by Prue Leith
Poor old Dennis had had the worst of it. Oliver smiled at the thought. The man was such a jobsworth. He’d had to have the last word, it was pathetic. As Oliver was leaving the building, the butler had thrust a menu into his hand saying, ‘You see, Sir, I could not let it go. The menu is printed here, clear as daylight. No cheese on it … no savoury. You had not authorised …’
Oliver, feeling well fed and content, had said, ‘Never mind, Dennis, sometimes we have to be flexible. And I did authorise it in the end. And you did very well to come up with that excellent Volnay for those two last courses. More of the Montrachet would not have done.’
And Dennis had simpered, glad to be forgiven.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kate snapped the Velcro across Toby’s trainer and stood up.
‘Come on, darling, or we’ll be late. We don’t want poor Granny and Hank arriving without us there to meet them, do we?’
She grabbed her coat and Toby’s and hurried him into the car.
As they joined the traffic heading for the M25, he asked, ‘Why is he called Hank? That’s not a real name, is it?’
‘I don’t know, darling. I think it’s a real name, or a nickname. Lots of Americans are called Hank.’
‘Is he American?’
‘He is. He’s a policeman.’
‘Does he have a gun?’
‘Oh dear, I expect he does. I think all American policemen have guns. You can ask him.’
‘I’ll ask him if he shooted people.’
‘Shot people, not shooted. I’m sure he hasn’t. He is a nice, gentle man. You’ll like him.’
Toby was soon head down, absorbed in his Super Mario and Kate turned on the radio. James Naughtie and some think-tank woman were speculating about the possibility of a cabinet reshuffle. The Chancellor was wildly unpopular for bailing out the banks and for raising taxes. There was talk of replacing him, though everyone knew this would not change the policy.
‘The brightest tool in the box is undoubtedly Oliver Stapler,’ the woman said. ‘He’s got the brain power and the judgement for the job, and he is very, very ambitious. But he’s only just arrived at the Foreign Office so I’m sure the Prime Minister will not move him now.’
Very, very ambitious. And brainy. And wise. Mmmm, thought Kate, I got the impression he was mostly cool and laid back. Her thoughts drifted idly round Oliver, thinking how aloof and grand he could be – the press had him boxed in as a right toff – yet at his house in Lambeth he had been friendly enough, and at Lancaster House he had been diplomatic with the ghastly Dennis. And he could have slaughtered her for being so rude, but he’d not said a word. I would never have had him down as ambitious, she thought, more like indifferent. I wonder what his family is like …
The plane was late and Kate and Toby ate hot porridge from a cardboard carton at Souper Douper. They had been in such a hurry they’d missed breakfast and only had an apple in the car. Kate ate her porridge in the Scottish manner, with salt. As Toby opened a third packet of brown sugar for his, Kate again regretted the loss of her Scots grandmother’s influence. But at least he was eating porridge, not Kit Kats or crisps, which most of his school friends seemed to have for breakfast.
When Pat and Hank finally emerged through the great sliding doors, pushing a trolley of luggage, they looked round blankly, unable to locate Kate and Toby in the crowd. Kate was shocked at how old and tired her mother looked. But then, as Pat noticed her daughter’s frantic waving, her face instantly broke into the familiar, ageless image of her mother, happy, loving, pleased. God, I’ve missed her, thought Kate, suddenly close to tears. It had been over two years since she’d seen her, and though Toby believed he remembered her, Kate thought that was because of the photographs and telephone calls.
When Pat put her arms round Toby in a giant hug, exclaiming at his size, Toby bore it, standing stolid as wood. Kate, seeing his turned-away face, screwed up and rigid with disgust, burst out laughing.
‘Pat woman, let the lad go,’ said Hank. ‘He’s a big fella now. Doesn’t want to be drooled over.’
Pat released Toby, who shot Hank a look of gratitude.
Hank, who had not been with Pat on her last visit and had not seen Toby since he was a babe in arms, put a big hand on his shoulder and said, ‘My, but she’s right, you are a big boy. Are you strong enough to carry this for me?’ He handed Toby a shoulder bag. ‘Here, let me shorten the strap.’
