What Would Mary Berry Do?

by Claire Sandy

  ‘Oh, right? That you will obey?’ Marie flicked at her brood with a tea towel as they fled, relieved. ‘Welcome home, love.’ The kiss she tried to give her husband missed his lips, thanks to his startled jerk at the insertion of Prinny’s wet nose into his privates. ‘Ow!’ Marie retreated, her eye smarting from its sudden introduction to Robert’s chin. ‘That went well,’ she said, her Berry-esque tableau ruined.

  ‘I don’t want any fuss,’ said Robert, the last word dying on his lips as he saw the cake standing proudly on the kitchen table. ‘Ah!’ He turned to Marie, folded her into his arms. ‘I do want fuss. It’s lovely. I love it.’

  ‘It’s not for you,’ she said, allowing herself to be folded. ‘It’s . . . just because.’

  ‘It is for me,’ insisted Robert, ‘isn’t it?’

  ‘How did it go? Seriously?’

  ‘Fine. It went fine.’ Robert felt his wife fidget, but he didn’t let her go as he remembered all the mundane things he’d done today, which had felt anything but mundane because it was the last time he’d do them: dropping his correspondence in the big mesh box; switching his phone to ‘out of office’; winking goodbye at his assistant; blotting out the muzak in the lift; hearing the groan of the sticky main door as it closed behind him.

  ‘How do you feel?’ asked Marie, quieter now, cheek-to-cheek.

  ‘I feel . . .’ Robert didn’t want to pick apart how his last day at work had made him feel. Since his meeting a month ago with Magda, time had speeded up, delivering him to this threshold so fast he was breathless. The past, back behind that sticky door, was busy, purposeful and, from his current perspective, safe. When he’d asked for a redundancy package, Magda’s dismay had alarmed him. She’d repeated You’re sure about this? before acquiescing: was he, Robert had wondered, front runner for the new position after all? His second thoughts had been only momentary. I’m sure, he’d said, with a certainty he couldn’t match today.

  ‘If I’m honest, love, I feel a bit numb.’

  Marie shifted: now she was the hugger and Robert the huggee. Their heads bent over each other’s necks like swans, they summoned up the marital forcefield, an iridescent bubble that kept the outside world at bay. Surprised by the scale of the redundancy money – she’d resisted, so far, the temptation of working out how many spa mini-breaks it represented – Marie knew that Robert couldn’t be ‘redundant’ for long. Early retirement was not an option for him, any more than it had been for her dad, who’d still been running his building business when Alzheimer’s had whispered in his ear and taken the files out of his hands.

  ‘This is nice,’ said Robert, his voice indistinct from inside Marie’s hair.

  ‘Not numb any more?’ she asked gently.

  The mobile in her pocket buzzed and broke the moment. Reluctantly they pulled apart. ‘Can’t I have you to myself for a minute or two?’ Robert was woebegone. ‘That’s Lu, I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Marie. The contents of the message prompted her brows to knit together. ‘Listen, I need to pop over to hers.’ She saw the sigh he repressed. ‘Just for a minute or two,’ she lied. ‘Be nice.’

  ‘I am,’ said Robert tersely, ‘very nice.’

  That was true. He was far nicer than most men would be about an omnipresent third party in their marriage and in their kitchen.

  Trotting over with a slice of cake, Marie found Lucy breaking and entering the drinks cabinet with a screwdriver, as Cookie danced at her feet. ‘Tod took the keys with him when he left,’ she said, reaching into the innards of the mahogany colossus. ‘Let’s have a dram of his oh-so-precious whisky!’ She gingerly picked up two heavy, glittering tumblers. ‘This feels naughty. Tod was so pretentious about his malts and his crystal.’ She paused. ‘I talk about him as if he’s dead.’

  ‘Cake!’ said Marie, swapping a slice for a glass. She was trying to assess Lucy’s mood; skittery, evasive, her friend was full of a dark energy.

  ‘The colours!’ Lucy gasped at the rainbow cake, as Cookie stood to attention, watchful for crumbs. ‘Breathtaking.’ She washed down a huge mouthful with a slurp of whisky, which made her eyes swim. ‘It tastes divine. I could never produce anything so heavenly.’

  For the first time Marie didn’t swat away the compliment. Perhaps she’d finally caught up with Lucy in terms of skill. Perhaps, one day, she’d catch up with Mary. If she lived to be a thousand and one. ‘The cake is to say Well done.’

