by Maria Ling
"Thank you for being willing to try," she said. "I'm grateful -- more than grateful. But if for any reason it doesn't work out -- "
"It will."
"I hope so. But if it doesn't, I don't want you to blame yourself. This isn't your business, it's not your dream, it's not about you." She laid her fingers against his wrist, touching warm skin. "I don't mean that in a horrible way. I just mean that you're not responsible for what happens here. I am."
"Thanks." He tried to smile, though she could see the struggle it cost him. "That's good to know."
"You see," Janine said, "Nan meant the world to me. It wasn't just that she was my grandmother. She was a wonderful woman, someone I could really talk to. I was always welcome here. I was always happy here. And looking back, I don't think I was ever really happy at home."
"Because of your parents?"
"Oh, they did their best. I'm not saying they were bad parents, not exactly. They just always had more important things to do than bother about me. In some ways, that was probably healthy. I grew up pretty self-reliant. But in other ways, it was harmful. When you're a child, you're so vulnerable, and to know that you're never important enough for your Mum and Dad to really care -- that hurts." Janine swallowed. The memory burned her, even now. "But here, with Nan, I always felt I was special. And I'd like to thank her for that. I never got the chance to tell her just how much I loved her. But this restaurant was her life. If I can keep it going, that's my way of thanking her. Wherever she is now."
He was silent for a moment. The he asked:
"Do you believe in heaven?"
"I don't know." Janine grimaced. "I don't believe in God, so I suppose I ought to say no. But I think -- no, I'm sure -- that there is something beyond this life. I can feel Nan with me sometimes. She's still alive, in spirit. I don't know how it works. I just know it's real."
"You may be right." Matthew was staring past her, into some other realm. "I'd like to think Dad was still around somewhere. And my little brother who died. Of course, he was actually my big brother, or would have been if he'd lived. But I always think of him as three years old, like he was the day he died."
"I'm so sorry," Janine said.
"It's odd, isn't it?" Matthew still didn't focus on her. "I mean, I wasn't even born at the time. I have no memories of him at all. But I still feel as if I've lost someone who meant a lot to me, personally. Isn't that strange?"
"I don't think so. He was your brother, even though you never knew him."
"I suppose so." Matthew shook himself. "Anyway. You'd better get to the baker's before the lunchtime rush. I'll have whatever you're having."
Which was what? Janine asked herself as she stood at the glass counter. She was too unsettled by this new turn of events to feel hungry. It wasn't every day she fell for an employee, or even a colleague. In fact, it had never happened before.
"Two ploughman's on brown, please," she decided on a whim. "With salad." That earned her a suspicious look from the woman behind the counter.
A young lad standing at the side table and buttering rolls stiffened at the sound of her voice, then glanced over surreptitiously. Janine winced. It was Tommy.
"Hello," she said. It would be rude to ignore him as they had made eye contact, but she still felt guilty about him getting sacked by Matthew. "I'm glad you found a good place so quickly."
"It's OK." He turned his back on her and carried on with his work.
"Was it you he used to work for?" asked the woman behind the counter. "You put up with him a lot longer than you should."
"Um," Janine said. She'd written nice non-specific references for John and Tommy, hoping they'd be able to get new jobs soon.
"Don't worry about it," the woman said. "He's my nephew. I've known him since before he was born. Here are your sandwiches."
"Thank you." Janine wasn't sure whether to laugh or wince. She got herself out of the shop as quickly as she could.
By the time she got back to the restaurant, Matthew had finished the skirting-boards. He was by the large sink in the kitchen, rinsing out the brush, tray and roller. Streaks of paint decorated his hands, gleaming like the crests of waves in moonlight.
Janine told him about Tommy. Matthew laughed.
"If she's his aunt, she'll know to keep an eye on him."
"I'm glad he's not out of work," Janine said, unwrapping the sandwiches and setting them out on a plate. "I'd feel so guilty."
"No need," Matthew said. "He wasn't taking his job seriously enough, so he got sacked. There's nothing to feel guilty about."