Kate watched Hank push the trolley before them, Toby at his side, proudly carrying the bag and looking up at him, instant friends. Her son could do with a man around for a bit, she thought, as she put her arm through her mother’s and followed them.
Pat and Hank dumped their cases on the long blanket box at the end of Kate’s big bed.
‘This is lovely,’ Pat said. ‘You’ve changed the curtains. And you’ve repainted, haven’t you?’ She looked round, impressed. ‘But where will you sleep, darling?’
‘I’m fine. I’ll be on the sofa. I can sleep anywhere.’
In truth she was nervous about the arrangement. Tonight Toby would sleep on the camp bed in the office and it would be the first time he’d slept the whole night anywhere but with her. She had never mentioned to her mother that her son shared her bed and had done so since he outgrew his cot. She didn’t want to hear Pat say, which she inevitably would, that she was babying him.
And then, because she’d moved Toby into the office so that he could get to sleep (she hoped) at a reasonable hour while she and the others were still in the sitting room, and because she often did her admin or accounts in the evenings, she’d then had to move desk, printer, fax and assorted office stuff into the sitting room – where it seemed to take up a third of the space.
Before they’d even had a cup of coffee Pat insisted on leading Hank round the house with a proprietorial air. Kate had rather wanted to show them the changes, but she reminded herself that it was still her mother’s house, not hers.
Pat and Hank ooh’d and ah’d satisfactorily at the changes to the house: the big new kitchen made by knocking her brother’s old bedroom and the kitchen together; her teenage bedroom now an office, the garden shed she’d enlarged and turned into a storeroom and outside larder with walk-in fridge and freezer, and the front garden paved to take the delivery van.
‘You must be doing well,’ said Hank.
‘Not bad. I’m busy, but it’s hard work. All day prepping and planning parties, mostly held in the evenings and at weekends. That’s why I prefer the City lunches and the government work. They tend to be in the week and in the day.’
‘But isn’t it the big parties that make the money, when you can sell lots of alcohol? No one drinks at lunchtime any more, do they?’
‘Not a lot. But I wouldn’t get to supply the drinks very often anyway. Even private clients usually provide their own.’ She shrugged, smiling. ‘Can’t say I blame them. They go to Boulogne with a van and buy the lot at a third of what I’d have to charge them. Even Oddbins and Majestic are cheaper than me and they provide free glasses, which I can’t afford to do.’
At six o’clock, Amal and Talika came in to meet Pat and Hank and to offer to have Toby for the night.
‘Darling, why don’t you do that?’ Kate suggested. ‘It would be fun to sleep all night at Sanjay’s instead of me shaking you awake as I usually do.’
But Toby, excited about his ‘new room’, refused, and Kate thought they would probably both end up having a restless night on her sofa-bed. She knew she would be unable to make him go back to the camp bed if he crept in beside her.
And indeed, Kate barely slept on the squashy cushions. Not because Toby climbed in – he didn’t – but because she was so aware of the lack of him. Meanwhile, he slept in the office without stirring, only appearing at six a.m. Then, half asleep, he did crawl into her arms and she felt a wash of gratitude that he had come. She held him close, her body wrapped round him. Oh, she thought, I wish he would never grow up. Five is just perfect. I’m still the centre of his
universe, and he’s so unselfconsciously affectionate and outgoing, so fearless, happy, confident, no suspicion of slings and arrows to come. How will I bear it, she thought, when he prefers his friends, or his teacher, to me?
When they had been with Kate for a week, Pat and Hank went out for the day to visit friends and do a bit of shopping, and Kate felt her body relax and her spirit lift with the freedom their absence gave her. She loved her mother, but having to seem carefree and friendly when she longed to shoo everyone out of the house so she could get on with her job, was a strain.
Hank had been on her computer and it took her a while to find her papers under his printouts of Places to Go and pages from What’s On. But once she was absorbed in costing a dinner dance for a twenty-first birthday, and sending a few polite, and one or two terse, reminders to late payers, she forgot about her guests, and about Toby.
