by Jenny Oliver
Dex was peering under his tea towel. ‘Bubble, you little buggers.’
‘OK, put the yeast to one side and we’ll move on to the egg.’
‘But I haven’t done mine yet,’ said Jimmy, looking worried.
‘What have you been doing?’ Dex shouted. ‘It’s just stirring the stuff in water.’
‘I’ve got some leftover water, Jimmy.’ Eve went over to his bench with her saucepan and poured her perfect-temperature water into his bowl.
Jimmy had his hands on his head, flustered. Libby paused where she was, not quite ready to help him, not quite able to forget what she’d overheard him saying last night about Jake. So it was a relief when Eve showed him what to do with his yeast. Libby watched him laugh at something Eve said, saw her reach right over past him and him maybe smell her hair—or just conveniently inhale—as she grabbed an egg from the packet and broke it into another bowl. She wanted to warn him off. Didn’t want Eve led down that path. But she knew it wouldn’t make any difference. It would play out whether she wanted it to or not.
The thought had echoes of Jimmy not telling her about Jake. And she realised that it wasn’t that he didn’t tell her about the affairs that bothered her. It was the fact that he knew.
And that made her feel stupid.
Embarrassed.
It undercut everything that she had thought she had.
‘See, now you’re level with the rest of us,’ Eve said. Jimmy nodded and turned cockily round to Dex to say, ‘I’m up to speed, I’m with you.’
Dex rolled his eyes and went back to beating his egg.
‘What next?’ Jessica called from the back.
‘So now your yeast will be ready so it’s flour, yeast, egg into your mixers.’ Libby strolled up and down the central aisle as she spoke.
‘Mine doesn’t work,’ shouted Jimmy.
‘Plug it in, you doofus,’ said Dex.
Eve laughed.
‘Add a pinch of salt,’ said Libby, trying to remain the in-control grown-up. ‘And then it’s the butter, vanilla, and the zest of your lemon.’
‘OK no, mine’s a disaster. It’s like sick.’ Jimmy clicked the head of his mixer up and stared down at his mixture.
Dex peered over his counter. ‘It is like sick. Exactly like sick.’
Miles turned around to have a look, gave a wry snort of laughter, and turned back to his own dough.
Libby walked over and looked into Jimmy’s bowl. ‘OK, it’s just a bit curdled. We’ll fix it.’
Jimmy took a step back as she started to rescue his mix, instinctively putting space between them.
She felt him watching as she pulled it back to a smooth consistency. When she slid the bowl along the counter back to him he stepped forward with a nod. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome,’ she replied, but neither of them quite met the other’s eye.
JESSICA
They sat outside in the morning sun as the dough rose. Libby brought out little honey cakes and some liquorice biscotti that she’d somehow managed to knock up the night before, while Jessica made coffee.
Dex was meant to be helping Jessica but he was just leaning against the counter eating biscotti, saying, ‘It’s exhausting, this cooking. I am exhausted.’ As he popped another into his mouth he added, ‘So how are you doing with Miles?’
‘Awkwardly.’
Dex snorted.
‘It really would have been nice if you’d told me he was coming before we arrived,’ she said, pushing the plunger down on the cafetière.
‘You wouldn’t have come if I had.’
Jessica didn’t reply.
‘It’ll be good for you,’ Dex said, and then poured himself a coffee and strode outside saying, ‘So what are you up to these days, Miles?’
Miles had his eyes shut leaning back in his chair. He rolled his head round to answer, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. ‘Still at the label,’ he said.
‘Doing well?’ Dex asked with a little smirk on his lips.
Miles shrugged. ‘Pretty well,’ he said, his eyes narrowed slightly as he waited for what was coming next.
Dex nodded. ‘And you’re not doing any of your own stuff any more?’
Miles shook his head, holding in a smile. ‘No. No, I’m not.’
‘No gigs?’
‘No gigs.’
