‘Hello? Hello? Are you there, who is this? Evie, there’s no one there. I heard a voice but it’s gone … Hello? Sophie? … Sophie? It’s Grandma.’
Then Evie’s voice comes on: ‘Sophie, it is Evie and your grandmother calling on Monday at one o’clock. Your grandmother would like you to visit one night this week please, thank you, Sophie.’
The guilt. I have not been round for three weeks. Every weekend I have seen James and in the week I’m with him or friends.
Three weeks is a heartbeat when you’re in love, but a very long time when you’re lonely.
I bake a lemon drizzle cake, but am in such a rush taking it out of the oven to pour the syrup on immediately, that I burn myself halfway up my inner forearm, just where the oven gloves stop and my flesh starts. Careless. It is only two centimetres long but it hurts like hell. I hold it under the cold tap as long as I can bear, then hurry down and out to her flat while the cake is still warm.
Evie opens the door dressed in one of my grandma’s cloche hats and a tailored suit from the 40s. The skirt is too long, but the jacket looks great.
‘Sorry, Sophie, your grandmother is making me try on all her old clothes. She wants them to go to a good home …’ She raises her hands and shrugs her shoulders in a typical Jewish gesture that she’s picked up since she moved in.
‘It’s a little bit long for me, Mrs Klein,’ she says, heading back into the living room, where my granny looks like she’s fallen into a nap, slumped over in her chair, her legs at an awkward Kerplunk angle.
‘Grandma?’ I rush over to her in a panic and grab her arm.
She’s dead.
‘Teddy? Not the good china!’ she says, rolling her head to the other side and opening one eye.
Not so dead.
‘Is that you, Sophola?’ Her hand reaches out to touch my face. You can see every vein, bone, sinew on this aged hand; it’s like an anatomical drawing. Yet her nails, as ever, look immaculate.
‘Yes, Grandma. It’s me. I brought you a lemon cake.’
‘Bless you, darling. Evie! Three plates please! And that hat doesn’t go with that suit. Sit, Sophola, let me look at you.’
I sit on the velvet footstool by her feet. Her ankles are swollen but her legs are so fragile and knobbly now, they look like twiglets in sheepskin slippers.
‘What news?’ she says.
‘Work’s very busy. I’m in charge of my own new product development, I saw some delicious cannolis in New York …’
‘New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town!’ she croons. ‘Your father was in New York during the war. He’d only been back a few months when we met: June. So hot that year. I used to sit in the back of Papa’s shop, help serve the ices …’
I nod. I have heard this story so many times, but apart from her confusing my father with my grandfather, the details are always perfect.
‘And one day Papa bumped into Reuben Meyers who told him of a young man, newly returned, of good family, living in Bloomsbury. Papa invited him for lemon tea after threatening to throw me out of the house if I made a bad impression by foolish talk.’
My great-grandfather had managed to offload his three younger, more docile daughters already.
‘In Papa’s eyes, at twenty-five I was an “alte meid”, a disgrace!’
Evie hands over a plate of lemon cake and my grandmother curls her hand round the spoon.
‘Papa always said “if anyone better looking than a monkey asks you to marry him, go down on your knees and thank God”.’ Sound advice. ‘He said “don’t order more than a Bath bun – he’ll think you extravagant and unsuitable for a wife” … ooh, this cake!’
‘Your recipe.’
‘I know.’ There are crumbs stuck to her lipstick. She looks so very, very old now. ‘How’s your new chap?’
I wonder if she would actually like James. He’s very charming, always, but she’d see beyond that veneer. If I had to pinpoint his greatest appeal it would be his combination of manliness and boyishness. He is assertive and confident and tough, and yet has a boundless energy and silliness. Would she find him endearing or just immature? I’d really like her to meet him; her instincts are sound. ‘I’ll bring him round soon, shall I?’
‘I’d like that. How is Nicholas doing? Such a handsome boy.’
Nick was always so sweet with my grandma. When she was more mobile, he’d take her round to the local Austrian pastry shop and buy her strudel and coffees in the afternoon, and listen to her recite poetry or moan about the state of the nation. I can’t quite imagine James doing that.
