by F. C. Clark
Mixed fresh fruit is in the fridge, along with homemade low-fat biscuits… You can tell your trainer about these. I have no fear of punishment for this meal.
I am pleased you enjoyed your meals this weekend, and even more pleased that the British Red Cross did not need to drop a food parcel to you!
Unfortunately for you, I am concerned with the wellbeing of others, whether or not I know them.
Monday has arrived. No longer Kate … aka Cook x
Like the day, the evening also came and went. I waited for Harry to arrive home from yet another dinner date with Monsieur Raymond, but I fell asleep before she got home.
A twinge of nervousness deep within me is what wakes me; nerves that can only be caused by an interview. Having showered, I go in search of Harry. Her bed is neat, with nothing out of place. I check my mobile. We have a cardinal rule to text the other if we have a sleepover with a hot guy. No surprise, there is a message from my dirty little stop-out sister.
Hi babe,
Staying at Raymond’s tonight. Hope u r OK? I’ll call u tomorrow.
Good luck with the interview. Make sure your verbal filter is switched on ;-
Luv u, xoxo
I smile.
I assess my outfit in the mirror: a fitted knee-length sleeveless black military-style dress and black court shoes. My hair is poker-straight, and my make-up simple, with the addition of black kohl. As the interview is at ten o’clock, it makes sense to go directly to the palace afterwards.
I arrive at the large black door, relieved that one interview is over – but another is still pending – and there will be many more if these don’t prove to be fruitful.
I close the door and enter the hall. I immediately notice the office doors are open. Holy shit. Is my boss here? A near head-on collision with Max answers my question.
‘Sorry, Kate,’ he says, closing the doors.
‘A little heart palpitation does you the world of good; makes you feel alive.’
‘I guess.’ He seems uneasy in my company. Do I give off a pheromone that scares the shit out of burly men?
‘You look nice.’ Wow – words and a compliment!
‘I just got back from an interview.’
‘Will you be leaving?’
‘Depends how successful it was. Besides, I haven’t finished my repertoire of cakes,’ I joke, which makes him smile. He looks different when he relaxes.
‘I hope it works out for you, Kate.’
‘Thanks, and I’ll make you a cake.’
No response, just a smile as he heads out of the large black door. At least it’s a start.
I move to the cloakroom and quickly change into denim shorts and a vest top, a far more relaxed ensemble.
My eyes scan the island; no note. Next is the fridge. My hand takes hold of the cold letter. Does my kinky boss have a sensor of humour, or is he hiding them from everyone else? I open the envelope.
Dear Cook,
I admire the skill and patience needed to make bread and pasta. You’re extremely talented.
The low-fat biscuits were very pleasant. However, pushing boundaries can sometimes have a favourable effect, even if the consequences are a little frightening.
As for the British Red Cross, I agree with you: I am sure they were delighted not to visit me this weekend… Are you taunting me? I will hold you in contempt!
Your concerns for me were noted.
Boss x
PS: I hope your interview went well… However, I would miss not being in your culinary hands.
I can only assume that Stella told him about my interview. How can I leave my kinky old codger when he leaves notes that affect me, pulling at my heartstrings? It’s official – I have lost all sense of reasoning.
As promised, I make a fruitcake for Max, and of course for my adopted palace father, Jerry. I also make a Victoria sponge with far too much butter icing. Is this the boundary the kinky old codger wants me to push?
My favourite task of the day begins and ends with words…
Dear Boss,
I will endeavour to adhere to your needs, so I hope I have pushed all boundaries with this evening’s meal.
Homemade chicken and leek pie, new potatoes and steamed vegetables. The most gluttonous cake I could bake – a Victoria sponge with far too much butter icing.
Please note, “EAT ME” is in reference to the cake.
Should I fear walking down a dark alley, as I may encounter a disgruntled personal trainer?
Cook x
PS: Interview – I think it went well. As for leaving you – I’m afraid you are still very much in my culinary hands… for the time being!
My pounding head wars with the loud music from the bar. Painkillers and gallons of water have no effect; a darkened room and sleep is the only answer. It’s now ten o’clock and I have managed the best I can. Pete insists I leave, in fear I may scare away his customers.
I crawl through the door, in need of a strong cup of tea and most of all my bed. My thoughts are interrupted at the sound of chatting coming from the kitchen: Harry and someone with a very distinctive French accent. Great – I look and feel like crap, not the best first impression I hoped for.
‘She’s here!’ Harry stands with excitement, pulling me into view for my first official French meeting. ‘Raymond, this is my sister, Kate.’ Harry looks at her watch. ‘You’re early.’
‘My head is killing me.’ I try desperately to lighten my sombre mood, and yet I wince with pain. ‘I’m pleased to finally meet you, Raymond.’ Do I shake his hand? No. He grips my shoulders and follows through with a double kiss.
‘Please to meet you, Kate, I have heard so much about you. Sorry to hear of your headache. Your sister worries about you.’
Does she now?
