by Prue Leith
‘Can’t remember. Cheque, I would have thought.’
‘Do you remember the cost?’
‘No, but it was a lot. I remember thinking Ikea might have been a better idea.’
‘And you cannot remember if you paid import duty on it?’
Oh God … Oliver suddenly remembered. Marianne had had the shipment delivered to the embassy so it could come into the country with their things and save the Staplers shipping costs. Ruth had collected it from Marianne and David’s house in Regent’s Park. Oliver had not at first thought about avoiding tax, but if he was honest, it had dawned on him that he would save, not just freight charges, but tax too. He had just chosen not to think about it.
But now he said, ‘But there isn’t any duty between France and England on personal purchases, is there?’
Struther said stiffly, as though he was reading from a rule-book, ‘Travellers are permitted to bring gifts or souvenirs into the country up to a value of a few hundred pounds without paying duty. As I understand it, this was not a gift or souvenir and the value was greatly in excess of the limit on those goods anyway.’
Oliver opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. The man was right.
‘That brings us to the end of my questions,’ said Struther, rising from the chair.
And to the beginning of a nightmare for me, thought Oliver.
CHAPTER NINE
Kate looked across the temporary kitchen at the frozen red block in the bowl. She hoped it would thaw in time. If she had to microwave it, it would lose that fresh raspberry colour. But then she noticed that it was already duller and deeper in colour than usual. There’s something not right, she thought.
She walked quickly over to the dessert section, pulling a spoon from her pocket. Even before she’d tasted it she realised what she had done. This was beetroot, not raspberry. How could she be such a perfect idiot? She reached for the lid of the plastic box the frozen block had come out of. After weeks in the freezer the label was not easy to read, but she could make out Amal’s writing: just the date and Unseasoned Beetroot puree for borscht or risotto. She was thawing the wrong one.
Oh God, she thought, her heart thumping in panic. We’ve got a hundred guests about to eat Pêche Melba, and no raspberry coulis.
She looked at her watch. Eight p.m. The starter would be going in any minute now. They were in the middle of the country, in a tent in her customer’s garden. Even if she knew where the nearest supermarket was, she doubted it would still be open. And there was no way she was going to ask the hostess and ruin the woman’s confidence in her.
She called to Joan. ‘Joan, have you got a menu? I just need to check something.’
Joan hurried into the dining tent and returned with a menu. It said Pêche Melba, nothing more.
Good, thought Kate, most of the guests won’t know that Pêche Melba has fresh raspberry in it, and anyway won’t read the menu, and thirdly won’t know the difference. She suddenly smiled to herself, thinking, this is disgraceful, but if it works it will have been an interesting gastronomic experiment.
The original idea was to serve each customer with two small meringue baskets, one filled with a stoned, poached white peach and one with a ball of vanilla ice cream. There was to have been a raspberry coulis lake all around.
Kate, thinking fast, rejected the idea of just sweetening the beetroot and pretending it was raspberry. The flavour would be too obvious if a customer took a mouthful of the sauce on its own. Could she leave the coulis out all together? Just serve the meringue, peach and ice cream? No, her customer was expecting raspberry coulis and she did not want her jumping up from the table to tell the kitchen they had forgotten it.
‘Quick, Joan, can you get me some sugar? Have we any castor, or only gran?’
‘Only granulated, I’m afraid.’
Kate put half a kilo of sugar into a pan with a cupful of beetroot slush and stirred fast over the heat until the grains had melted. Then she cooled it as fast as she could by putting the pan into a shallow bowl of cold water, and stirring. It did not take long. She had time: the first course was only going in now. Kate took about a litre of the softened but still-frozen purée and put it into a liquidiser with her cooled syrup mix and whizzed. She tasted it. Not a burst of raspberry flavour on the tongue, that’s for sure, but perfectly pleasant.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Joan. ‘I thought we were going to have the raspberry sauce poured round the Melbas by the waiters?’
