“Don’t worry,” Faith said, though she hoped he’d insist.
“Another night, then? When are you free?”
Faith shook her head. “I’ve got functions all week,” she said. “My first free evening is next Wednesday.”
“Is that the twentieth?”
Faith nodded.
“Perfect!” James patted her knee triumphantly. “That’s my birthday. Let’s go out for dinner. Where shall we go? Back to that Greek place?”
“Oh, no! If it’s your birthday I should cook for you.”
“No need. You cook every day. Let me treat you.”
“I’d like to,” Faith insisted. “Please. I cook for a living because I like it. And anyway, it’s different cooking for you.”
James shrugged. “If that’s what you want,” he said.
“Shall I bring it to yours?” She hadn’t been to his house yet. She didn’t even know exactly where it was, except somewhere in the posh bit of North Oxford.
“I’ve got builders in next week, I’m afraid. I’ll come to you straight after work, shall I? Six thirty-ish?”
“Seven,” said Faith. “Then I’ll be cleared up and ready.”
She leaned her head across the gap between them, aiming for his shoulder but finding herself propped at an awkward angle against his elbow. She extracted herself with a little wriggle and they both laughed and things felt better.
“Shall we have some music on?” said James. “Less than an hour now, I reckon.”
Faith cleared the afternoon of November 20th to cook for James. She put on a CD of Katie Melua he’d given her, laid out everything she needed and put a bottle of white wine in the fridge so she could pour herself a glass when it got to six o’clock. She rarely drank anything when she cooked for clients, but there was nothing nicer than a cold glass of wine while you did the finishing touches. It put you in the right mood, added a bit of extra pleasure to the food.
She’d spent ages thinking about what to make. It was like miniature painting, she thought, cooking for two: working with a tiny brush, making little delicate strokes rather than covering a whole great area with paint. And that gave her an idea. She’d make everything extra-small, a taster menu with eight or nine bite-sized courses. All things she could prepare in advance, so she wouldn’t have to keep jumping up and down while they were eating, spoiling the atmosphere.
She’d had so many ideas that it had been almost impossible to choose, but in the end she’d got it down to a selection she was happy with. An amuse-bouche first, foie gras on little circles of toast with caperberries on top. Soup, served in espresso cups: chestnut and field mushroom with truffle oil. Then ceviche, made with thin slices of Dover sole and salmon, marinaded in lime juice and ginger, served with a dash of soy sauce and a hint of wasabi. As a savoury, soft-top mini cheese muffins, made with Brie and chopped black grapes in petit four cases, slipped into the oven when she got the soup out. Then a pink grapefruit sorbet to clear the palate, one melon-ball-sized scoop each in a shot glass, followed by miniature Beef Wellingtons and baby vegetables: new potatoes the size of cherries, squat Chantenay carrots, leeks narrow as cigarettes. Chocolate soufflé served in egg cups, white and dark swirled together and garnished with Morello cherries. A cheese board filled with whole, tiny cheeses, crottins and mini mozzarella balls and a few others she’d found in the cheese shop in the Covered Market, and then extra-small petits fours. Minute rounds of shortcake topped with slivers of crystallised orange peel and dipped in melted chocolate; blocks of fudge cut so small you almost needed tweezers to pick them up.
So much effort, she thought, for such a small volume of food. Erica would think she was mad. But Erica had gone away for a few days with her new boyfriend – Scarborough or somewhere. Not as classy as Aldeburgh, Faith told herself smugly, though maybe one bit of sea was much like another, if it was in England in the middle of winter. Anyhow, if Erica didn’t understand the pleasure of putting so much care into preparing a meal for someone, she was missing something. Faith felt like a Geisha, lavishing her skills on James’s pleasure, and the thought made her feel all melting inside, just like the fudge she’d allowed herself to taste earlier on.
By six o’clock she’d finished most of the preparations: just the garnishing to do, the presentation and decoration that would turn what she’d made into a work of art. An exhibition, she thought with satisfaction, carefully planned so not just the flavours but the colours and shapes and textures followed one another in a pleasing way. Oh, she was good at this.