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You look dreadful, Kate… Go to bed and I’ll bring up a tea. Do you want something to eat?’
‘No – just tea.’ I turn to Raymond, feeling awful that my first impression has not gone to plan. ‘I’m sorry for my lack of enthusiasm. Honestly, I’m really pleased to meet you.’ I lean towards him, returning his double kiss.
After a restful night’s sleep and a slow walk to the palace, I feel much better. Midweek is here, and my feeling of anxiousness also draws closer as I unlock the black door. I can hear that the cleaners are in today; the house is normally so tranquil, except on a Wednesday.
My legs work on autopilot as I open the fridge door. I must remember to ask why he leaves notes in the fridge.
Dear Cook,
Your homemade pie was mouth-watering.
EAT ME… Clarification noted.
I must implore that you reconsider your acts of gluttony and tantalising gifts. The dark alley you are referring to may not be an alley, but a dark path that may lead you to meet a disgruntled employer, not a trainer.
I am pleased that you are not releasing me from your ingenious culinary hands; I hope to keep a firm grip on them.
Boss x
I reread the note. A smile remains in place, the result of our word association game, free from technology, just good old-fashioned pen and paper. Not forgetting our anonymity.
Jerry bellowing from the garden transports me back to reality. I place the note in my bag and head towards the back door.
‘Jerry,’ I holler, making my way down the path. My initial view is of the A-frame ladder lying horizontally on the grass.
‘Oh Christ, what have you done?’
Jerry lies helplessly beside them, blood running down his arm.
‘I slipped off the ladder and cut my arm on the shears.’
‘Oh, crap. You’ve got blood everywhere.’ I help him stand. ‘Try and hold your arm up to slow the blood flow.’
‘OK, Nurse Kate.’ Amazingly, the injury does not affect his se
nse of humour.
We reach the kitchen. I grab some wadding from the first aid box under the sink and place it over his cut, compressing the wound.
‘Hold that in place, I’ll get Rosie.’
Within minutes she arrives at Jerry’s side, removing the blood-soaked wadding and inspecting the wound.
‘That’ll need stitches.’ She replaces the wadding and remains calm. I’m wondering if this is a regular occurrence – endless visits to A and E with her husband. ‘Let’s get in you in the car.’
‘I don’t bloody need this at the moment… we’ve got the white party in a few weeks and I still have so much to do.’ Jerry’s face loses its usual happy-go-lucky charm.
‘I’ll be your new gardening assistant. No arguments. Besides, I have too much time on my hands, so you may as well make use of me.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’ Jerry looks at me, not sure how to accept my offer.
‘You didn’t, and I won’t take no for an answer. So get yourself to hospital – you won’t make a good foreman if you aren’t here.’
Six o’clock. Now what shall I write this evening?
Dear Boss,
This evening’s meal is one of my favourites and is always requested by my friends and family, so I hope you enjoy it.
Mini-muffin toad in the hole with caramelised onions, horseradish mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables and onion gravy. Also, I have made apple turnovers.
I hope this meal does not conjure up any disgruntled feelings this evening – may the alleyways remain safe.
I do have a question for you. Do you normally keep your correspondence in the fridge? I’m partial to some odd behaviour myself, but this action is one I have never encountered.
Cook x
Thursday morning delivers a shocking revelation as I stand in the palace kitchen taking stock of my life. I hold a pair of gardening gloves in one hand, a gift from Jerry, who seems very excited about his new apprentice, and an envelope in the other, from the kinky old codger.
Dear Cook,
I understand why your family and friends request this meal. I was nearly tempted to eat the extras you made for Jerry and Max… However, as your cooking seems to be affecting all members of my staff, I refrained from doing so. I don’t want a mutiny on my hands.
As far as I am aware, the alleyways were safe last night. But not for too long… I hope!
No, I do not normally place my correspondence in the fridge. I am sure you visit the fridge more times a day than anywhere else.
What exactly does your odd behaviour entail? Should I be concerned?
I was most pleased that you were thinking of me whilst I was eating.
Boss x
I’m not sure whether he should be concerned or not. Probably not. I’m quite brave on paper, and yet in person I’m not so courageous. Having the security of anonymity allows me to write with no holds barred.
The blazing heat is intense, echoing Jerry’s frustration and impatience in dealing with my inability to distinguish a plant from a weed. However, he has very little choice: one- handed, he cannot complete the preparations for the upcoming summer white party.
I lay the island for one. My phone bleeps. It’s a message from Molly.
SOS – Pete’s after work. xoxo
The message spurs me on to finish the meal – but I don’t go until I’ve left a note.
Dear Boss,
I thought I should tell you – this evening’s meal comes with a chilli warning – may you breathe with ease.
Lamb kofta, sweet potatoes with feta cheese and chilli, homemade hummus and pitta bread, with a mixed green salad.
In the fridge you will find low-fat chocolate mousse, with full-fat cookies to dip. I tried to meet your trainer halfway.
I thought the notes in the fridge were humour-related. As for my odd tendency, maybe one day I will tell you. But then you may want to run, so for now I’ll remain tight-lipped.