Kate flashed her a smile. ‘Trust me, sweetheart! I’ll explain later. But if you could just tell the waiters that we are not going with the sauce, I’m using it to make the ice cream look like raspberry ripple, and I will put a few drizzles of it on each plate just before service.’
Which is what she did. She used a fork to ripple the beetroot purée into the rich vanilla ice cream, then she and two of the cooks used ice cream scoops to ball it into a hundred perfect portions and got them back into the freezer as quickly as possible.
When it came to serving, which wasn’t until after ten p.m., the balls were firm but not rock hard. They quickly plated the puds, one cook adding a ball of red-streaked ice cream to one meringue nest, another putting a peach into the second. Finally, Kate added a few stylishly placed, but very small, blobs and splashes of purée to the plate.
And they got away with it. Nothing but exclamations of delight and congratulations. Joan was at first horrified, and then impressed. After the service, when they were packing up, relaxed and pleased with the whole event, they got the waiters and cooks to taste the unused ice cream and guess its flavour. The general consensus was raspberry, though a few said strawberry and one said cherry.
‘It’s beetroot,’ said Kate, ‘but don’t any of you ever tell a soul!’
At the end of the month, as she made out the customer’s bill, Kate briefly considered deleting the charge for the Pêche Melba. After all, she deserved to be done under the Trade Descriptions Act. But then she thought, hell no, the Melbas were delicious, and the woman wouldn’t want to know that all her guests had beetroot ice cream. So she charged her full whack, feeling more amused than guilty.
Sending out bills was quite enjoyable, a lot better than paying them anyway, but doing her monthly accounts made Kate anxious. She was OK on an Excel spreadsheet because the computer magically did the sums, but the VAT return still flummoxed her.
She frowned at the form, trying hard to remember the principle of the thing. Did she put her turnover in the Output or the Input box? And what did they mean by acquisitions from EC member states? She chewed on her pencil, making little indentations in the top inch of it.
When, last year, her revenue had breached the sixty-seven-thousand-pound barrier, she had had to register for VAT. But, her accountant had told her, no problem: she could simply reclaim it. Simply indeed! The thing was a nightmare.
Until very recently, she had regarded herself as a cook, hiring herself out for a fee. But in the past two years, more and bigger customers wanted her to take on the flowers, the staff, the marquee tent, the hire, even the photographer. So, though she personally earned less than forty thousand a year, her ‘billings’ had shot way beyond the VAT limit.
Of course she got a rake-off from suppliers for putting the business their way. But her customers – especially government departments – were slow to pay while her suppliers, mostly small businesses, needed their money at once. And they had a magic weapon to make her pay up: they didn’t deliver if they had not been paid. Kate could not risk the non-arrival of a wedding cake or the agency not supplying waitresses.
She would have liked to use the same threat to her customers. But she feared they’d just hire her rivals instead. She didn’t want to hand her hard-won contracts to Party Ingredients or Moveable Feasts.
Kate shook her head. She was owed nearly a hundred thousand pounds, and yet she was overdrawn to the tune of nearly twenty thousand, which was her agreed limit. How could that be? She’d have to start making unplea
sant calls and hear the excuses about the bookkeeper being on holiday, the cheque being in the post, the computer glitch with direct debit. This was the only part of her job she truly hated.
The telephone rang. She hoped it was a client demanding something exciting, some gastronomic challenge that would take her mind off her finances, but it was the bank. Her ‘relationship manager’ would like a word. He would be with her in a minute.
Kate did not like the man. She hung on, vaguely apprehensive, and then irritated at the recorded message extolling the bank’s savings rates. Finally he was on the line, his voice bordering on the smarmy.
‘So sorry to keep you waiting, Miss McKinnon. Unforgivable I know.’
What a creep. She was tempted to say, so why do it then? I don’t ring up my customers and then keep them hanging on.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Well, there’s something we need to discuss. Have you got a minute?’ For goodness sake, Kate thought, just get on with it, will you?
‘Sure. Shoot.’
‘Thank you. Most kind. As you know you are applying to us for a loan to cover the new van and a … what is it? Some equipment, I believe?’