  ‘Well done for not getting the job?’ Lucy snorted. ‘It’s more of a Sorry you’re past it, in that case. I was the oldest candidate by about – ooh, let’s see, twenty years.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘I felt like a museum piece.’ Lucy drained her glass and ignored Marie’s concerned look as she refilled it. ‘How can everything have changed in PR in so short a time? It’s all bloody digital now. We used carrier pigeons in my day.’ She wheeled around. ‘I’ve got bras that are older than the other candidates!’

  ‘Sit down. Tell all.’ Marie dropped to the sofa and patted a cushion. ‘Did they give you any encouraging feedback?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Lucy looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘The managing director asked me out for a drink.’ She grimaced. ‘Does that count as feedback?’

  Ever the romantic, Marie bounced at this news. ‘Get you!’ she said admiringly. ‘Was he handsome?’

  The ‘no’ was unconvincing when backed up by lowered eyes.

  ‘You fancied him!’ Marie embraced this swerve to lighter fare: they could discuss the interview in more detail when Lucy had recovered from the initial sting.

  ‘Maybe I should have said yes.’ Lucy necked another two fingers of fire-water. ‘Maybe Tod’s right, and it’s my only talent: netting a man.’

  ‘That’s the booze talking.’ Marie rose and took the glass out of Lucy’s hand. ‘And the booze is, as usual, a moron. You have plenty of attributes. Charm. Intelligence. Dab hand with a spatula. And you can learn about the digital whatsits.’ Marie, who had tweeted just once (helo is this on) had every confidence in clever Lucy: enough, she hoped, for both of them. ‘You can net a man in the future, when you’re in the mood. When,’ she added softly, seeing the air of dejection that dulled Lucy’s pearly skin, ‘you’re ready.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, but God, it’s scary being alone. Especially when it’s becoming obvious I can’t make a living. I can’t keep me and Chloe fed and clothed and . . .’

  ‘You’re panicking, Lu. You’ll manage. We’ll help, you know that.’

  ‘I do. I do know that. You and Robert have been amazing.’ Suddenly, vehemently, Lucy said, ‘I’m nostalgic for what you have with him,’ before slowing down to say wonderingly, ‘even though I’ve never had it.’

  ‘We’re not special,’ said Marie. She reconsidered. That was both disloyal and untrue. She and Robert were super special. But in an ordinary way. ‘Everybody in love is special. Does that make sense? It’s not some weird skill, or fate. It just . . . happens.’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Lucy. The sentiment was morose, but she had rebooted her expression so that it was wry rather than unhappy.

  ‘Run a bath,’ advised Marie. ‘Have a quiet evening – just you and Chloe. Put the interview behind you, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Except Chloe’s out tonight. Little gadabout,’ added Lucy, pleased at her stepdaughter’s new freedoms.

  ‘Oh, so . . .’ Marie put her head on one side. ‘Ours for supper then?’

  ‘No, no, I’m always there. In your way.’ Lucy did her best, but her reluctance was unconvincing.

  ‘Rubbish. Fancy a takeaway?’

  ‘For me? Please?’ Marie looped the silk around her husband’s neck as he pawed her away. ‘Humour me!’ She stood back and surveyed her handiwork.

  Tucking the knotted scarf into his dressing gown, Robert said sceptically, ‘Is it supposed to be a cravat?’

  ‘It is a cravat.’

  ‘It’s the bloody horrible headscarf my mother bought yo
u last Christmas.’

  ‘It’s a cravat now.’ Marie handed him a cigar and pushed him down onto the conservatory sofa. The wicker groaned, and so did Robert. ‘You’re a man of leisure. You should dress the part.’ She sat beside him, leaning in, making herself small – or as small as Marie could manage. ‘Although, in Mills & Boon, international playboys don’t boast about the crust on their multiseed bloomer.’

  ‘Reminds me.’ Robert checked his watch over her head. ‘I should get those buns out of the oven.’

  ‘Leave them a minute. I’m comfy.’ Marie burrowed into his side, enjoying the way his arm tightened automatically around her. ‘Remember just a few months ago when it was too cold to venture into the conservatory? We left the wine out here to chill. And now look at us. Luxuriating.’

  ‘Are you trying to illustrate that everything changes, in a poetic – if somewhat wanky – way?’