‘Nick’s good. He’s in Paris making a record with a band. They’re very popular, nice melodies.’
‘Tell him I wish him all the best. Now if you’ll excuse me. Evie?’ She yawns for what seems like half a minute.
She has gone from being sparky to drained in the space of thirty seconds. There is so little energy left in her body, yet her mind is still operating on almost all cylinders. But I know that she’s so desperately bored, if she could she’d take a pill and be gone tomorrow.
I kiss her goodbye and watch as Evie leads her down the corridor.
‘What happened here?’ says James, taking my wrist gently and holding my arm.
I’d forgotten about the burn, though my skin is still angry and red.
‘Oh. Yeah … oven gloves.’
‘When?’
‘Erm … last week.’
‘Did you put cream on?’
‘No, I put it under water … it’s fine. I always scar for ages. Look, see?’
I hold out my other arm to show him the long thin scratches on the inside of my elbow that look like a feral cat has attacked.
‘I wondered where those had come from …’ He’s giving me a suspicious look.
‘James? Do I look like someone who self-harms?’ I do all my self-harming internally, thank you.
‘No! That’s not what I thought …’
‘So what? Oh! You thought I might be an IV drug user! Cool. Yep, I keep my smack habit pretty well hidden, it’s true.’
‘I don’t know, they’re just – they’ve been there ever since we met.’
‘I fell down a rather large rock in Mendoza in January, I was just wearing a vest. I scraped my arm on some stupid bracken shit. Shouldn’t have had that extra glass of Merlot before the hike.’
‘You’ve still got the scar though.’
‘Yes! Idiot. I’m telling you, it takes ages for stuff to fade. I think it’s to do with the Factor XI. I bruise really easily.’
‘Do you want to see my scars?’ he says.
‘You’ve already talked me through them … remember?’ He sometimes forgets what he has and hasn’t told me. Must be his age.
‘I have?’
‘Yes. Right elbow – sixth form rugby match, Forest vs. Chigwell, all Terry Watson’s fault. Second knuckle, right hand – unidentified drinking injury. Left knee – rafting, Canada, 1984 with Mallard. Right eyebrow – bumper cars, South Woodford Fairground, 1969. Remind me, was everything still in black and white then?’
‘Your memory is scary. Anyway, what’s for dinner, Wench?’
‘I was thinking maybe some nice, fresh Scottish heroin, or would sir perhaps prefer a crack omelette?’
He pretends to throttle me, and I fall on the floor and pretend to die.
At work the following day my phone rings – Maggie Bainbridge.
‘I have a question for you and you have ten seconds to answer. Ready?’
Please say your business is now big enough to employ me. Please ask me to work for you again!
‘Would you like to go to El Bulli on August 1st?’ Popes, woods, bears, Catholics …
‘You got a table! I can’t believe you’re inviting me as your guest! I would LOVE to!’ My high-pitched yelping has caused Lisa to frown and Eddie to smile.
‘I’m not inviting you,’ she says.
Oh shit, that’s embarrassing.
‘I finally got a table in my fifth yea
r of trying and now I’ve got a bleeding trade show all weekend in Harrogate, with fourteen clients to wine and dine at Harry Ramsden’s.’
‘You want me to help with the trade show? I can do the stand with you if you like …’
‘No, silly girl, listen: I want you to take my table for two at El Bulli and put it to bloody good use with whoever you think deserves it …’
Since I told Maggie about the whole ‘not my normal type’ conversation, she’s formed the opinion that James is an obnoxious arsehole.
‘Maggie, I owe you big time. THANK YOU!’
I hang up and immediately order her a £50 bunch of peonies – her favourite.
El Bulli! The best restaurant in the world, ever. Two million applications for a table each year, chance of getting one – thin as carpaccio.
I should take Laura. I know she’ll be my best friend till the day I die. She is my fellow horse-stealer. She is the platonic love of my life.
Besides, maybe Maggie’s right – I’m not sure James deserves such a treat.