‘Well, thank the Lord,’ Dex said with a grin as he plonked himself down in his seat. ‘I think that makes the world a safer, more melodious place.’
Libby gave him a little thump on the arm.
Miles closed his eyes again, refusing to rise to the bait any longer.
Jimmy chuckled as he soaked up the sun.
Jessica watched from the doorway. She remembered so clearly the evening that Miles had got the call from the record company to say they were interested in his stuff. To ask him to come in for a meeting. He’d walked into the living room, all of them sitting round about to go out, and mumbled the news. Flo had jumped up and made a massive fuss, run to the fridge to get a bottle of champagne. Miles had waved it away, awkward from the attention.
Jessica remembered being so amazed. So in awe. She’d asked all sorts of really serious technical questions, trying to prise out the answers in between Flo popping the champagne cork and sloshing it into glasses.
At the time it had never occurred to her why there had been a bottle of champagne in the fridge ready and waiting. Or why none of the others shared her amazement. She’d caught Dex rolling his eyes as he’d drained his glass.
She couldn’t understand it. Jessica had spent hours lying on Miles’s bed listening to him strumming on his guitar, soaking up all his chat about the venues he would one day play.
For a girl who had spent most of her life sitting in her bedroom alone listening to music she’d managed to borrow from friends at school, Miles was akin to suddenly waking up and finding herself living with a bona fide superstar. She was living in this flat where everything was allowed and no one was afraid. No one locked all the windows and the doors at half past nine. No one shouted. No one had even read the Bible. People touched, they snuggled, they kissed. It was the world in all its technicolour. And Miles was everything her mother warned her about. He was sullen. He sneered. He liked to lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling. He liked to listen to obscure new music. He liked to do all of those things, with her. And in her naivety, Jessica had been certain Miles had what it took to be the next big thing.
The thought of it now actually made her have to stifle her own smile as she slid the tray of coffees onto the table, the sharp, bitter tang twining like smoke with the sunshine scent of the lemon groves.
She’d never laughed at anything that involved the two of them before and it was quite liberating.
Miles opened one eye. ‘Thanks, Jessica,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ she replied, taking her mug and going to sit in one of the chairs furthest away from him on the opposite side of the table, snatching up a couple of biscotti before Dex demolished them all.
Jessica had been no match for Flo. She was tall and confident, spoke exactly what was in her head, she was funny and charming with hair the colour of ebony and an innate cool that came from growing up in New York with music industry parents. She knew all of Miles’s adored bands and then some—she’d met them, she’d smoked cigarettes with them on the tour bus, she’d danced at their house parties. Did she like their music? Sure, why not … The thing was, Flo liked everything. She knew about everything. She could lounge on the sofa playing PlayStation wearing cashmere and hundred-dollar foundation as coolly and comfortably as she could fly out of the door in a gifted designer dress to the BAFTAs because her dad was in town and had got her a ticket.
And the thing about Flo was she got what she wanted, whenever she wanted it. And her sights, at that time, were set on bagging herself a British bad boy with razor sharp cheekbones and a tortured soul.
It had transpired that the record exec who’d called was a fri
end of Flo’s dad and the meeting had never gone any further. But it was enough to start the ball rolling between the two of them.
And gradually Miles’s soul became less tortured as he adapted to Flo’s lifestyle.
The business class flights back to New York, the backstage passes, the Ralph Lauren clothes, and the job at the record label. All while Jessica watched from the sidelines unable to get in.
EVE
They ate their cornetti straight from the oven. Like lemon candyfloss the layers pulled on and on with every bite, the piping hot pastry burning their chins. But they’d barely finished their last mouthfuls when Libby said, ‘We should probably get to work.’
Eve internally sighed. She couldn’t bear another afternoon arguing with her about furnishings so, as they all heaved themselves up the path, she stopped Miles and said, ‘Do you think we could swap? I’ll do the garden.’