  ‘Yes,’ laughed Marie, hoping he grasped her point. Returning, thoughtful and preoccupied, from Lucy’s, the scene she’d found in the kitchen had dismayed her. Radio blaring, Robert had been gyrating in a cyclone of self-raising flour, slinging tins in and out of the oven, pummelling dough, playing drums on a biscuit tin with his set of measuring spoons. Such classic displacement activity had moved her, and she needed to find a way to tell him that he was no more out to grass than Lucy: they both simply had to regroup and launch themselves back into the fray. ‘I’m saying that everything is circular. It changes, but it stays the same. Like the seasons. Like the Earth revolving around the Sun.’

  They stared up through the glass roof at the purple starless sky, until Robert twitched and sat forward.

  ‘Is that a gun in your pocket,’ asked Marie, dragging him back to her. ‘Or are you pleased to see me?’

  ‘It’s a timer in my pocket,’ said Robert, taking out a small chrome stopwatch. He pressed the button, and put his face close to hers. ‘But, since you mention it, I am pleased to see you.’

  The doorbell interrupted quite a quality kiss.

  ‘Let me guess . . .’ said Robert, relinquishing his wife and heading for the door, where she heard him say, ‘Lu! Come in!’

  After an inauspicious start, the evening relaxed into the usual blend of low-key jokes and comfortingly banal chatter. Robert, perhaps regretting his earlier churlishness, was attentive to Lucy as they lingered over the last few poppadoms in the darkening garden, and soon the humiliating interview had been reduced to an anecdote they could quote and return to again and again, all its venom neutralised.

  When Robert dashed back to the oven, heeding the siren call of yet another timer, Lucy asked, ‘What’s he making?’

  ‘What isn’t he making?’ In the bright kitchen Robert seemed to be beating something small to death, but Marie knew he was kneading. ‘He’s baking like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s got a gun to his head.’

  ‘D’you think he’ll let me help?’

  ‘Um . . . yeah.’ Marie hoped this wouldn’t test Robert’s mood. He, too, had had a long, emotional day. She watched Lucy tentatively go back into the house, saw her husband nod, watched them put their heads together over a recipe and smiled to herself.

  Watching Robert, tuning into something she vaguely perceived but couldn’t quite pin down, Marie knew something else was cooking, along with the bread.

  Even, strong, white: Chloe’s teeth were like Tod’s. ‘If all my patients were like you,’ said Marie, lowering the chair, ‘I’d be broke in no time.’

  ‘I don’t need any fillings? None at all?’ Chloe looked puzzled. ‘That other dentist – the funny little fat one across the road – told me I’d need loads of stuff done.’

  ‘He was fibbing,’ said Marie, leading her out to reception. ‘Lynda here will send you a reminder to come back in six months’ time, but until then, keep flossing.’

  ‘Here.’ Lynda handed Chloe a paper bag. ‘Free today to every patient.’

  ‘Rolls,’ said Chloe, peeping into the bag. Then, puzzled, ‘Rolls?’

  ‘Yes, rolls,’ said Aileen. ‘Her mentalist husband can’t stop making them. We’ve got them coming out of our arses.’

  ‘Beautifully put,’ said Marie. Walking Chloe to the door, she asked, ‘How’s the Loosen-Up Lum campaign going?’

  ‘Not bad, not bad. She went a bit finicky after that interview, but she’s fine now, most of the time. During the day.’ Chloe screwed up her dainty nose. ‘But late at night she kind of deflates. As if somebody’s pulled out her plug. That’s when we sit down and watch a Seinfeld or an old MasterChef. If she’s very miz, I make her a hot chocolate. Lum loves my hot chocolate. I do it all posh, with chocolate on top and everything.’

  ‘That’s so sweet.’ Marie hurriedly rearranged the face she was making. It was the face she made at YouTube kittens or the twins’ baby photos, and Chloe would not welcome it. ‘I know Lucy’s doing her best to help you through this horrible period, but actually it’s mutual. You’re looking after each other, aren’t you?’

  ‘S’pose.’ Chloe’s rocky family life hadn’t embittered her: instead it had strengthened her compassion. Freed from Tod’s mind games and his crazily high standards, she was less anxious, more herself. ‘Lum spent so much of her time running around after my dad, like some freaky robot housewife, that now he’s vamoosed there’s a big gap in her life. That’s partly why I said yes to her big idea.’ Chloe clocked Marie hurriedly, as if to ensure she was in the loop, before going on. ‘I mean I want to do it, of course I do, but it’s bloody – sorry, I mean very – frightening.’ Chloe put her hand on the latch.

