A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  Amal and Talika had a restaurant, a very good one, and they were having a battle with the local environmental health officer about their newly tiled kitchen. The man had a preference for seamless plastic walls, which Amal would have installed had he known tiles were no longer flavour of the health department month. But now he was reluctant – in fact he’d flatly refused – to junk the tiles and start again.

  ‘Met him. He’s gone.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The bastard has now added half a dozen other things to his requirements. There must be separate probes for raw meat, cooked meat, etc, even though they get a sterile wipe every time we use them. The outside bin cage must have locks fitted to keep the foxes out, which is nonsense because the foxes can’t get in anyway. Can you imagine? If it’s a padlock the cooks will lose the key, and if it’s a code they will forget the numbers! And the bin men will smash the locks for sure.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask the council for wheelie bins? The lids are pretty good and I put a breeze block on top of mine, which works fine,’ suggested Kate.

  ‘Because they won’t let me put them out on the street, and the rubbish cupboard isn’t big enough for wheelie bins and they won’t let me enlarge it. I told him to shoot the bloody foxes but he said they couldn’t do that. The residents would object.’

  ‘Toby would certainly object. There’s a family of foxes in that scrubby land beyond our garden and in the spring they come and play on our lawn. Bold as brass. We watch from the kitchen. Toby loves them.’

  Talika put her tray of pigeon breasts, now covered in cling-film, into the fridge and gave her husband a kiss. ‘Cheer up, darling, you will win him over in the end. And we’ve got the cleanest kitchen for miles around.’

  Amal shook his head. ‘I know, and what’s more they know it too. Why don’t they go pick on that doner kebab joint? That guy has nowhere behind the counter to wash his hands, the place is filthy. Or why don’t they harass the ice-cream van at the park gates? Doubt if they ever clean that machine. It’s encrusted with weeks-old mix. Poor Sanjay can’t understand why he’s the only kid on the block not allowed to buy the stuff.’

  ‘He and Toby,’ said Kate, ‘but it’s the junk that goes into the ice-cream I’m scared of, rather than the bugs.’

  Kate pulled together a scratch lunch for all of them: she boiled some linguine and added chopped chicken and ham left over from a pie she had made for a customer yesterday, some cherry tomatoes and garlic, and a sprinkling of grated cheese. Then an endive salad, made more acceptable to the boys by the addition of tangerine slices. It took her less than ten minutes, while Talika washed up from the morning’s work and Amal prised the children away from the telly and got them to wash their hands.

  Talika laid the big table in the kitchen. It was work-top height and they sat on stools. As Kate doled out the pasta, she felt that familiar wash of pleasure at feeding people. Especially people she loved. And, she thought with a little thrill of pleasure, soon Mum and Hank will be here. Toby will have his adored gran around and we’ll be a family for a couple of weeks.

  But Amal and Talika were her best friends and she could not do without them. They helped her with her catering business and she occasionally helped them in their restaurant. And they looked after each other’s children, although, thought Kate, since I’m a single mum and in greater need than she is, Talika gets the worst of that deal.

  Kate looked at her friend and noticed the dark eyes and slightly drawn look. Talika and Amal worked hard. Their flat was over the restaurant, where Talika served behind the bar and acted as cashier every night, a baby alarm in the plug behind her. And Kate knew they had been trying for a second child for four years, and her failure to conceive was getting to her. Kate said, ‘’Lika, I don’t have to pack the van until five. I’ll have the boys till then, and you can get some sleep. You look a bit peely-wally.’

  ‘What’s peely-wally?’ asked Toby.

  ‘It means not looking or feeling well. My Scots grandmother used to say it.’ In an exaggerated Scottish accent, Kate said, ‘Ye bairns are looking reet peely-wally. Eat up your porridge and get oot in yon bonny fresh air.’

  When Amal and Talika had left, she took the children to the park. If anything, it was even colder than this morning and the swings were deserted. While the boys romped about, chasing and shoving each other, climbing things and running from one piece of equipment to another, Kate sat on a slightly damp swing, huddled in her quilted coat, and allowed her thoughts to drift back to those Scottish holidays. She wished she could give Toby summers like that.