"Even so."
"Best case scenario, he learns from the experience and works harder at the next job. If you never tell people what they're doing wrong, they won't learn."
"That's true," Janine admitted reluctantly. "But they need to hear what they're doing right as well. And everyone deserves a second chance."
"He's got one."
"I suppose so. I hope John did, too."
"Him?" Matthew shot her an incredulous look. "He shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a professional kitchen."
"That's a bit harsh."
"Not at all, it's just telling the truth. I wouldn't hire him, and I hope no one else does either. Sloppy, careless, and with a bad attitude. If he does get taken on somewhere else, I can tell you right now that you wouldn't want to eat there."
"But he needs a job," Janine argued. "He's got to support himself somehow. Everyone does."
"Not by cooking for others," Matthew said. He squeezed the water from the roller, then set the painting equipment down into a bucket lined with scrunched-up newspaper. "Let him stack shelves in a storeroom somewhere. He shouldn't be able to do much harm that way. But if you're a chef, you've got to take it seriously."
"Not everyone is as driven as you are," Janine remarked.
"Or you. But that's not the point. There are certain basic skills you need as a chef. Proper hygiene, understanding food preparation and storage, a responsible attitude. After that, you can move on to the fancy stuff. But if you get the basics wrong, you could poison a customer. People die that way. I won't have anyone in my kitchen who isn't absolutely dedicated to being competent and responsible. It's not worth taking the risk."
"You're probably right," Janine admitted.
"Of course I'm right." Matthew lathered soap into his hands and rinsed them thoroughly under the tap. "Look at it this way," he added. "I'm protecting your customers by making sure they're only getting food that's been handled and cooked by a competent professional. As the owner, you should be making that your top priority. It's far more important than worrying about whether some loser manages to wangle himself another job or not."
Janine cringed. This was the truth, and it said too much about her that she'd been allowing it to take second place.
"OK, you are right," she said. "And you were right to sack them. I didn't like it at the time, and I still wish you'd talked to me first. But I would probably have wanted to keep them on, which wouldn't have done either us or them any favours. So, I apologise."
"Thank you." Matthew gave a slight, friendly-mocking bow. "That didn't hurt too much, did it?"
"Not as much as I expected." Janine pushed the plate towards him. "Let's move past the moment. Have a sandwich."
Matthew grabbed one and bit off a piece. His expression froze. Slowly he put the sandwich back on the plate, chewed a few times, then swallowed with a grimace.
"What on earth is that?"
"Ploughman's," Janine said, feeling a little defensive at his tone. "It's what I'm having."
"You're not serious."
"Of course I am. What's wrong with it?" Janine took a bite out of her own sandwich. It tasted fine.
"It's inedible." Matthew glared at the offending item. "It tastes of sawdust and cheap vinegar."
"I like it," Janine said, her voice muffled by the bread. Matthew turned the glare on her.
"Then your tastebuds need educating."
"There's nothing wrong wi
th my tastebuds. Look, if you don't want the sandwich, I'll eat it. Get your own next time."
"Unbelievable," Matthew said as he watched her munch contentedly. "And this woman owns a restaurant."
"Get your own," Janine said. "Go on, shoo."
He grinned at that.
"I will," he said. "And after that, we're starting you on a basic food appreciation course."
***
Matthew's flat was a one-bedroomed attic in Windsor Terrace, overlooking the upper harbour. It was neat and clean, but with an air of scruffy abandonment that announced it instantly as a bachelor pad. Janine smiled to herself. She wasn't the frilly type, but she knew that if she lived in this place, it would soon get a touch of pastel colour and a few cushions to soften its stark lines.
"Grab a seat," Matthew said, indicating the sofa on one side of the dining kitchen. "Put the TV on if you want." He slung a fabric shopping bag onto the granite counter. They had stopped off at the greengrocer's to buy a selection of peppers and tomatoes.