She poured herself a glass of wine, stacked all the dirty dishes into the family-sized dishwasher, and lifted her best plates down from the cupboard. She’d bought tiny pink rosebuds for the table and dug out the linen cloth she’d brought back from a holiday in Ireland. The table was the perfect size for two: with any more guests, she had to serve buffet-style, plates on knees.
At half past six she had a shower, opening a new bottle of ginseng shower gel, then she blow-dried her hair and slipped on the black dress she’d bought for the occasion.
By seven she was absolutely ready, Katie Melua back on the CD player, another dash of wine poured into her glass (she didn’t dare risk another whole one before she had anything to eat: she needed her wits about her if she was going to serve everything up in perfect condition). She’d bought James a book about the British coast, since he seemed so keen on the seaside, and it lay on the dining table beside the rosebuds and the candlestick.
James was often a bit late, and she knew he couldn’t always ring if he was still at the hospital, but as time crept on she began to wish she’d gone with his suggestion of half six. Maybe that way he’d have got away a bit earlier. Perhaps she’d have another glass of wine now, so she didn’t feel so twitchy, sitting waiting.
When eight o’clock came she felt a twinge of annoyance – not at James, of course, no one would willingly miss their own birthday celebration – but at the job that kept him tied up so late and so unpredictably. At whatever crisis had delayed him. Wasn’t there anyone else who could deal with it? Surely he wasn’t on duty, not on his birthday? It must be a private patient, she thought, some demanding woman who thought she could buy his attention at any time of day or night, sod her.
It was surprising how soon she realised he wasn’t coming. Near the end of the bottle of wine, a moment of clarity: he must have forgotten, because he’d certainly have rung her by now.
And another insight: could it really be his birthday, because who would forget what they were meant to be doing on their birthday? But why would he tell her it was, though, if it wasn’t? To make it feel like a special occasion? To make her feel special because he wanted to spend his birthday with her?
Faith lurched to her feet, walking awkwardly now in her heels. A small part of her wanted to tip all the food on the floor, in the bin, down the drain, just to show how much it didn’t matter, all that effort, and how much it did. But her professional instincts ran a checklist: ceviche, beef, soufflé mix, cheese would all keep in the fridge. The sorbet was already in the freezer. She was hungry now, and she ate the amuse-bouches and the petits fours, all of them, including the spares she’d made in case James wanted seconds, standing in the middle of the kitchen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, one by one, straight after each other.
She’d opened the red wine in advance, as James had taught her. She poured herself a glass now and washed down the petits fours, then followed it with another. What did you say, the austerity of the fruit aromas? The full-bodied finish of the flinty whatnot? She ladled the soup into espresso cups and drank it down: delicious, the flavouring perfect even without the truffle oil, which she’d been going to drizzle on at the last minute. One, two, three, four espresso cups. Lucky he wasn’t coming now, because the food was going fast. And the wine. She opened up the freezer and scooped out a dollop of sorbet which she ate straight from the spoon, and then she opened the fridge and took a handful of the dainty crottins and stuffed them in her mout
h. What a stupid idea, she thought, food in such small bites you can hardly taste it.
She tried to ignore the doorbell the next morning. No one ever rang her bell: why did they have to choose today? She pulled the covers up over her head and shouted at them to go away. She’d been in the middle of a dream, a weird dream where armies of tiny cupcakes and pork pies were battering at her head, blowing whistles loudly in her ears.
No, that was the doorbell again. Bugger it, what was it? The police, to ring so bloody-mindedly, not giving up and going away?
“All right!” she shouted, her voice coming out thick and croaky. “All right, I’m coming.”
In the few seconds it took to cross the floor, her sluggish brain thought out options. Erica, back from Scarborough early. Her Mum, about some family crisis. Oh God, the flat looked dreadful. She must have knocked into the table on her way to bed, spilt the water and scattered the flowers on the floor, the poor blameless rosebuds. And there were dirty plates all over the kitchen, as though a whole rugby team had been in here last night, making merry.
