A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  ‘Kate, give him to me.’ Oliver was suddenly there, his arms outstretched.

  ‘But … No … Your car, you can’t leave it …’

  ‘It’s fine. Debbie’s in it.’

  ‘But where’s your detective? What will he think?’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. Here, give me Toby.’ Somehow he put his arms under Toby’s armpits and lifted him to his chest, hoisting him up to the same position, head on shoulder, that Kate had held him. Toby barely stirred.

  They walked past the shops and down the street in silence, the detective following at a discreet distance.

  Oliver’s not speaking, she thought, because he thinks it will wake Toby. But I’m not speaking because I can’t. Heart banging too much.

  Kate opened her front door and Oliver carried in the sleeping child.

  ‘Where to now?’ he said.

  ‘Upstairs, I’ll show you.’ Better be clear, she thought, and added, ‘We share the bedroom.’

  She led the way upstairs and opened the door to their bedroom. Thank God it’s tidy, she thought. No knickers on the floor or anything shaming. She walked round to Toby’s side of the bed, pushed off a pile of soft toys and pulled back the duvet. Oliver lowered the boy into the bed, taking care to ease him down gently, and Kate pulled up the covers.

  They both stood up together and Oliver smiled at her. ‘There, mission accomplished. One sleeping boy delivered safely.’

  Then downstairs, another peck on the cheek, and he was gone. She watched him walk away down the street, his detective padding after him like a faithful hound.

  That’s two goodbye kisses tonight, she thought. How different from that other time, in her van, when Oliver’s kiss had come with the smell of aftershave and the jolt of lust. That time she’d felt the shock of it run down her body, inflame her face, stop her heart. This time the lust was still there, but overshadowed by anxiety. Anxiety about waiters’ gossip, about his driving out of his way, collecting Toby from above an Indian restaurant, of him seeing her house. Of what he might think of her sharing a bed with her son.

  Kate was walking Toby to school when her mobile rang. She had to let go of the boy’s hand to rummage in her handbag, and he bounced along ahead of her as she checked the display. No name came up and she didn’t recognise the number so she cancelled the call. She didn’t want Toby crossing the street without her and whoever it was would call again if it was important.

  ‘Wait, Toby,’ she called. He stopped obediently and transferred his attention to the contents of a litter bin on the kerb.

  ‘Look, Mum, someone’s thrown away a whole packet of Smarties.’ He looked up at her, his face full of wonder and excitement. ‘Can I have them?’ He reached into the bin, but it was too deep.

  ‘No, darling.’ Disappointment flooded his face, instantly replacing the childish triumph. Kate hated to see it, and put an arm around him.

  ‘Sweetheart … no, it’s dirty …’

  But he wrenched free. ‘It’s not dirty. You’re always saying not to waste things. That’s a waste isn’t it?’

  ‘C’mon, Toby. We’ll be late.’ She took his hand and he walked along, sulky now, kicking at things: the railings, a crumpled Coke can. How quickly his moods change, she thought. It’s because I spoil him. He needs a baby brother or sister, that’s what.

  But Kate knew it was she who wanted another child, not Toby. Ever since Talika had announced her pregnancy, Kate had had to hide her envy. In truth, I want the whole thing, she thought: a man, a husband, someone to share family life with. I certainly don’t want another child on my own. And then, her mental will crumbling, she gave in and inwardly cried, I want someone like Oliver. Or maybe even Oliver.

  She shook her head. Forget it. Just forget it. You cannot have him. Out of bounds. Not yours. Happily married to someone else.

  But the ache was there. It assailed her constantly. She’d be doing something mundane like defrosting the freezer or checking her emails and suddenly the thought of him would hit her like a blast. It would make her gut contract, followed by a dull ache in the middle of her chest. Heartache.

  By the time they got to school, Toby had forgotten the Smarties and was so eager to run and join Sanjay that she had to call him back for his lunchbox and a kiss.

  Her phone rang again as she watched him and Sanjay run off and join a pack of boys who then ran together round the playground, shouting and laughing for no good reason. She waved, but Toby had forgotten her.

  She pressed the green button, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Kate McKinnon?’

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’ She was still smiling at the boys, thinking how blissfully carefree a six-year-old could be.

  ‘You sound happy!’

  ‘Do I? Look, do I know you?’

  ‘As if you are laughing.’

  ‘Well, I’m watching my son running round the playground. Please, who am I speaking to?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course. My name is Jarvis Stanley. I write for the Evening Standard. I just wanted to check a story with you, if that’s OK?’

  Kate’s mind darted about. He sounded really nice. Probably wanted some gossip about the London Fashion Show party, for which she’d made wonderful tapas but the models and glitterati had mostly been too stoned to notice. She wouldn’t give anything away, of course, she guarded her clients’ indiscretions like a lawyer. Besides, she avoided personal publicity: it might be good for business but there was always the chance that if ever Toby’s dad took it into his head to find his son, it would help him.

  ‘How did you get my mobile number?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ He sounded genuinely worried. ‘It was a bit of a run around, I admit, but I got it from a catering agency in the end. I didn’t know it was private.’