‘A blast chiller. Yes, and you have agreed to it.’
‘Ah, well, that’s just the problem. I’m afraid there has been a hitch. We, at branch level, have been instructed to pass all prospective loans through our credit evaluation desk, which wasn’t the case before. We used to be able to authorise these small loans.’
Kate’s chest muscles seemed to contract. ‘But you’ve already agreed. I have a letter.’
‘I’m sure you understand that in the current banking circumstances—’
‘No, I don’t understand. What I understand is I asked you for a loan of thirty thousand pounds and you were delighted to give it to me. It’s a done deal.’
‘I know this is hard, Miss McKinnon, but as the monies have not yet left the bank, we are not obliged … If the transfer had already been made, we would be less likely to reclaim it, that is true, but technically, we would be within our rights to call in the loan at any time. But as that is not the case, it is, I think you will agree, better to give you the bad news now, before you have spent the money …’
He waffled on, while the meat of the matter slowly lodged in Kate’s brain. She felt her face grow hot. Flushed and furious, she raised her voice to drown his polite patter, ‘Are you telling me you will not lend me any money at all? You are welching on the whole deal?’
‘I would not put it like that, Miss McKinnon, but yes, I am afraid our instructions are not to advance—’
Kate banged the telephone down and burst into tears.
A week later Talika and Amal were coming to supper. They had threatened to bring a friend of theirs, a single man, with them, but thank God he’d cried off. She didn’t feel like yet another of her friends’ well-meaning matchmaking efforts. It wasn’t that the divorced banker, the single architect, the IT guru weren’t interesting and presentable, but they ignited no sparks. Kate regarded all prospective mates as potential fathers for Toby rather than lovers for her, and inevitably they showed little interest in her darling boy.
She didn’t feel like cooking, even for Amal and Talika. She was exhausted from crying after a horrible phone conversation with her mother, and she could not stop thinking about it.
Kate had resolved to ask her mother for help with money. She’d have preferred to speak to her face to face, but Pat and Hank had gone home ten days ago.
It had taken all her courage to make the call, but she had managed it, telling herself that if her mother loved her as she, Kate, loved Toby, she’d be bound to help.
But Pat had said, ‘Darling, I can see you need the money but I don’t think I can just give you the house. It just wouldn’t be fair on Arthur, would it?’
‘But I’m not asking you to, Mum. Of course it’s your house, and it’s wonderful you let me live in it rent free. I’m really, really grateful. But I desperately need a loan. I just thought we might raise a thirty-thousand-pound mortgage on the house. But if you don’t want to put the house in my name, maybe you could do it? I know I can pay you back in three years, and pay the interest on the loan too. Interest is quite low at the moment …’
‘Kate love, the thing you need to consider is that if the bank think you are a bad risk, is it wise to borrow the money? Or right to ask me to lend it to you?’
‘Mum! The reason the bank won’t lend me the money is because they’re in trouble and don’t want to lend to anyone! They admit I’m a good customer and reliable and that I will be able to pay it back. But they are just calling in all their loans, good, bad and indifferent.’
Her mother could not be persuaded. She’d said she’d talk to Hank and Arthur, but Kate was left with the feeling that she should not have asked, that her mother thought she was trying to steal a march on her brother. What had made Kate cry was her instinct that if it had been Arthur wanting a loan he’d have got it without question. Arthur, thought Kate miserably, had her mother’s time, her attention, her love. But how could she complain when her mother provided a rent-free house?
That was the second time she’d been in tears in a week, the first when the bank reneged on her loan. And she’d had a couple of other bouts of blubbing recently. She told herself crossly she was falling apart. Why couldn’t she pull herself together? But she was just so tired she wanted only to kiss Toby goodnight, watch mindless telly until she was sleepy, and then crawl into bed and oblivion.
But she couldn’t put off her dearest friends, they were just too good to her, and she hadn’t a decent excuse. She roused herself to get some sort of supper together.