James. The one person she didn’t expect, in his best suit and polished brogues. She put words in his mouth, in the moment she stood staring at him: I can explain, he’d say, or, you must be furious, or even, can you ever forgive me?
But he didn’t say anything. He stood there, looking at her, and then he laughed, and she laughed, even though she knew she looked terrible, and he came down the last steps and shut the door behind him and took her in his arms.
“God, you look good when you’re hung over,” he said eventually, after he’d kissed her and held her for a while and taken in the chaos in the kitchen. “Did you have a good time all on your own, my poor little love?”
“No,” said Faith.
“Well, I suppose I’m glad to hear that.” He held her at arm’s length then, looked at her seriously. “I’ve got an hour,” he said. “I’ve cancelled all my new patients this morning. Shall I come and crawl into bed with you, or shall we clear up some of this mess?”
Faith couldn’t remember the call she’d made to his mobile in the middle of the night, but he was glad she’d rung, James told her, even if it had been a bit tricky understanding what she was saying. He’d been so tied up he might not have realised what an ass he’d been until it was too late to make amends.
“So what was going on, to make you forget your birthday?”
“A bizarre situation.” His voice was soft and crooning, his shirtsleeve arms wrapped around her. “Something you don’t expect these days. A young woman turned up at the hospital with a massive postpartum haemorrhage and no record of delivery.”
“A post what?”
“Heavy bleeding after giving birth. But as far as we knew she hadn’t given birth. No baby. No record of her in the maternity unit.”
“Maybe she had it somewhere else.”
“Her parents insisted there was no baby. Said she’d never been pregnant. She’d gone away for a night to stay with a friend and when she came back in the morning she was poorly, and the next thing they knew there was blood everywhere.”
“So where was the baby?”
“Someone found it early this morning. Abandoned, somewhere in Blackbird Leys.”
Faith curled against him as he recounted the details. She felt warm and safe; the muddle of last night didn’t matter now he was here. She could see the funny side of it, all that doll-sized food sitting waiting in the fridge.
“Is the baby okay?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about the mother?”
“She’ll be fine. Needed a lot of blood, a bit of stitching, but she’ll be fine.”
Faith pushed herself up on her elbow and craned her neck to look at James. “So will it be in the papers, then?” she asked. “Will you be in them? Local hero?”
James smiled faintly and lifted a finger to stroke her cheek. “She’s only fourteen, the mother. It’ll be covered by a confidentiality order – no publicity, to protect her. But I’ll be your hero, if you like.”
Chapter 27
1983
The weather had stayed squally throughout the week in Aldeburgh. After every storm Olivia hoped the clouds would be blown away to reveal a final spell of sunny summer weather, but it didn’t happen. There was never more than a morning of milky sunshine before the drizzle returned, often building up to a full-blown downpour by early evening.
While Eve was ill it hadn’t mattered so much. Olivia had been happy to potter around the house or brave the short walk to the beach, and James seemed to have an inexhaustible list of errands to occupy him: a chat with the harbourmaster, a new washer for the kitchen sink, a broken shelf in the bathroom. Olivia found his industriousness oddly restful. While he came and went she tinkered with the old piano in the glasswalled garden room behind the kitchen, amused by the translation of Beethoven and Schubert into honky-tonk. She imagined she could hear the rustle of waves, the clatter of pebbles, the wail of seagulls in the piano’s rusty workings. Decades of sun-bleached Junes and stormy Januaries, she thought, since it was last tuned. She looked out on the little garden at the back of the house and day-dreamed about being here in the full heat of summer, lying on a deckchair on the straggly lawn.
But a sense of restlessness had descended on the house since Eve had emerged from her bed.
“It’s practically autumn,” Eve said, the morning after the big storm, the well-intentioned supper spoiled by that uncomfortable conversation about the Torhousekie stalker. She was standing in the kitchen, shivering theatrically in the threadbare dressing gown she’d found on the back of a door. “It feels too early for the summer to be over. It hasn’t even been my birthday yet.”