At lunchtime she walked round to the Taj Amal. She and Talika sat at a window table in the early March sun and ate fresh cucumber sticks dipped in lassi, and hot naan bread straight from the tandoor oven.
The restaurant was almost empty and Amal came over and sat with them. ‘Don’t you want some proper food? Rogan gosht is just made, and it’s good.’
‘No,’ said Kate. ‘I’d resolved to confine myself to the cucumber and lassi, but the smell of the naan was too much for me.’ She squeezed the flesh of her midriff. ‘Why have I no will power at all when it comes to food?’
She leant over and tried to squeeze Talika’s middle. ‘And why do you have to be so slim, damn you?’ Talika was thin as a wraith and Kate couldn’t get a grip on her flat stomach. Talika shrunk away, slapping Kate’s hand down.
Amal said, ‘She’s too thin. She’s a bag of bones.’
Kate noticed the sudden hurt in Talika’s eyes before she lowered them quickly. Talika said, ‘I’ll have Toby today, won’t I?’ She looked up, smiling, ‘You’ve got some function tonight, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but I won’t be long. It’s just a chicken casserole and rice, English style, with salad and a trifle to follow. Everything’s ready, and I only have to deliver it, not serve it or wash up or anything. So I won’t be late.’
‘Shall I fetch the boys?’
‘Let’s go together, ’Lika. I don’t have to deliver the stuff till six-thirty, and my mum and Hank are out. We could take the boys to the park.’
At five o’clock, they came back from the park, and Toby went home with Sanjay and Talika while Kate went back to work. She wasn’t able to lift full catering boxes on her own, so she put two big empty ones into the van, and carried the food out to the boxes. She packed one of them with large shallow roasting trays of cooked rice, plastic boxes of washed and dried salad and a jar of French dressing. She tucked a couple of wooden spoons and a clean apron into a corner. Good, she thought, everything nice and snug: won’t tip as I bump over the wretched ‘traffic calming’ humps.
Kate went back for the coq au vin. The two big stainless steel saucepans would just fit into the second box. She opened the fridge in what had once been the garden shed. She tightened her jaw and closed her eyes briefly, trying not to mind that the middle shelves were stacked tight with beer for Hank, Coke for Toby and white wine for her and Pat. She was irritated. This fridge was exclusively for the business, the small one in the kitchen was for her and Toby.
OK, she could see it was too small for American quantities of chilled drinks. And Hank was only trying to be kind, to spoil her and Toby. She should be grateful. After all, the wine was better quality than she could afford, and it wouldn’t kill Toby to drink a few Cokes while they were here. And since she had completely failed to buy any beer for Hank, how could she feel miffed at such a minor invasion of her space? She was becoming a control freak.
She stacked the drinks on the floor as she unpacked the fridge, looking for the coq au vin. But it was in big saucepans and she soon knew it wasn’t there. Where on earth had Pat put them?
Oh hell, she thought, anxiety tightening her throat. I bet it’s in the freezer. It will be a solid block and won’t ever thaw in time. And the texture will be ruined, especially the mushrooms. But the saucepans weren’t in the freezer.
As she turned distractedly, she tripped over a six-pack of beer, which knocked over a couple of the wine bottles, one of which smashed on the hard concrete floor. Kate forced herself to put the drinks back in the fridge, get the dust pan and brush and sweep up the broken glass. The pool of wine could wait. She had to find the chicken casserole.
She looked at her watch. Quarter to six. She should be leaving now, but if she was a little late it wouldn’t matter. They weren’t eating till eight-thirty. Plenty of time.
Back in the kitchen, she looked in the domestic fridge, even though she knew the big pots would not fit on the shelves, and she couldn’t imagine Pat transferring all that casserole into shallow dishes.
And indeed the fridge, though unusually stuffed on account of last night’s leftovers and the supermarket pizza and pecan pie that Pat had been unable to resist, contained no coq au vin.
She hurried into the sitting room, dug her phone out of her handbag and dialled her mother. It went straight to voice mail. They had gone to Tate Modern, not the theatre, so why had she switched off her phone?
