The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

Savannah, Liberty’s friend, came from Denhelm Park, the estate which encompassed the land around The Nuttery and a good deal more. She was blonde, petite and pretty. Her father was Jonathan de Weatherby, and he owned the estate, most of the village of Littlehurst itself and a great deal of other property in the county. They were sent to different schools, but they always stayed in touch, and during the holidays it became a tradition to race each other on horseback from the capacious stables at the park to visit their secret friends the gypsies who lived in the forest. There they would pretend to fall off their ponies, and run shrieking into each other’s arms, each speaking over the other so fast it was like watching two squirrels arguing over whose nut was whose, and just as noisy.

  Liberty went on to university, after excelling in music, art and sport at school, as well as being head girl. However, she had gained her lowest mark in home economics, much to the amusement of her parents, who knew she could make a pistachio soufflé with hazelnut chocolate sauce by the time she was thirteen – in fact, a better one than her father – despite not being able to taste or smell, just from instinct.

  ‘It bugs me,’ she explained. ‘They make rock cakes, for heaven’s sake. Who eats rock cakes? And the teacher sticks her false teeth into the sugar and the cocoa jar before putting them back in and sucking!’

  ‘Yuck,’ said her mother. ‘But you must try, in all your subjects.’ And she turned away, so as not to show she was smiling.

  Liberty decided not to take a year out before university, as many of her school friends did, as she couldn’t see the point of that. She didn’t particularly enjoy studying, but wanted to get out in the world and start living, and she thought it best to get on with it.

  She went to Trinity College, Cambridge, simply because they accepted her. Having celebrities as parents had caused a few problems over the years. Sometimes, friends persuaded Liberty to ask her father to secure a table in his restaurant for their parents’ birthday parties. But Alain stuck to the ‘first come, first served’ basis, which kept the rich and famous clamouring and gave the general public an equal chance. It also made Friday and Saturday nights near impossible prospects. Liberty would say she would try, but her father bent the rules for nobody, not even for her, and she felt such guilt at causing disappointment. If the supposed friend was told by her parents to drop Liberty – silly, stuck-up family, who do they think they are, just a bunch of bloody cooks – Liberty, with her soft heart and willing nature, took it very hard and believed she had hurt people’s feelings and cried down the phone to her parents. It took a lot to persuade her that people who only want to be your friend to gain something are unworthy of your friendship.

  Liberty had always wondered if any friendship was based on equality, but kept her opinion to herself. Everyone else, not after a freebie, liked her and wanted to be her friend, but because she was self-conscious and uncertain as to who was a true friend, she gave the impression of being rather cold and distant. Because they recognised this, her parents advised her to apply for universities that took students from all walks of life.

  An argument that had been a thread throughout her childhood was Deirdre saying she should have been sent to a bigger school further away, one that took girls from similar backgrounds to their own, whilst Alain remained adamant that his little girl was going to school within easy driving distance of home and his restaurant. He couldn’t bear the idea of boarding school and, having a French mother, had practically been home-schooled until he was ten, and then had gone to a local lycée. The dispute was only solved when they discovered a nearby boarding school that would give Liberty the freedom from her parents and ability to grow in herself that Deirdre wished for, but was also an easy enough drive from home to satisfy Alain.

  Liberty studied history of art and English literature. She justified this by saying it would give her a broad spectrum to choose her career from. University was a series of parties and social events, as any good first degree course should be. She had two major assets: good looks and the ability to whip together a feast for sixty from what appeared to be a few tins of beans, some good sausages and a ‘few pinches’. (Her mother had sent her off with an unusual emergency pack. Most mothers would have given first-aid kits, condoms or advice on hangovers, but Deirdre, desperate for her daughter to regain her lost senses, and mindful that in a different environment this may actually happen, made up her special spice mix, saying every six weeks she would refresh it. ‘Just add a pinch to any dish you cook, or add a sprinkle to some unappetising meal you have from the canteen–’ her mouth contorted as she was forced to use the word ‘–and it will magically transform it into something delicious.’)

