts in the tracks we want, not just goth rock or heavy metal.’

  ‘I will so. Listen, thanks for the treats. And thanks for coming across.’

  ‘You’re okay?’ Molly stared at her meaningfully.

  ‘Yeah.’ Lexie looked away and busied herself by tidying up.

  ‘Your folks?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Lex?’

  Lexie’s face twisted.

  ‘Oh Moll, I dunno. Mum’s found a mission – helping me – but Dad’s...’ She sighed. ‘I worry about Dad. I used to see him every day, now I hardly ever see him. I don’t think he talks to Mum. About Jamie, I mean, or about the business come to that. I don’t think he talks to anyone.’

  ‘Is he still worried about Gordon’s?’

  ‘Of course. Neil phoned yesterday. He’s got hold of that girl Julie and sweet-talked her into coming back to help out.’

  ‘I thought she was a plague to all customers.’

  ‘There’s a lot more to do now that I’ve gone and Morag’s gone, so he’s been able to offer her more money and more interesting jobs, and at least she knows the basics already. He says it’s working okay. The problem isn’t Julie, it’s Dad. He won’t listen and he won’t change.’

  ‘He’s had a lot to cope with. You all have.’

&n
bsp; ‘I feel bad. Neil’s having to carry everything.’

  ‘You’ve got a life too, Lex.’

  ‘I don’t like doing my own thing at the expense of others.’

  ‘Listen, you’ve spent a year helping others. It’s your turn now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lexie sighed, ‘that’s what I told myself. But look where it’s got me. No exhibition to work towards any more and meanwhile Dad’s business is still in a mess.’

  When Martha arrived she said, ‘Can I come home for supper tonight? Cameron’s out and I’d like to see Dad.’

  Martha was delighted. ‘Of course. We’d love it.’

  ‘I’ll get us a treat.’

  ‘You don’t have to, I don’t mind cooking.’

  ‘No honestly, I’d like to.’

  ‘Well that would be nice. I must say, Carlotta’s cooking seems to be getting more and more adventurous. It was mollejas de cuello yesterday.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Sweetbreads. Specifically, the thymus gland.’

  Lexie wrinkled her nose. ‘Put like that—’

  ‘Yes. Some haddock would be lovely, darling, you know how your father likes it.’

  On the way home, she called in to see Carlotta at Besalú. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of onion and garlic, seared beef and gorgeous, unidentifiable spices. The stainless steel surfaces were scrubbed and shiny and a series of large containers was arrayed neatly along the far wall. Carlotta was wearing a pristine white chef’s jacket and her thick dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was threading pickled vegetables onto wooden skewers.

  She looked up.

  ‘Hola, Lexie. Forgive me for not stopping but I must get on. Pablo the chef is sick, we are short staffed.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Thank you, but ­– wait. Yes. If you mean it?’ She stood aside and went to the sink to wash her hands. ‘Will you make more of these?’

  ‘Sure. What do I do?’

  ‘Wash your hands and take a jacket. There’s one on the hook by the door. Then just copy what I have done. Brilliant. Thank you, Lexie.’

  Lexie surveyed the skewers. It didn’t look too difficult. She picked a gherkin from the first bowl and jammed it down the skewer, then a slice of pickled carrot. The next item was an anchovy wrapped around an olive. This was a little trickier. She picked an anchovy out of the bowl gingerly, rolled it round a plump green olive, slid it onto the skewer. A square of roasted red pepper, another green olive, a final gherkin. She surveyed the final result with satisfaction. It was balanced, decorative, colourful – but it had taken ages.

  ‘This OK?’

  Carlotta was stirring a huge pot of some kind of spicy beef stew. Lexie, who fed herself far too often on quick snacks, sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Sure. Perfect. Now do another hundred.’

  Lexie grimaced. ‘Crikey. I’ll have to speed up.’

  She bent in concentration over the pickles and soon had a dozen skewers completed. She was so completely into her rhythm that she’d almost forgotten why she’d dropped by.

  Carlotta was making a sauce. Lexie halted in her skewering and watched as her knife flew through garlic and rehydrated dried peppers, chopping the ingredients coarsely. She removed and binned the coarsest bits of stem from a large bunch of fresh coriander, and threw all the other ingredients into a huge food processor. She pressed a button and the motor started, noisily. Ground cumin, salt. The ingredients began to meld and become a thick, sludgy red. Carlotta opened the lid of the processor and started to drizzle in oil, then threw in a handful of breadcrumbs and added a cupful of stock. The sauce grew in volume as she repeated the process again and again.

  Carlotta dipped a spoon in the sauce and held it out to Lexie.

  ‘Want to try?’

  Rich red sauce coated the tip of the spoon. Lexie put it into her mouth with all the avidity of a child licking the cake mixer.

  ‘Wow. That’s fantastic. What’s this called?’ The sauce was an explosion of tastes and sensations – peppery, spicy, sweet, a blast of Mediterranean sunshine.

  ‘Mojo sauce. It’s Cuban, originally. They add in sour oranges there. You can put in anything you want, basically.’ Carlotta poured the sauce into a large bowl. ‘It’s not enough, I must make more, that will never last us. How are the banderillas?’

  ‘Oh!’ Lexie had been dreaming. She set about her task with renewed vigour. Gherkin, carrot, onion, anchovy and olive, pepper...