She dug out some raw prawns and a couple of salmon fillets from the freezer and half-prepared a risotto. She would add the last of the stock, the seafood, and some purple sprouting broccoli a few minutes before serving it. Then she made a first course of fried chorizo, garlic and tinned haricot beans.
That would do. She had some nice cheese for afters, and she’d made good brioche that morning. It would be fine.
By seven o’clock she was sitting on the edge of the bath, persuading Toby to do more washing and less playing, and actually looking forward to Amal and Talika’s arrival.
As soon as they were through the front door it was obvious that something good had happened. Amal was carrying a bottle of champagne and grinning with suppressed excitement. When Kate took the bottle from his outstretched hand and said, ‘What’s all this about, then?’ Talika’s shy smile widened into a happy laugh.
‘Guess?!’ she exclaimed.
Kate looked from one to the other and knew at once. ‘You’re pregnant!’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Amal shouted, putting his arms round Talika and dancing round in a clumsy circle.
Talika, laughing, extracted herself and hugged her friend. ‘Oh Kate, I’m so happy, so happy. I thought I’d never …’
‘When did you find out?’
‘Now, just this minute. I didn’t want to do a test too early. I was sure, but too-early tests are less reliable, at least I think they are. So I waited. I didn’t tell Amal until now. Half an hour ago!’
‘How many weeks, do you know?’
‘Twelve, I’m sure.’
‘And it’s a boy, I bet you,’ grinned Amal. ‘Or maybe a girl.’ He looked at both the women, laughing, aware he was talking nonsense. ‘Whatever. I can handle …’
Their happiness lifted Kate out of the dumps, and it wasn’t until they were eating the Roquefort and crackers that she told them of her financial plight.
‘It’s so crazy. The bank says I don’t have enough of a history of borrowing. But that’s just the point. I haven’t borrowed before because I’m cautious. I’m the type that pays their credit card when they get the bill.’
‘Not much of an earner for the bank, then,’ said Amal.
‘Not until now, I know, but I’m a good safe bet. Which they admit. Which is why
they agreed in the first place.’ She went on, telling them of her unsuccessful appeal to her mother, of the urgent need for a new van, which seemed a sensible alternative to sinking ever more money into keeping the old one on the road, the need for a blast chiller before summer made cooling food in a warm kitchen positively dangerous, the tickets for her and Toby for the States.
When she’d done, Talika was all sympathy, looking almost as worried as Kate felt. Amal was silent for a few minutes.
‘Actually, Kate,’ he said, ‘I think the bank could have done you a favour. Manufacturers of big ticket items like blast chillers and transit vans can’t be selling too many right now. They’ll be desperate for a deal. I bet you could hire both as cheaply, or almost, as buying them off the peg. Anyway, I’ll do some research for you.’ He picked up his glass and clinked it with Kate’s. ‘Be happy, Kate. It will all be fine. Nothing to be frightened of.’
He looked so confident and pleased, Kate could not but respond.
‘You’re right,’ she smiled. ‘I’m being a wuss.’
‘And I’ll lend you the money for the plane tickets,’ he said.
CHAPTER TEN
Oliver had a mountain of work to do, and no time to think. But all the week after his interview with the Ethics Committee, between meetings and briefings and trying to concentrate on a dozen matters, all international and all urgent, his mind kept gnawing at the question: who was behind these allegations? Who stood to benefit from his discomfiture or his disgrace? It had to be politically motivated.
He knew that both Government and Opposition did some enthusiastic muckraking towards an election. Any mud that stuck was a bonus. That was one of the least lovely things about politics: dog eating dog. But there were no plans to go to the country quite yet. Nowadays, thought Oliver, the spin and slander is no longer confined to the few pre-election weeks.
On Friday, Oliver arrived home at eleven p.m. He went up the stairs two at a time, panting a little. All this eating and drinking and hardly any gym is getting to me, he thought. He was tempted to slow down, walk up the stairs, after all it had been a long week. But he forced himself. Taking stairs two at a time was a sign of youth, and at forty-four he was hanging in there.