  Deirdre dreamed of the day Liberty would phone and tell her she had regained her sense of smell, no matter if it was because she had fallen in dog poo or sustained a bang on her head. Deirdre just couldn’t imagine life without the smell of cooking. She had written her first cookery book while travelling through Italy on her gap year. She had never admitted that all she did was write notes on what she ate, something to take home with her as a sort of food diary. On one of her last days she was enjoying the sights and smells of Palermo, supping a chicken broth flavoured delicately with herbs and lemon and given substance with tiny fluffy tortellini. She scribbled in her notebook ‘must grow herbs and improve British weather, everything tastes ten times better when eaten al fresco’. A man at the next table, who had become very aware of her silver eyes and bewitching expression, asked her, by way of introduction, what she was writing.

  Vaguely recognising a voice of authority and a very smart suit, Deirdre tried to impress by saying, ‘A cookery book to educate my friends,’ at which point the man’s eyes lit up and he introduced himself as William Pointon-Chase, partner at P-Chase and Bloom Publishing.

  ‘Oh!’ Deirdre had the grace to blush, but he ordered a bottle of Prosecco, having first invited himself to join her at her table. He claimed it must have been fate for them to meet like this. She wondered if his dining companion, who was now paying their bill and walking slowly out of the restaurant, occasionally throwing poisonous looks in his direction, thought the same.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about Chris, he works for me and hates the fact that I’m ancient, married and still get the girls!’ As he said this, he guffawed. Unable to tell if he was serious or not, Deirdre took no offence, and she spent a thoroughly enjoyable, if a little surprising, afternoon in his rented villa.

  Coming downstairs, now aware that what actually went on in the bedroom was very different to the romantic novels she devoured, and thank goodness for that, she was horrified to find him sitting sipping whisky and reading the scribblings and sketches in her notebook.

  ‘Oh no! I may have embellished somewhat on the quality of my writing.’ She blushed, and tried to draw his attention away from the notebook by sitting on his knee.

  ‘My dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘As beautiful and sexy as you are, and though my heart may have fallen at one glimpse for your sparkling eyes and long legs, my head is entirely that of a businessman, and I would like to offer you an advance for this book. Sketches have to be included. Your words and pictures bring the food of Italy alive. I feel I could sample the dishes if I licked the page!’

  Deirdre had underestimated her scribblings, as she had called them. An avid diary writer from a young age, she had put her life down in words and pictures. When she arrived in Italy it made sense to write about the food, as that was what the people seemed to spend most of their time talking about, shopping for or devouring. Coffee, wine, olive oil, which bread to choose, and how much. I mean, where else can you go to a bakery and they cut you a wedge, as an entire loaf would be a waste for one person? A few touches to polish the writing by a newly assigned editor, and Deirdre’s life as a cookery writer began.

  William Pointon-Chase returned to London, to his wife and his job, where once again they were amazed at his skill in picking new talent. Deirdre went on to become one of their biggest money-spinners over the coming ye
ars. And most importantly, William Pointon-Chase paid his assistant a large enough salary for him to be discreet about how the new cookery author, and many before her, had been found.

  It was during her first semester that Liberty attended a party given by an art dealer. Her new great friend J-T, which stood for Julian and some unmentionable middle name, had told her about it. He was tall, immaculately groomed, blond, giggly by nature, but with an excellent eye for beautiful things. Her other friend, Bob, was also there. Olive-skinned, dark-haired and beady-eyed, he was short and stocky but very beguiling, and seemed to say little but always commanded the room when he decided to talk. Already displaying considerable knowledge of the art world, Bob kept buttering up gallery owners in and around Cambridge to invite him to previews in the hope that he could establish relationships with artists and their agents alike, as he was trying to wriggle into the tangled and competitive life of an art dealer. The friends he invariably invited along would consume vast amounts of the free booze on offer. At one of these events Liberty was standing drinking Evian water, looking up at an enormous canvas of a fat pink pig surrounded by little stick men. The title of the picture was Pigs’ Reverence, but it gave her no greater insight into the meaning of the piece, so she started to wonder if people were given free drinks at these jollies to make the art look better. She happened to relay her thoughts out loud to no one in particular, but a tall, well-built, smartly dressed man responded.