What was Hank’s number? She scrolled down the list without much hope of it being there. She always rang the house, or her mother. Never Hank. But maybe his number was on her computer.
Kate went to her desk and booted up her laptop. It seemed to take for ever. But the number was there and Kate dialled it on her mobile, silently willing him to answer. He did.
‘Hank, please, it’s Kate. Can I speak to Mum? It’s a bit urgent.’
‘Sure, baby, but she’s gone to the washroom. She won’t be long.’
Kate screwed her face up in anguish, but kept her voice calm. ‘OK, Hank, do you know where on earth Mum put my two big pans of chicken stew?’
‘Chicken stew?’ He sounded completely confused.
‘Yes, that I cooked for the function tonight. I am meant to be delivering it right now, and she’s moved it from the big fridge to make room for all your beer and stuff. I’m going mad here.’
‘Ah. I see. Hold on a moment. I’ll go find her.’
Kate looked again at her watch. Almost six. No panic. She would just have to ring Joan, that was all. The wine, the ice, and all the hired stuff, was already there, so they could start laying up.
While she waited for Hank to extract his wife from the Ladies, Kate used her free hand to check her handbag, making sure she had Joan’s and the waitresses’ wages and the stack of numbered cards advertising the catering services of Nothing Fancy that they always gave to guests as cloakroom tickets. Still hanging on for her mother, she walked out to the van and put her handbag on the passenger seat with her coat on top of it. Then she locked the van. Not a good moment, she thought, for her handbag, or indeed van, to be nicked.
As she slipped her keys into her pocket, her mother came on the phone. She was laughing,
‘Darling, this had better be good! Hank stood in the washroom door yelling for me!’
‘Mum, didn’t he tell you? Where the hell have you put my coq au vin? The two saucepans—’
‘Darling, I am so sorry. I meant to tell you. I put them behind the shed. I figured it was quite as cold outside as in the fridge and I needed—’
Kate interrupted, ‘Thanks, Mum,’ and pressed the off button. She ran along the path down the side of the house to the garden and round the back of the shed, and stopped dead.
One of the saucepans was upside down under Toby’s trampoline, the other on its side. Both lids were lying on the ground a few feet away.
Foxes! Kate, her hand to her mouth, her stomach in a knot of apprehension, walked slowly forward. The saucepans were licked clean, not a bone, mushroom or shallot undevoured.
She stood over the empty pans for a second, then sprang into action. She picked up one of them and ran with it into the kitch
en. She put it into the sink and turned on the hot tap. Then she ran out for the other one and the lids. She washed everything in near boiling water with a super-squirt of detergent, dried her hands, and dialled Amal.
As she waited for an answer her mind was racing, but without panic. There was no time to start again: even if all the raw ingredients for coq au vin were here, ready to go, it would be a mighty struggle. She had to get the food to the house by seven forty-five or she would clash with the arriving guests and panic the Coleridges. She had to leave here in an hour and a quarter, max. Somehow she had to shop for and cook coq au vin for forty in that time.
‘Amal, can you help me? I’ve got a bit of a crisis here. Can you lend me anyone, a pair of competent hands, for an hour, right now?’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Thank God for that. Wonderful. Have you got any shallots?’
‘Only onions.’
‘Fine, can you bring half a dozen over here, chop them up and sweat them in half butter/half oil. And could you boil down two bottles of red wine, I’ll leave them out for you. I’m going shopping.’
‘Take your mobile.’
‘Thanks, Amal. I’ll explain later.’
Kate stuffed her mobile in her pocket and ran out of the front door to the van, fishing for her car keys as she ran.
As she drove fast down the high street she made a mental list. Chicken, mushrooms, bacon, garlic, stock.
In the supermarket car park she took a pound from her stash of coins in the ashtray, unlocked a big trolley with it, and practically ran with it to the deli counter.
To her relief they were still roasting chickens. There were a total of ten portions of jointed chicken – eight legs and two breasts – in the tray, two whole cooked chickens ready for sale and eight chickens on the rotisserie.
‘Can I have those ten portions, the two cooked ones and all of the chickens on the rotisserie?’
‘What, all of them?’