Cook x
As soon as I enter Pete’s, my eyes fly to Molly. She is hunched over the bar, her head low, clearly consumed with sadness. Fiona pulls me to one side.
‘Thank God you’re here. She’s been sitting there for an hour. I’ve tried to speak to her but she just nods and cries.’
‘She hasn’t said a word?’ I ask softly.
‘No. I’m worried. I’ve never seen her like this. The only thing I could think of is maybe she’s split from Danny, but I didn’t want to mention his name. I thought I would wait for you or Harry.’
‘Right, wish me luck.’
Fiona strokes my arm, offering me the strength I need to deal with the situation.
‘Molly.’
She raises her head.
‘What’s wrong? You look dreadful.’
At these words, she begins to cry. Instantly I draw her into my arms, holding her tight. Her body vibrates with painful emotions that don’t subside even when Harry walks through the door.
Harry looks as confused as me. ‘Babe, what is it? Tell us what’s wrong?’
‘Shall I get you a drink?’ I ask.
Molly nods.
‘Coffee or wine?’
‘Water.’ She tries to speak but her words are broken, hindering any coherent response.
‘You need to calm down and talk to us. Is it Danny?’
She nods again.
‘Have you broken up?’
Bowing her head, she shrugs. I now appear to be playing give us a clue.
‘So, you’re not together?’ Harry asks, because the way I asked was obviously difficult to understand.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she sobs.
Harry and I hold her close, transmitting warmth to her cold body. I pull away to assess her reaction to the news.
‘Oh babe, you don’t need to cry… Is Danny upset?’
Finally, her tears stop and she begins to relax.
‘I took a test last night…’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Danny was working late. When I saw it was positive I went straight to bed… I couldn’t face him. He left before me this morning.’ She tries to control her breathing in order to speak.
‘Why didn’t you call me last night?’ Harry hugs her, feeling guilty for allowing her friend to deal with this alone.
‘I couldn’t talk to anyone – I was in shock. I didn’t feel great, and then I realised that I had missed my period.’
‘So, you haven’t spoken to Danny yet?’ Harry looks at me, as we appear to be equally confused.
Molly shakes her head. ‘I left him a note. I told him it’s over, and we should split… He doesn’t want kids, not yet… I won’t ruin his life, he doesn’t deserve that.’
‘Bloody hell, Molly, you have to tell him – he adores you. You have to give him the choice and not make that decision for him.’ I try to make her see sense.
‘Kate’s right – you can’t keep this a secret. After all, it’s his baby too; ultimately he is going to be a dad… Oh my God, you’re going to be a mum.’ Harry begins to see the bigger picture. For the first time, Molly releases the trace of a smile.
However, as Danny suddenly appears in the entrance of the bar, her anxiety returns.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ A pissed-off Danny moves from the doorway. ‘What the bloody hell is going on? Leaving me a note? You have some serious explaining to do.’ Danny stands at her side with the ‘Dear John’ note in his hand.
‘Molly, talk to him.’ I give her my ‘do as I say’ stare.
‘What’s going on, Kate?’ Oh, shit. I’m not the kind of girl who likes to play piggy in the middle.
‘I’m pregnant.’ She said it loudly, causing the entire bar to become silent.
‘What…’ Danny needs a repeat button.
‘I’m pregnant.’ This time her delivery is quieter.
&nb
sp; Danny leans against the bar, shocked. ‘Is this why you left me the shitty note, because you’re pregnant?’
She looks at him, knowing the note was not the best course of action. ‘I know you don’t want kids; I won’t ruin your life or your career, so I thought…’
‘But that’s the point – you didn’t think. You didn’t think to bloody ask me what I wanted.’ He paces in front of her, seriously pissed off with her actions. ‘For Christ’s sake, Molly, you can’t second-guess decisions like these. No, the timing is pretty lousy, but I don’t want to lose you – and potentially our child.’
She looks at him. His words hit her hard. ‘You want the baby?’
‘Of course, but I want you more than anything else.’ In a nanosecond, Molly falls into Danny’s arms, allowing tears of relief to fall. He holds her tightly, one hand in her hair and the other resting against her lower back.
He tips her face to meet his. ‘Promise me you’ll never pull a stunt like that again… OK?’
‘OK, I’m sorry, I just didn’t—’
‘Shhh, it’s fine, we’ll be fine. I know it’ll take time to work through, but we’ll get there.’ Danny clasps Molly’s face and places a tender kiss on her lips, allowing his strength to carry them both.
Friday arrives; my second week is completed. A week of uncharted territory: my new job as a gardener, finding out Molly is pregnant, and let’s not forget that I may find full-time employment. I enter the palace and walk towards the kitchen. I laugh at the note resting on the centre shelf of the fridge – wow, my life is certainly getting stranger by the week…
Dear Cook,
Breathing once again is at its all-time best… Very clear.
Thank you for this evening’s meal, and all the meals you have cooked with care and attention.