Olivia was unlikely to forget Eve’s birthday: August 28th, right at the end of the school holidays. Eve used to bring a cake back with her at the beginning of term, and woe betide anyone who’d forgotten to pack a birthday present.
“We could have a party, before we leave,” Olivia said. “Go out for supper or something.”
“It’s my half-birthday too, on Monday,” said James. He stopped, waiting for them to react.
“The 29th?” said Olivia. “You must be a leap year baby, then.”
“What do you mean?” Eve frowned.
“If someone’s half-birthday is the 29th of August,” Olivia explained, “they must have been born on the 29th of February.”
Olivia had thought Eve would be pleased to share a celebration with James, but she shrugged dismissively, as if to say that a half-birthday was a secondary consideration.
“I feel like a game,” she said. “Is there a Monopoly set here?”
Something in Olivia’s upbringing, the trace of Protestant asceticism, made her feel playing Monopoly in the morning was rather louche. But James brought the box down from the top of a bookshelf and they set it up on the kitchen table.
“Bags I the boat,” said James.
Eve played aggressively, buying everything she landed on and building houses as soon as she could, but the luck of the dice went Olivia’s way. Within half an hour she had Park Lane and Mayfair and three of the four stations.
“Lucky sod,” said Eve, as Olivia’s Scottie dog landed on Piccadilly.
“Not so lucky. I’ve got Leicester Square already.” James waved the card at Olivia. “But we could go into partnership. What do you say, oh mistress of the board?”
“Not allowed.” Eve scowled.
“I’ll leave it,” said Olivia. “Don’t want to overextend myself.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Olivia was an only child, but she’d played enough Monopoly to know that every family had an Eve. Monopoly wasn’t the right choice for this occasion, she thought.
After a few more minutes James yawned. “I could do with stretching my legs,” he said.
“It’s pouring still.” Eve was facing the window; the others glanced towards the rain-streaked glass. “We can’t go out in that.”
“How about hide and seek?” James gave Eve a beseeching look, disarmingly boyish. “Just for a break. We can come back to this. It’s a great house for hide and seek.”
“Sardines,” Eve bargained.
She appealed to Olivia, who shrugged her shoulders. Three people wasn’t enough for either, but she was happy to leave the Monopoly for a while.
“Sardines,” said Eve again. “You hide, James, and we’ll look for you. Come on, Olivia, we’ll go and count in the cloakroom.”
The downstairs lavatory was a proper room, not a converted cupboard under the stairs. It doubled as a laundry room, with a twin tub washing machine beside the big sink and a wooden frame suspended from the ceiling for drying. One wall was covered with racks hung with sou’westers, fishing rods and all the other paraphernalia of seaside holidays, smelling of salt and damp winters.
It was several days since the two girls had been alone together, apart from Olivia’s fleeting visits to Eve’s sickbed. Watching Eve count aloud, her face still pale from her illness, Olivia was conscious of an awkwardness between them; she felt an urge to touch Eve’s arm, to show she was on her side. But Eve had got to fifty.
“You go first,” she said. “I’ll wait a bit longer. We have to keep out of each other’s way or it won’t be any fun.”
Olivia looked in the kitchen first. There were a couple of tall cupboards, but James wasn’t in either of them, nor wedged behind the high-backed chair in the corner. As she checked the pantry, she heard Eve coming out of the cloakroom and making for the stairs. She felt an odd mixture of excitement and detachment: they were too old for this, part of her said; it was a silly thing to be doing, in the middle of the morning. But something about concealment, about the chase and the quarry, stirred a primitive thrill in her belly.
The stillness of the garden room belied recent occupation. Faded cushions were slumped in the seats of old wicker chairs, and a heavy sideboard leaned against the wall, its doors, Olivia knew, swollen tight into their frames. After a cursory glance, she doubled back through the kitchen and opened the door into the sitting room. The ash from last night’s fire fluttered in the draught, spilling the scent of charcoal into the air.
The Partridge and the Pelican Page 18