I pick up my mobile before I can change my mind. ‘It’s me, are you free on August 1st?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes or no?’
‘… Yes?’
‘I have a table at El Bulli with our name on it, I’ll call you later about flights.’ And before he has a chance to ask what El Bulli is, or flights to where, I hang up, overexcited and ever so slightly disappointed with myself.
A week later, James and I are sitting on my living room floor with my computer on my lap.
‘So El Bulli is in Rosas,’ I say, pointing to a map on the screen, ‘and we fly to Barcelona …’
‘It’s near France; you could fly to Perpignan couldn’t you?’ asks James, taking the computer from me. ‘Bonder Junior has a little place there, we could go down to the Languedoc for a few days, drink good wine, eat cheese….’ he says, patting his belly.
‘Good plan,’ I say, standing up and leaning over to kiss him upside down.
‘Mmmm, where are you going?’ he says, trying to pull me back.
‘Water, you want?’ He nods. While I’m in the kitchen, the doorbell rings.
My neighbour, Amber.
What’s she doing here? She must have heard us come in – probably wants to see if she can get in there with James and date one of his friends.
She is wearing tiny shorts rolled down from the waist to an inch above the top of her bikini line, and a fuchsia sports bra – not bra top – BRA. Her long, wavy blond hair is artfully scooped up to give the impression that she is just about to jump off a yacht in to the Aegean, and she seems to have lightly spritzed herself with oil that smells like a Primrose Hill boutique.
I can hear James knocking around in the bathroom and I pray he won’t come out and see her, because although she is inane, and I have meanly christened her Zoolamber due to the fact that she thinks Pakistan is the capital of India, she has a terrific body, and James might fancy her.
‘Babe, my kitchen tap’s not working, is yours?’ she says.
‘I just used it.’
‘Oh.’
‘Call the caretaker.’
‘He’s not answering. Have you got a friend here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could I fill my Evian bottle? I can’t drink sparkling water when I’m doing Pilates, too bloating … oh, hi there …’ Too late.
‘Hi, I’m James. You must be the famous Zoolamber.’
I turn round and give him a look of pure horror.
‘It’s Amber,’ she says, looking confused. ‘Who’s Zoolamber?’
‘Oh, Zolanda, no, that’s my friend, er, from work … James, Amber is my neighbour. Her water’s broken, tap’s not working, would you mind filling this in the kitchen?’
‘I’ll come too,’ she says, bouncing along behind him in true gym bunny style. ‘I’ve been doing the Bolshoi Pilates DVD, God, it’s amay-zing. Works your core soo hard, my core is soo tight now …’
I can tell he’s trying not to react but his eyebrows raise, and as he turns to give her the full bottle he can’t help but check out her body. I feel it like a short hard punch, but then realise I’m being over-sensitive – any man would stare.
‘Sophie, shall I show you the basics? It would really help your shape.’
What would help my shape is showing your shape my front door. ‘No, thanks.’
‘It won’t take a sec, I’ll just do some simple floor work.’ Before I can shoo her out she has lain down on my hall carpet, knees bent, groin thrust into the air, her skinny arms pulsing at her sides. ‘You count to 100, it’s all about the breath.’ She exhales hard little puffs while James stares at her clenching, thrusting small buttocks. She has the body of a young boy – a young boy with Harley Street breast implants.
‘James, can you put on the water for the pasta, please?’ I push him with both hands back into the kitchen and shut the door. ‘Amber, another time.’ I stand over her with my arm outstretched. She pouts and very slowly rolls on to her side. She pauses there and I can almost see the machinations in her head. Can I get back into the kitchen? How can I get in with this guy’s friends? How come she’s got a boyfriend with a nicer car than mine when I’m thinner than her? She lifts herself delicately off the floor as if she’s made of blown sugar.
‘You guys should come round for food,’ she calls out. ‘I’ve got this wicked recipe for Mystical Braised Tofu from my facial analyst. She’s put me on a strictly no wheat, no dairy regime. My energy is amazing.’
‘Presumably you have to cut booze and drugs too?’