  ‘What did you want to tell me, Lexie?’ Carlotta asked as she deftly rubbed the skin off half a dozen cloves of garlic and threw them onto a chopping board

  ‘Tell you?’

  ‘You do not often visit me in my kitchen.’

  Lexie looked up, laughing. ‘Perhaps I should come more. I’m quite enjoying this. I wanted to talk about Cameron’s party next week.’

  ‘Party?’

  ‘Hasn’t he been in touch? About his thirtieth? He said he’d arranged to have it in the function room. Next Friday.’

  Carlotta’s face was unreadable.

  ‘Really? I guess he must have booked it with Tracy. She’s in charge of reservations and bookings.’

  ‘You didn’t know about it?’

  Carlotta flung her ingredients into the blender and started the motor again, so that Lexie missed her reply.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said when the speed was turned down. ‘I didn’t catch what you said.’

  Carlotta turned to her and shrugged expressively.

  ‘I didn’t know, but it makes no difference. What did you want to ask about?’

  ‘I was wondering about, you know, decoration, the disco, the menu, all that stuff. Cameron’s enlisted my help – and Molly’s, of course. We thought we’d have a 1980s theme.’

  Carlotta’s laugh had an edge to it.

  ‘You mean he has got you to do all his work.’

  ‘We’re happy to do it.’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned her back and switched the processor back on.

  Lexie resumed her task of threading the skewers. When the blender stopped she said, ‘He’s changed, you know. He’s matured while he’s been away.’

  ‘Really?’ Carlotta poured the sauce into the large bowl and rinsed the blender in the sink, her movements abrupt.

  Lexie had set up a production line. She skewered ten gherkins, then ten carrots, lining the wooden sticks up neatly in front of her. She rolled ten anchovies around ten olives. ‘He’s much more settled. You know,’ she started threading on the anchovied olives, ‘he’s been dropping hints. I think he wants to settle down.’

  ‘Settle down?’

  Carlotta was scrubbing furiously at an invisible stain on the polished steel surface.

  ‘I was wondering whether he’d say something at his party. Cameron can be a bit embarrassing sometimes.’ Lexie laughed. ‘You know, like letting drop that you like being kissed on the inside of your thighs.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘It was just an example,’ said Lexie, who did.

  Carlotta snorted.

  It was the turn of the peppers to join the massed ranks of skewers. They were oiled and squidgy. ‘I hope he’s not thinking of proposing. Publicly, I mean. That would be the ultimate mortification.’

  ‘Would you accept?’ Carlotta asked, her voice sharp. She had finished scrubbing and was raking in one of the huge fridges.

  For a ridiculous moment Lexie thought of Patrick’s straight nose and perfect features, balanced and symmetrical and so unlike Cameron’s scarred face. How had she fallen out so utterly with Patrick? They’d both been overwrought. She blinked the image away. Cameron was nothing to do with Patrick. That brief chapter in her life had been firmly closed and now she was trying to make good another.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be put in a position where I had to make a public declaration. I guess I’d want to think about it. But you know, maybe it’s time.’

  Carlotta heaved out a huge block of Manchego cheese and dropped it onto the workt
op with a heavy thud. ‘I would say, very strongly,’ she said, agitation making her accent all the more pronounced, ‘that you should not consider a long-term relationship with Cameron Forrester, at all.’ She placed heavy emphasis on the last two words.

  A piece of pepper slithered through Lexie’s fingers and she scrabbled to pick it up off the worktop.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He is, how do you say it, a man with an eye for the girls.’

  ‘A paedophile?’ Lexie said, aghast.

  ‘No, no, not that. A—’ she searched for the word, ‘—a womaniser. He is unreliable. He is not good husband material. I say this in a spirit of friendship.’

  Lexie gave up on the pepper and leant heavily on the counter.

  ‘A womaniser? What makes you say that?’

  Carlotta pursed her lips. Her words sounded forced.

  ‘I cannot say, but I know this to be true. Dear Lexie, please make sure he does not propose. Promise me this at least.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how I can do that,’ Lexie said, her voice tart.

  ‘Discourage him. I beg you.’

  Lexie abandoned the skewers and marched across to the sink.

  ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘I hope I have not offended you? I mean only the best.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  There was a sick feeling somewhere deep in her stomach. She could disregard Carlotta’s words – surely she should take no notice of them? – but now they had been spoken, they could not be seized back.

  ‘I’d better go. We can talk about the party some other time. I can see you’re busy.’

  Carlotta didn’t try to dissuade her, she merely watched sadly as Lexie washed her hands and picked up her shopping.

  ‘I’m off home anyway. I have my own cooking to do.’

  It came out more sharply than she had intended, but Carlotta stayed silent, her head merely bobbing in acknowledgement.

  ‘Bye then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  As Lexie reached the door, Carlotta said, ‘I mean it, Lexie. Think, please.’

  Lexie marched out. It was all right for Carlotta, she had her ever-adoring Jonas. Not every man could be so perfect.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Catalogue number 14: Church’s loafers in black crocodile skin. Donor: Patrick Mulgrew, Hailesbank. ‘I believe in comfort, but style and quality are also paramount and these shoes are worth every penny. It takes up to eight weeks to make a pair of Church’s, and there can be as many as 250 separate manual operations in their manufacture, so you can appreciate where the money goes.’