Miles frowned. ‘You sure? It’s really hot.’
‘Yeah, I’ll wear a hat.’ Even the midday sun was preferable to watching her beloved wallpaper disappear under a coat of white emulsion.
‘OK.’ Miles nodded and jogged up to join Libby who glanced back over her shoulder when she heard the news but didn’t object.
Eve knew it was dangerous working with Jimmy. She could feel her mind wandering. Could feel a prickle on her skin whenever she was with him. And, because he’d hardly changed one inch, being with him made her feel younger. Made her forget about the new lines on her face and the dark circles under her eyes.
He slung his arm around her shoulder, a pair of secateurs in one hand and an electric strimmer in the other, and she felt engulfed by the strength of him. Couldn’t help comparing him to Peter who was slim built and slight—had never set foot in a gym or on a court in his life. They were exact opposites in every way. And being so close to Jimmy now, seeing how he strolled through life without a care, ignited something within her, some sense of wrong that was yet to be put right. Something completely other to the Eve she had become and right back to the core of who she was.
‘Right then, Evie. We’ve got work to do,’ he said, and they spent the next couple of hours hacking away undergrowth.
As the early afternoon sun raged above them, Eve looked at her arms and realised she was starting to burn. ‘Jimmy, I’m going to go and get some more sun cream,’ she said.
‘OK, no worries,’ he called, lopping off a frond of exotic cactus.
When she came back out, however, she couldn’t find him anywhere. The garden tools were all leaning neatly up against the outhouse alongside the wheelbarrow.
‘Jimmy?’ she called, and when there was no answer she started walking further to the bottom of the garden. She peered into the shadows of the forest, inhaling the sharp smell of pine and lemon and lake. The sliver of lake she could see was glass flat, the occasional dart of sunlight bouncing off the surface. All around her the sound of cicadas buzzed like white noise. Jimmy’s t-shirt was slung over a fence post, still warm to the touch.
She stood on tiptoe to see further and caught sight of him right in the middle of the forest, sitting legs crossed, his hands on his knees, back straight, bare chest, staring out towards the water.
The idea of him meditating made her do a little snort of laughter to herself as she climbed over the old wooden fence and walked over to join him. The trunks towered above her, the odd pine cone falling with a thump from up high. White pigeons cooed from their perches.
She pulled off her hat as the canopy of branches shaded the glare of the sun.
‘Is this mindfulness or meditation?’ she asked as she got close enough, fallen pine needles crunching underfoot.
Jimmy didn’t turn. ‘I prefer not to label it.’
Eve laughed. ‘Of course you do.’
Still he didn’t move. ‘Take a seat. I think it’d be good for you.’
‘Oh you do, do you?’ she said, with no intention of sitting down.
‘Get rid of some of the tension.’
‘I’m not tense.’
She saw his shoulders shake slightly with a laugh. ‘Eve, you’re so tense you’re like a spring.’
‘I am not.’
He gave a tiny shrug. ‘Suit yourself.’
She walked past him to look out at the water. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘I was looking at the water. Now I’m looking at you.’
She turned and realised she was completely blocking his view. ‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Seriously, come and sit down,’ he said, shifting over to make room for her on his towel.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s weird.’
‘What happened to the hippy in you?’
‘I was never a hippy.’
‘You used to try things.’
‘I still try things.’
‘Well, sit down then.’
She stood for a minute, contemplating the suggestion. The idea of meditating made her feel foolish but Jimmy didn’t seem to have any intention of doing anything but.
She folded herself down so she was sitting on the ground cross-legged. Glancing over to him for pointers she couldn’t help but notice all his muscles, the tattoos snaking down one half of his torso.
He glanced over and caught her staring. Smiling, he said, ‘Now just sit and let your mind become quiet.’
‘Don’t I need a mantra?’ she remembered her dad with all his hippy cronies sitting on the hill at Glastonbury chanting but, in retrospect, that was probably more to do with the drugs than any form of meditation.