  We were a proper family then, she thought, with Grandad taking us out on the loch in his old rowboat, Mum and Dad hiking with us along the lower slopes of the Monroes, Grandma making girdle cakes for tea which we ate hot, with butter and honey running down our chins. If only Toby could have something of that life.

  Kate missed her family. Her grandparents were dead, and so was her father. He’d smoked eighty cigarettes a day and emphysema had killed him in Arizona where he and her mother had gone, they said, for his health.

  But that was an excuse. The truth, Kate believed, was that they wanted to be with her brother Arthur and his family. Or her mother, Pat, did. Arthur’s wife, Sheila, didn’t have a mother, and each time she gave birth to another child, Kate’s parents would be there, her mum to help, her dad there because her mum was. As more children arrived – they had three now – they’d stayed longer and longer and Pat had become more and more indispensable to the family. Or so she’d said. Kate had suspected her mother was falling for Sheila’s father, Hank, a senior policeman in Tucson and a widower.

  And sure enough, after Kate’s dad died her mum had married Hank. With indecent haste, Kate thought.

  Kate told herself that of course her mother had spent more time with Arthur than with her. Arthur had three children years before Toby was born, and the family needed help. Plus her father breathed more easily in Arizona and the hospitals were better. I probably never even told them I minded, she thought.

  And in truth she knew that she only minded intermittently. At that time she’d been young, single and ambitious and only too delighted to be left in sole occupation of the family house, the beneficiary of Mrs Thatcher’s policy to sell off council houses cheaply to their occupiers. How else, she thought, would I have afforded a place big enough to run my catering business from.

  And anyway, by the time Toby was born, Mum had already married Hank.

  But somehow she did feel, though she’d never said so, even to Talika, that everyone abandoned her, sooner or later. Her dad died, her whole family decamped to Arizona, Toby’s father scarpered for Australia as soon as she’d told him she was pregnant. How much further away could they all get?

  Because this was a private occasion rather than an official government dinner, Kate had hired Joan, her favourite waitress. She and Joan had worked together for years, and it was a relief not to be working with Dennis, the Foreign Office head butler.

  The Stapler kitchen, in a pretty terraced house in Lambeth, wasn’t brilliant – a bit poky and cluttered – but bearable. There were signs of someone interested in cooking. Kate saw a heavy omelette pan, decent sized board, chef’s knives, and a well-used food processor, but it also told of a man living mostly on his own and never eating in. The freezer wanted defrosting and the fridge needed a good clear out: there were two large pillows of now manky supermarket salad leaves, a fermenting box of orange juice, a rock-hard lump of cheese, and a jug of God knows what under a furry blanket of mould. Kate hadn’t time to tackle the freezer, but before Joan arrived, she sorted the fridge and swabbed it with bleach, then stacked the wine and water in it.

  The dinner went like clockwork. Both mussel soup and pigeon dish were perfect and she followed the main course with an endive salad like they’d had at lunch, with the addition of a handful of chopped walnuts in the dressing. No pudding. Just some mature Montgomery cheddar with her own plum chutney and the American-style hot bis
cuits she’d prepped at home and baked while the main course was being eaten.

  The guests were gone, Kate was washing up the coffee things and Joan was counting the silver into the drawer in the dining room when Oliver Stapler came into the kitchen, a bottle of red wine in one hand.

  ‘Hello, you must be Kate.’ He was smiling so he must be pleased.

  ‘Yes. Was the dinner all right?’

  ‘All right? It was perfect, just exactly what I wanted. Not fussy, not too much, but delicious. You are a very good chef. And you might like to know the PM ate everything.’

  She shook her head, suddenly embarrassed by his charm. She indicated the bottle in his hand. ‘Did you want me to decant that?’

  ‘No, I came to offer you a glass. And it doesn’t need decanting anyway.’ He reached into the cupboard for two glasses. ‘You would like one, I hope?’

  He was much less stiff and formal than she’d expected. She said, ‘I’d love one. Thank you.’