  ‘Art is all in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is worth much more.’

  As Liberty looked up she saw that at least the stranger was smiling rather than looking lecherous.

  ‘Is that your best chat-up line?’ she asked, realising that despite his tweed jacket he was similar to her in age.

  ‘Golly, I hope not,’ he replied in a clipped, very English way. ‘Percy,’ he continued, and stuck his hand out. Liberty’s hand was engulfed in a warm, dry, pleasantly firm one, and she was instantly attracted to his blue eyes that twinkled in a naughty, un-English way, and the smooth, well-shaven, chiselled face with a strong jaw and a strangely predatory, hawk-like nose. At that moment Bob scuttled towards them and put his arms around both their waists as he wasn’t tall enough to embrace their shoulders.

  ‘Have you ever seen such crap?’ he asked, glancing at the price of the piece they were gazing at in horror. ‘I should take up making plasticine pigs. Shall we get out of here?’

  In throwing them together Bob was being just a tiny bit wicked. He had overheard Percy talking to a successful dealer, saying his appreciation had led him to hope he could invest in art for his future to make the glum, dull days of working in a bank more manageable, and he would love to enjoy the excitement of the auctions. Bob privately wondered why, if this Percy loved paintings so much, he planned to work in a bank, unless what he was really interested in was money, in which case Bob would be his ‘uncle’.

  Percy had managed not to flinch when this obvious poof put an arm round his waist, but he had overheard the gallery owner talking about Bob Forest, a new chap to look out for, as he knew what he was talking about, despite his youth and silliness. Once Bob had a gallery of his own, he would soon be snatching up all the promising young artists as he was in their peer group, and other gallery owners would be missing out if they were not careful. Anyway, this beautiful, leggy, doe-eyed girl was obviously Bob’s friend, and he definitely wanted to get to know her. So J-T, Bob, Liberty and Percy joined a group at a local wine bar, frequented by students and artists, or those who could afford to drink wine and those who were sufficiently attractive to encourage others to buy it for them.

  Percy obviously could afford to buy. He started the table off with two bottles of Bollinger.

  ‘Well done, Liberty,’ whispered J-T, nudging her in the ribs. ‘And not bad looking either, despite wearing his grandfather’s clothes!’

  ‘He seems charming,’ replied Liberty loyally. After all, he had just spent an entire student allowance on their drinks.

  ‘Are you not joining us?’ Percy asked Liberty, noticing she had only a glass of water.

  ‘Oh, you don’t know her guilty secret, then?’ joked J-T.

  Percy stepped a few paces back, worried he had just tried to press champagne on an alcoholic.

  ‘Oh, don’t pay any attention,’ laughed Liberty. ‘I just don’t have any sense of taste or smell, so I don’t bother to drink. It would be wasted on me.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said J-T, giggling and shaking his head. ‘We just drink to get bladdered and this little poppet doesn’t see the point. I blame the French influence on her, they are all far too serious when it comes to wine!’

  Percy smiled and in doing so looked far more relaxed and handsome. He sat down beside her. ‘So tell me,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘I’m dying to know all about you. Beautiful, French and able to put up with this lot. I find you intriguingly different already!’

  Liberty was flattered by such attention. She was used to being passed over by straight men, considered too aloof, too beautiful, and therefore out of their reach. They didn’t bother chatting her up, thinking she was above them, and she was often lonely as a result. She had rarely been asked for a date. Once a lovely chap had asked her to dance at a school ball, but she had been horrified to learn, after kissing him behind a rack of chairs, that it had all been a bet. The gaggle of giggling, pointing boys standing nearby gave it all away. The lad who had kissed her had only recently started at her school and was from South Africa. All the boys in his group had bet him a fiver that with his funny sense of fashion, cowboy boots and blazer, there was no way he could get to kiss a girl.