‘Do you want a mantra?’
‘Do you have a mantra?’ she asked.
‘I prefer not to have a mantra but I can give you one if you’d like.’
‘No, no. If you don’t need one, I don’t need one.’
Jimmy laughed through his nose.
They sat together in silence.
Eve kept glancing across at him without moving her head.
Jimmy was completely still.
She looked out at the sun. It was bigger here than at home, dangling like a Christmas bauble from the thin wisps of cloud, teetering on the verge of plunging straight into the lake.
She looked at the water; rays of sun reflected like landing strips in the blue.
She looked at the trees; the shadows danced on the rough, ridged bark.
She looked back at Jimmy.
There was so much she wanted to say. A blob of bird poo had fallen from the tree and she wanted to laugh. She wanted to make sure that underneath it all Jimmy thought this was all a bit ridiculous. She wanted to know if they were going to go for a drink afterwards or carry on with the garden. At the very least she wanted to make some funny quip about the fact that his cornetto hadn’t risen at all, coming out of the oven more like a pancake.
‘So what do you think about?’ she said into the silence.
‘I try not to think about anything.’
‘Nothing? I can’t think about nothing.’
‘Well, try to let your thoughts just flow past you,’ he said without moving his head. ‘Observe but don’t get involved.’
‘Like a conveyer belt?’ Eve said. ‘Like the Generation Game?’ she added with a little smirk.
Jimmy didn’t reply.
Peter would have laughed.
Peter would have laughed at the whole set-up. Rolled his eyes at the very notion of sitting in a pine forest meditating.
And somehow, while that made her miss him, it also hardened her resolve to sit in the pine forest and meditate, purely because he wouldn’t have done it. Because they were on a break and this was the time to do all the things she didn’t do as one half of their couple.
But it was so boring.
‘I think there’s an ant trying to get into my pants,’ she said after a minute.
‘Probably.’
‘What if it’s a poisonous red ant?’
‘Eve?’
‘Yes.’
‘Be quiet.’
She made a face but, chastened, sat in silence staring at the sun. Then she shut her eyes and watched the bright blue stain on her retina play on her closed lids. She could smell the pine. She could smell the lemons. It had been months since she’d come up with a new fragrance. She should have had a new drop for summer but she hadn’t been satisfied with anything and had instead gone back to her archive and rereleased a classic—geranium and white rose. She had assumed the inspiration would come, but for five months she’d been staring at her notebook trying to think of something that excited her.
The previous year she’d been giddy with excitement, overflowing with it, because she’d been approached by a department store for a brand partnership. In her haste to secure the deal, terrified that they might come to their senses and choose someone else, she’d misunderstood the contractual small print and handed over almost complete exclusivity which, in the end, had come close to breaking her. She had watched her name and her beloved brand suddenly skewed and morphed to whatever the store wanted. She lost the majority of her other stockists, had to renege on smaller deals and all fledgling projects, while her life became a constant publicity campaign for the brand partnership events. All while juggling the twins. A lawyer she drafted in too late confirmed that she could do nothing but sit and wait it out.
And when the term ended at the beginning of the year she had been expecting, alongside her new freedom, a giant wave of creativity. But instead she had found herself frozen rigid. Her creative spirit flattened. Her muse squashed. Preferring to skirt the issue completely she poured more and more energy into the kids. Into the kale. Or lack thereof.
Now as she sat, her life moving slowly past her eyes on a supermarket conveyer belt in her head, she found herself thinking about fragrance. About the pine and the lemon and how it was sweetened somehow with the freshness that came from the lake. To recreate it, she maybe needed a herb. Thyme, perhaps, or bay. And something to replicate the warmth. A sliver of chilli or maybe amber oil. Honey could work but might make it all too sweet. She narrowed her eyes as she tried to imagine the smell.
Then the silence was broken as Jimmy said, ‘So you’re on a break, then?’