  He poured them both a glass and said, ‘You know, in the middle of a cabinet meeting this morning I suddenly realised that you would be faced with the horrors of my fridge. I very nearly dashed back at lunchtime to empty it, but then I decided you would have seen worse.’

  ‘Much worse! But surely you have a cleaner. Doesn’t she chuck stuff out?’

  ‘Yes, but after she threw out a whole pound of that Stinking Bishop cheese because it stank, and a jar of Beluga caviar, just opened, because she thought it had “gone black”, Ruth decided to do the chucking out herself.’

  Kate laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I like sorting stuff out. But you must use the fridge for something. A bottle of white wine? Or milk for your tea?’

  ‘No, I seldom drink white wine, and I have my tea without milk. I only noticed it was full of horrible things when I was getting some ice for a friend’s drink, and I could hardly have a go then. And then I forgot.’

  ‘Well, your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘I hope so! My reputation is now in your hands. Just think how that would look in the Londoner’s Diary. “Minister Grows Deadly Bugs in Home Fridge”.’

  They were both laughing when Joan came in and Kate was pleased, and surprised, when he immediately put out his hand and said, ‘I must apologise for not introducing myself when we have spent the whole evening in the same room, but I was deeply embroiled …’

  ‘Sir, please don’t worry,’ said Joan.

  ‘What is your name? I’m Oliver Stapler.’

  Joan, who was old enough to be his mother, or almost, was perfectly relaxed as she said, ‘Yes, Sir, I know. I’m Joan. I hope everything was to your satisfaction.’

  ‘It certainly was. I was just saying to Kate that the food was delicious and I must say to you that the service matched it. Thank you.’ He produced a folded tenner and handed it to her.

  Kate was rapidly revising her opinion of the Foreign Secretary. He tipped the waitress, for one thing. Few government ministers ever tipped. And he was friendly and funny. And she liked his hair – that premature grey, she had to admit, looked good. But he did have a ramrod back and a way of looking at you down his patrician nose.

  By the time Kate got back to the Taj Amal, the restaurant was almost empty. She looked through the windows to see if Talika was still in the bar, but only Amal was there, bowing goodbye to the last few customers. She passed the restaurant entrance and used her key to let herself into the flat. She and Talika had keys to each other’s houses – it dated from the time when the boys were babies and sleep was so precious you snatched what you could when the children slept. It meant the babysitting mum and the babies would not be disturbed by the bell as the other mum came in.

  Of course Talika would be awake now, she’d have only just cashed up. But in fact the flat was silent and in near darkness, only the single light from the hall faintly illuminating the passage to the bedrooms.

  As Kate passed Talika and Amal’s room she could see the hump of her sleeping friend lit by the reading light on Amal’s side of the bed. Poor girl, she must be exhausted, thought Kate. I shouldn’t have asked her to help this morning, I could have easily managed.

  She tiptoed past to Sanjay’s room. Both boys were fast asleep, Sanjay small and neat, properly tucked in, Toby sprawled across his bed, his duvet thrown to the floor. No wonder, thought Kate, he still has his woollen dressing gown on.

  His curly head was tousled, his face was absolutely still, lids closed and lashes laid on his cheek like those of the doll she’d had as a child, which opened her eyes when you sat her up, closed them obediently when you laid her down. Toby’s mouth was open a fraction, the plump pink lips tender as a baby’s. Kate felt the familiar, never fading, crump of absolute love.

  She steeled herself to wake him up and face the complaints and grumpiness; he was now really too heavy for her to carry safely down the stairs, into the car, and up the stairs of her house into their bedroom. If she was feeling strong she still did it, but tonight she would be sensible and wake him.

  The thought crossed her mind, as it frequently did, that she should sacrifice her office and give Toby his own bedroom. She could put bunk beds in it, one for Sanjay. But the truth was she loved her boy in her bed. And he was only five, damn it. Since they both liked the warmth and company, why not?

  She found his slippers and put them on his feet. ‘Toby, darling,’ she said, ‘wake up.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Oliver leant forward to speak to his driver.

  ‘Pull over somewhere could you, Debbie? I need to read my brief.’