Janine settled into the creaking sofa. It was soft and deep, offering no adequate support for hips or spine. She winced with professional dissatisfaction. Meanwhile, Matthew rinsed and dried the peppers, laid a chopping board on the worktop and pulled a knife from the short rack on the wall, and began slicing up peppers.
"Tell me again," Janine said. "What are we doing?"
"Getting you to notice flavours." Matthew laid the knife aside. He tipped the pepper slices into a bowl and carried it over to her. "Close your eyes."
Janine obeyed.
"Now taste this. No peeking. What is it?"
Janine munched on a clear, sweet, crunchy morsel.
"Pepper," she said.
"Obviously. What colour?"
"I can't taste the colour of it!"
"You can with peppers. That's why I started with them. Try again."
Janine munched.
"Red?" she hazarded.
"Very good. This one?"
It was noticeably different, milder and sweeter.
"Yellow?"
"Close. It's orange. Here's yellow."
Janine tasted a pale, almost insipid sweet flavour.
"I don't like that much," she confessed. "I always thought I enjoyed yellow peppers, but I actually prefer the orange."
"You may have liked the colour," Matthew said. "Colour has a strong influence on the perception of taste. For instance, some trials have shown that people think a yellow drink tastes of lemon and a red one tastes of raspberry -- even when the drink itself is identical, and the only difference is a flavourless dye that's been added."
"That's weird," Janine said, opening her eyes. She picked out another slice of orange pepper and savoured it. "I'll be buying these from now on."
"Good," Matthew said. "If you're buying for flavour, you're doing something right."
"Why food?" Janine asked, nibbling thoughtfully. "I understand why you got into it, given your background, but I'm curious about why you're so passionate about it. What is it that excites you about food?"
"The taste." Matthew grinned. "I don't know, to tell you the truth. It just seems important. You are what you eat, so if you eat well you should become a better person. It's about choices, and why we make them, and how we owe it to ourselves to make the right ones. Something along those lines, anyway."
"I hadn't thought of that," Janine admitted. She reached for another slice of pepper but fumbled it, making it drop to the floor. "Sorry," she said and reached for it, but Matthew got in ahead of her. Their arms brushed against each other. She could feel firm muscles under his shirt, and smell the musky scent of him. It made her heart beat faster.
Matthew looked at her. The expression in his eyes was intense. It made waves of heat wash over her, causing her to tremble.
It was a crazy impulse, but she followed it. She leaned forward, closing her eyes, and kissed him. His lips felt strong and firm against her own. Her mouth parted slightly, enough to allow her tongue to touch his.
Matthew slid his arm around her. Janine leaned towards him, wrapped her own arms around him and hugged him tight, as tightly as he'd held her in that single terrifying instant on the pier. She felt she must hold on at all cost, or he'd slip out of her grasp and disappear into cold dark waters forever.
She kissed him fervently, and he responded with all the passion of a storm crashing in from the sea.
CHAPTER 5
"Stay for dinner," Matthew suggested. They were showered and dressed, sitting together at the kitchen table, a little shy of meeting each other's gaze. "I could rustle up something simple. Or we could go out, if you want to. Greens is good."
"Didn't you say you'd promised to be at your mother's this evening?" Janine asked.
"Well, yes. But I could cancel that."
"Don't." She wanted more than anything to stay with him, but the thought of the lonely old woman raked Janine's heart. "I'll walk you there."
"And spend the evening by yourself? I don't think so." Matthew took her hand. His touch was sensitive, and made her shiver anew. "I want to be with you. If you won't let me get out of Mum's clutches, at least come along with me."
"Clutches?" Janine repeated. "That's not very nice."
"I'm not expecting her to be very nice. Will you come?"
"I'd love to."
Mrs Sutcliffe had made a beef stew. It wasn't particularly flavoursome -- it tasted thin and insipid -- but Janine praised it lavishly and was rewarded by a thawing of relations.
"It's my own recipe," Mrs Sutcliffe said, giving Matthew a knowing look. "I won't even tell it to him."