  ‘I think it’s a good idea. A brave one. Just take it one day at a time,’ advised Marie, passing on her own mother’s words. ‘Or one luxury hot chocolate at a time.’

  ‘I’ll do an extra-spesh one tonight,’ said Chloe. ‘Unless she’s at yours again, like last night.’

  ‘Was she at . . .’ Marie frowned, the gentlest of dips in her brow. ‘I was at a seminar. Advanced Endodontics.’ She looked sideways at Chloe. ‘I can tell you’re jealous.’ As Chloe tittered, Marie wondered why Robert hadn’t mentioned Lucy’s visit. The state of the kitchen – as if terrorists had been training, using baking ingredients – told her he’d been cooking: had Lucy come over to help again? The two of them bent over a recipe, conspiring over brown-sugar levels and icing consistency. Like the evening before. And the one before that.

  And, come to think of it, the one before that. Chloe sprang back as the door began to open. Angus and the twins were abruptly there, spilling through the door like a human 3-for-2 offer.

  ‘Chloe Chloe Chloe!’ Rose was overcome to see her favourite big girl out of the blue.

  ‘Ladies.’ Chloe bowed gravely. The twins giggled like hamsters on Ecstasy. They couldn’t love Chloe any more if she came with a free Beano annual.

  ‘Maximilian!’ shouted Lynda.

  ‘What a lovely name!’ Iris and Rose surged towards the receptionist. ‘Can we touch your bump?’ Reverently they caressed the taut arc of Lynda’s sundress. ‘Does it have teeth yet?’ asked Rose. ‘Imagine if it came out and it was a teeny horse!’

  ‘Oh!’ Iris clasped her hands together and screwed up her freckly face in supplication to the Lord. ‘I do hope it’s gay!’

  ‘What are you lot doing here?’ Although always glad to see the faces of those she’d given birth to, Marie was in the middle of a busy afternoon.

  ‘Something you have to sign, for school.’ Rose turned her backpack upside down on the coffee table and began to sift through the primary-school sediment of pens and pencils and erasers, and gonks and highlighters and key rings, and pebbles and sweet wrappers. ‘A permission for the visit to the owl sanctuary. It should have been brought in today and I really, really want to go. I love owls so much, I really do, and Iris handed hers in, so Angus said he’ll take me back with it, if you sign it now.’

  His face a slab of granite, Angus squatted and helped his sister root through the debris, as stern and unapproachable as a Victorian papa.<
br />
  Marie, bending to rifle, stole a glance at Chloe. One hand on the door handle, she was patiently itemising the rings on her fingers for Iris, who gazed at each cheap silver skull-and-heart as if they were sacred relics. Chloe glanced at Angus, but her expression was impenetrable to Marie. It stood to reason that the girl must be shocked by his retreat into rude standoffishness after their short period of harmony, but Chloe was, Marie realised, much more mature than Angus. She’d been tested in ways that, thank God, Angus hadn’t.

  ‘Gotta go,’ said Chloe, gently removing Iris’s fingers from her own. ‘Don’t want to be accused of always being here. Laters.’

  ‘Ooh, laters,’ said Iris. ‘Yeah! Laters, Chlo!’

  A tall man, self-conscious in shorts, caught the door as Chloe left.

  ‘Hi, Mr Kinney,’ said Lynda from her desk, gesturing to a seat with the grace of a prima ballerina. ‘Marie won’t be a moment.’

  ‘Come on, kids,’ muttered Marie. ‘Find this thing and I’ll sign it, and you can all disappear.’

  ‘Remember this?’ said Rose nostalgically, holding a crumpled form under Iris’s nose. She didn’t seem to have caught the Get out! subtext in her mother’s tone.

  ‘Oh yeah!’ Iris examined the piece of paper. ‘Angus, we were going to interview all the girls in the neighbourhood to find out who you should go out with.’ With a look of irritation that converted to intrigue, Angus looked over her shoulder, drawn in by the sloping rows of questions and answers.

  ‘We only interviewed Chloe, in the end,’ said Iris. ‘We didn’t bother with anybody else because she’s perfect.’

  ‘Found it!’ Rose’s permission slip was so creased that Marie could barely scribble her name over the paper’s peaks and chasms. ‘Hurray! I’m going to meet loads of owls, and maybe buy one!’

  ‘Bitch!’ blurted Angus, reaching over Iris to snatch up the girlfriend questionnaire and aim it at the bin.