  Debbie met his eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘We could park right outside Lancaster House, in Stable Yard, Sir. We won’t be moved on.’

  Sean sat in the front with Debbie. Sean was an up-and-coming young MP who was cutting his teeth as Oliver’s personal private secretary. Next to Oliver in the back sat Jim, his most usual detective and ever-present shadow. They sat in silence, but for the purr of the Jaguar’s engine, as the heater kept out the February chill.

  Oliver opened his folder. On top was a copy of the invitation that had been couriered to the embassies and high commissions. It was a large, thick white card with gold edges, the Foreign Office emblem embossed on the top.

  The Rt Hon Oliver Stapler, MP

  Secretary of State for the Foreign and Commonwealth Offices requests the company of

  ………………………..

  to a dinner to mark the 2010 Prime Minister’s Conference

  He couldn’t prevent a small thrill of pleasure at the quality of the thing. He had already held two secretary of state portfolios, first Transport and then Education, so he was used to the little trappings of power, like parking in reserved spaces. But there are trappings and trappings, he thought, tipping the card so its gold edges glinted. The black lettering was so shiny the ink looked wet.

  None of his previous positions had given him the chance, or the right, to host lavish dinners in wonderful places. Indeed, he’d hosted very few official dinners at all. Conferences, yes, or occasional suppers to motivate his junior ministers, and endless working lunches. They were necessary, sometimes even interesting, but the pleasure of playing host did not enter the equation.

  And food, he thought, was not a strong suit at the Department for Transport. They’d mostly eaten finger food: sandwiches of indifferent quality, onion bhajis, sausage rolls and doughnuts, all deep-fried a long time ago and delivered cold. At Education, since they were trying to reform the diet of the nation’s school children, he’d decided they should set a good example, so fruit rather than biscuits appeared with coffee, and out went the Kit Kats and mini Mars Bars. This nearly caused a strike, only averted by turning a blind eye to half the department taking time off to patronise the snack shop across the road.

  Oliver ran his finger over the highly embossed seal and elegant black lettering of the invitation card. His previous jobs had not carried rights of access to a clutch of the grandest houses in England. Now some of them were for his, or hi
s department’s, exclusive use. Like Lancaster House, the great Victorian pile with rooms the size of tennis courts and almost as much red plush and gold leaf as Buckingham Palace. It was under exclusive Foreign Office control and access to it was jealously guarded.

  And then there was the extraordinary Durbar Court, a grandiose piece of the British Raj in the heart of the Foreign Office, said to have been rebuilt at the behest of Queen Victoria, where the splendour of sweeping staircases and painted ceilings took Oliver’s breath away. And then there was the Foreign Secretary’s town house at the end of Carlton House Terrace, with its own large garden, made to appear even larger by backing onto the gardens of the great Pall Mall clubs. Oliver didn’t entertain there much, using it more as a private office and for working lunches. The truth was, he would have liked the family to move in, but Ruth had said, a little unkindly but realistically, that he was unlikely to be in the job long enough to justify the move from Lambeth.

  More important to him was the Foreign Secretary’s country estate, Chevening in Kent. He and Ruth could have chosen to live there if they’d liked, and Oliver would have loved that. At the very least he’d wanted to spend, say, every other weekend there. It was a glorious place, way beyond anything they could remotely afford as private citizens. Oliver was not, as the press liked to portray him, a patrician grandee from the landed gentry. He’d grown up, it’s true, on a Shropshire estate belonging to an earl, one who’d fallen on hard times and been forced to let most of his property. The Staplers rented the old rectory. Oliver’s father was an accountant and his mother a dental nurse, both working in Chester. He was an only child and his parents had scrimped to send him to a minor public school, their sacrifice paying off when he won a scholarship to Cambridge.

  Maybe growing up in a Georgian house, close to a magnificent, if crumbling, stately home, followed by the beauty of Cambridge, had given Oliver his leanings towards gracious living. To him, Chevening represented the chance of a lifetime. Damn it, he had earned this privilege by dint of his commitment and skill, so why on earth not accept it?