  Liberty had fled back to her mates in horror, thinking she would never trust a boy again, until her father, hearing of her decision, said she was very smart.

  ‘My dear, all boys are as bad as each other. They, and I speak from experience, as I was once one of them, just want to get into your knickers. I would wait until you come of age and meet a gentleman.’

  Alain had spent most of his fatherhood years preparing to shoot any boy or man who set eyes on his beloved little girl, so was thrilled to discourage his daughter from joining in the dating game.

  Liberty turned to Percy. ‘I’m not French, although my grandmother was. J-T simply assumes anyone with a food background must be French, but thank you,’ she said sheepishly, ‘for calling me beautiful.’

  Percy was charming. He listened attentively and asked questions, was well-mannered and kept jumping up to order more drinks. He told her his family owned a bank. It had been founded by his great-grandfather, who had bought a stately pile in the Sussex Weald when he became successful, and this had been passed on through the generations.

  ‘How extraordinary!’ exclaimed Liberty. ‘My family home is in East Sussex. It’s such a beautiful part of the country, and relatively unknown.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, you aren’t Alain James’s daughter, are you?’ asked Percy, the penny dropping. ‘My family spend all birthdays and celebrations at The Dark Horse!’

  Bob and J-T looked on, J-T pleased for his friend, Bob jealously trying to get in on the conversation as Percy had just admitted to Liberty that his aim in life was to own at least one genuine Impressionist masterpiece; his parents’ home, he announced somewhat flippantly, was full of stuffy old masters! Bob could barely contain himself.

  J-T was aware of Bob’s attempts at becoming an entrepreneur, and also recognised his sexual inclination. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he whispered. ‘When he and Liberty start dating she can persuade him to buy his pictures through you. Much more subtle that way.’

  ‘Oh!’ shrieked Bob. ‘You sneaky little so-and-so. By the way, are you seeing anyone?’

  ‘Well, I was, until tonight.’ And with that they started snogging at the table with the enthusiasm of puppies finding a lost sock to share. This caused loud whoops of joy to come from their friends, and Percy to take a large swig of his champagne.

  Liberty looked at this handsome, eloquent man, sho
cked and pleasantly surprised to find someone undaunted by her parents’ fame and success. Percy’s family were not at all put off by the celebrity of her father’s restaurant. Unbelievably, some of the more snooty, snobbish people in the area around Fickledown had refused to dine there, claiming that a chef’s reputation should be on the plate and not in the papers. And this was despite the excellent food, the best in the south-east.

  Alain had always claimed that if ignorant people were the only ones who paid to eat, La Colombe d’Or in St Paul de Vence would have shut down long ago, so he didn’t care if people with closed minds chose to stay away. He still raved about the Colombe’s ratatouille, never making it himself again since trying theirs. ‘No point, theirs is the best.’

  Percy insisted on dropping Liberty back at her hall of residence, and with the promise of a phone call the next day and a peck on the cheek, off he went.

  3

  The first call the following day came not from Percy, but from J-T. ‘Is Percy still there? Am I calling too early?’ he asked.

  Liberty yawned and said no, but why was he up so early? He must have the biggest hangover ever.

  ‘Only from too much sex,’ giggled J-T excitedly, and then Liberty knew he had not really phoned to find out about Percy, but to regale her with his own night of passion.

  She heaved herself out of bed and made a cup of instant coffee with the tiny kettle in her room. She settled back against the pillows, the only place to sit comfortably, so she could listen to J-T chattering away about the most amazing, wonderful man he had ever met, how both earth and bed had moved more than once, and how he was madly in love.

  ‘Oh? Oh yeah?’ laughed Liberty. ‘Heard that one before. How long do I give it this time? A week, tops?’

  ‘No, no, this is very different, I’m sure,’ insisted J-T. ‘How about a double date?’

  When Percy did call later that day – very well-mannered, thought Liberty – he was quite clear that a double date was out of the question. Liberty could almost feel him recoiling from the phone like a dog thinking he had found the best stick, only to discover it was an adder.