"Lucky me," Matthew replied, then added in response to their combined glares: "Only joking."
"Stella was supposed to be here," Mrs Sutcliffe observed plaintively. "But she hasn't arrived yet, and no phone call or anything."
"You must be extremely worried," Janine said with quick sympathy. Mrs Sutcliffe gave her a look of bewildered surprise.
"Why?"
"Well, in case something's happened." Janine didn't want to get into specifics, since poor Mrs Sutcliffe had already lost one child, but she knew that the woman must be terrified.
Though she didn't look it. Merely annoyed.
"What would happen to her? You are a silly girl. I don't know why Matthew brought you. I didn't tell him to, you know. You weren't invited."
"I'm sorry," Janine said, with great restraint. "Matthew was kind enough to ask me."
"Well, I don't know why."
"Because I wanted her here," Matthew said, his tone sharp. "And because I thought you'd be glad of the company. You're always complaining that no one comes to see you."
Mrs Sutcliffe subsided.
Stella chose that moment to walk in from outside.
"Sorry I'm late. I missed my bus and had to get the next one."
"You could have phoned," Mrs Sutcliffe said petulantly.
"I couldn't get through. Battery's flat." Stella's eyes fixed on Janine's plate. "Is there any left for me?"
"Of course there is." Mrs Sutcliffe waved towards the kitchen. "Help yourself. You know where everything is."
Stella disappeared for a few minutes, then returned bearing a laden plate.
"I've got good news," she said, settling into the chair next to her mother. "I've taken a week off work, so I'll be able to stay with you until next weekend, Mum."
"About time, too," Mrs Sutcliffe sniffed. "I don't know why you ever moved to Scarborough. You could have stayed at home and been perfectly comfortable."
"It's because of the job. I needed to be close to work, especially in the evenings. I didn't want to keep getting the late-night bus home."
"I don't see why not. Anyway, there was no reason for you to apply for a job so far away from home. You should have thought about me for a change. If you really cared about me, you'd have stayed here."
"Oh, Mum." The glow faded from Stella's face. In its place came a pinched, weary, disillusioned look. She wandered out into the kitchen, he
r shoulders slumped. Janine watched her with intense sympathy.
"Of course Stella cares about you," Janine told Mrs Sutcliffe. She tried to keep a reproachful tone out of her voice.
"Cares about herself, is what she does. Hasn't she been away all week and left me to fend for myself? What kind of a daughter would do a thing like that?"
"A horrible one," Stella said sharply. Her voice echoed slightly between the bare walls. Mrs Sutcliffe believed in knicknacks -- there were enough porcelain figurines on the shelves and mantlepiece to stock a small shop -- but not, apparently, in hanging pictures on her floral wallpaper.
"Leave her alone," Matthew told his mother. "She's here now, isn't she?"
Mrs Sutcliffe subsided. The atmosphere in the room didn't improve, though. Janine could see the tension in the posture of her companions, could feel it in the rise of her own shoulders and the tautening of her neck muscles. She took a slow deep breath, and consciously relaxed.
"How are things at work?" she asked Stella, who had returned and sat down at the table.
"Oh, hectic. It's a good thing, of course -- I'd rather the café was doing well, it keeps me in a job -- but it's hard work keeping up with it all."
"But you enjoy it?"
"I love it," Stella said, her eyes brightening. "It's fun being around people all day. I'm pretty sociable, you know. I don't like being stuck on my own for long."
"It can be very isolating," Janine agreed. "Of course, some people like solitude."
"Not me," Stella said. She tucked a spoonful of stew into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. "Actually, I've never liked being by myself."
"You should think about me, then," Mrs Sutcliffe said. "I'm here all on my own day after day -- "
"Leave it," Matthew warned.
"That's not quite true," Janine argued, turning to Mrs Sutcliffe. "You do have friends and neighbours. And Matthew is here."
"Yes." Mrs Sutcliffe sniffed. "But he's too busy with his restaurant."