Amber looks confused. ‘Those are natural toxins, I’m just not allowed manmade chemicals. Do you even know what they put in milk?’
‘Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to speak to James about our trip so we’d best get on.’ I hold open the front door.
Instead she opens the kitchen door, sticks her head round it and says ‘Great to finally meet you James, Soph talks about you all the time. You guys are coming for food at mine soon. Next weekend?’
He murmurs some response, and she turns, gives me a sharp smile and finally leaves.
‘Nice one, calling her Zoolamber to her face,’ I say, grabbing a stick of celery and whacking him on the arm.
‘I didn’t realise till after I’d said it. Anyway, you covered up alright. She seems sweet.’
Sweet. He means toned.
‘She’s not sweet. Did I not tell you about the birthday present?’
He takes the celery and starts chopping it.
‘She gave me some stupidly expensive Diptyque candle, then the next day came round and said it was actually meant for her masseuse and took it back, gave me one from Superdrug instead.’
He laughs.
‘Oh, you like that, do you? Well, when my plumbing broke she wouldn’t let me use her bath – said she couldn’t risk someone who uses non-organic skincare “infiltrating her biosystem”. She makes Geri Halliwell look like Einstein.’
‘Ah, my little Green Eyed Monster …’
‘I am not jealous! I don’t like her, that’s all. She accused me of being tight after I refused to lend her £50 for her dealer, after she’d already borrowed £100 and never paid me back. She’s an idiot.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have people like that in your life who take advantage of you. Why do you put up with it?’
Because I’m a masochist? ‘She’s my neighbour, what am I meant to do?’
‘Cut her off.’
On the Ryanair flight over to France, James and I are separated, having mucked about too long choosing our in-flight snacks at Prêt. There is one seat at the back of the plane, next to the loo and two middle-aged women wearing High School Musical jackets, or a seat with a couple and their screaming five-year-old boy.
I choose the back seat and watch as James, seven rows in front, not only manages to stop this child’s tantrum, but plays games with him the entire journey. The pair of them giggle and plot like twins.
; At the Hertz desk, we rent an ironically named Sprint and head towards Narbonne. We are so busy warbling along to Supertramp on Nostalgie FM that we miss the exit for the toll road and end up driving the scenic route.
‘Fitou,’ James says. ‘Let’s stop there,’ he says, pointing to a building under a tree at the side of the road.
In the wine shop, a man who looks as old as the stones offers us samples of amazing rosés and reds and Muscats de Rivesaltes.
‘Four of each,’ says James.
‘We’re here for two nights … we won’t get through 12 bottles.’
‘They’re so cheap it’d be wrong not to,’ he says.
We load the car up with booze and head north, then west to a tiny village by the river Aude.
It is perfect. No tourists, two bakeries, beautiful buildings surrounded by fields, flat and green and yellow. I have never been to France on holiday. I go to Paris for work often, but I had no conception of how unbelievably awesome the south is.
James has told me nothing about where we are staying, other than that it belongs to Lucien Bonder, who uses it as an occasional weekend pad with his wife and daughter, and that it used to be a warehouse of some sort. I fear it will be dank and smell of cat’s piss.
In a narrow backstreet we come to a high iron gate behind which is a courtyard with a fountain and a large two-storey stone building, part covered in ivy.
‘It must have been a stable,’ I say, looking up at a small terracotta horse’s head pinned high above the large wooden front door.
James opens the door and starts to laugh.
‘What? Is there a horse still in there?’ I say.
He grabs my hand and we step in to a World of Interiors dream.
It is a vast, bright space – concrete floors, exposed white stone walls, high ceilings with wooden beams. A floating staircase on the right leads up to a mezzanine kitchen with a pale blue Smeg fridge, and then out onto the pool area. Our own pool!
In the main living space on the ground floor is a blue table tennis table, and its colour is echoed by an illuminated square of aquamarine at the far end of the room, a cut-through window looking into the swimming pool. I stare through the window and up to the surface of the water and watch pine needles floating on the ceiling. It is so calm and still, I want to lie down on the bottom on the smooth white tiles.
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