  ‘What’s the story?’ she said, frowning.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to be so blunt. But you see, we’ve had a tip-off that you and the Foreign Secretary, Oliver Stapler, are having a love affair. And we don’t want to print if—’

  ‘What! That’s not true. It’s nonsense!’ Kate’s mind darted about like a trapped ferret. This was what Amal had warned her about. How quickly a bit of kitchen gossip spread. She should have taken his advice, killed the rumour.

  ‘It’s not true?’

  Kate felt the anxiety mount. ‘No, it is not!’ She looked round for somewhere more private than the public street to have this conversation. There was a low wall a little ahead. She could sit on that. He was talking again,

  ‘So there is no truth in the allegation?’

  ‘None whatever. And who told you that anyway?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kate, I’d tell you if I could. But we’re not allowed to reveal our sources, I’m sure you understand.’

  Kate was trying to remain calm. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Jarvis Stanley.’

  Kate watched people go by. She avoided the eyes of mothers she knew from the school gates. ‘And which paper do you write for?’

  ‘I’m the editor of Londoner’s Diary, in the Evening Standard.’

  ‘Well, Mr Stanley, I hope you believe me when I tell you that there is absolutely no truth whatsoever in your story. Someone is having you on, or has got it in for me. Or, more likely, for Oliver.’

  ‘Oliver? You call him Oliver? So you do know him?’

  ‘Certainly I know him. He’s a client. I cook for him.’ Kate’s voice was robust, but she felt she had fallen into a trap. Why had she not referred to him as the Foreign Secretary or the Secretary of State or just plain Oliver Stapler?

  ‘Kate …’

  ‘I notice you call me Kate. And we have never even met, much less jumped into bed together!’

  ‘Oops, I am sorry. I’ll call you Miss McKinnon.’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ Kate felt she was flailing about, like a fish on the end of a line. Innocent, but powerless.

  And then, for the first time, she thought of the consequences for Oliver. No one was interest
ed in an obscure cook, but the man tipped as the next prime minister? A story, even a false one, could ruin him.

  ‘Are you dropping this story? I’ve told you it isn’t true.’ Her voice did not carry authority, it came out somewhere between a whine and a plea.

  There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Well. I can promise you that we will not claim you are having an affair. But, Kate, you should know that your link with Oliver Stapler is the talk of the press, and I can’t say that all my colleagues are as scrupulous about checking stuff as we are. Why don’t we meet and you can set the record straight? I promise I will print exactly what you say.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to say. We’re not having an affair. Oliver Stapler is a happily married man. I’m his caterer. That’s it.’

  ‘So you did not leave the Hampton Court party together then?’

  ‘I … I …’ Oh my God, thought Kate, this could look really bad. Better not say any more. I must ask Oliver …

  ‘No comment,’ she said, and cut the call with a vicious jab of her thumb.

  As soon as she got home, Kate hurried to her desk and telephoned the Foreign Office. She asked to speak to Helen, Oliver’s secretary.

  Helen had a grown-up, pleasant, voice and the sound of her ‘Good morning, Helen speaking’ calmed Kate.

  ‘Helen, thank God you’re there. It’s Kate. Can I speak to the boss, do you think?’

  There was a tiny pause, and then. ‘Kate McKinnon? I’m sorry, but I’m afraid the Secretary of State is unavailable.’

  Kate held the telephone in both hands, and was conscious of the clamminess of her palms against the plastic. ‘But Helen, I must speak to him. The press have got hold of some daft story that—’

  ‘Kate, the Downing Street press office is dealing with the matter, and we in this office are under instructions to say nothing to anyone. I’m so sorry. Goodbye.’

  Kate heard the click, and sat there stunned. Helen had put the phone down on her. Why? She was not the enemy, surely? She, like Oliver, was innocent.

  For a moment Kate sat there, telephone in hand, unmoving. Then slowly she replaced the handset, wrapped her arms across her chest and put her head on her desk.

  Out of the corner of her eye she became aware of the flashing red light of her answering machine.

  She reached over and pressed the ‘play’ button. The tape whirred briefly. At the sound of Sean’s voice, Kate jerked upright. Thank God, a message from Oliver. Of course, I should have rung Sean, not Helen. It would not be his secretary, but his PPS who would handle this sort of thing.

  ‘Kate, I’m sorry to tell you, but in the light of recent events the department must cancel all forthcoming catering that we’ve booked with Nothing Fancy. That means the dinners for tomorrow night, Friday week and the Durbar Court 12th June buffet reception, the summer cocktail party on the 23rd June at Lancaster House, and the working lunches on the 14th, 18th and 26th. I will confirm all these cancellations by email. I’m sorry, Kate, but I am under instructions not to have any further communication with you.’ There was a pause, and then, in a more human voice, his real voice, Sean added, ‘I’m so sorry, Kate. And good luck.’

  She was still sitting there like a stone when Talika arrived. She did not get up, or smile, or say anything. She registered how pretty Talika looked. She’d begun to fill out a little, and her skin glowed pink beneath the brown. She was beautiful.

  Kate noticed her friend’s looks, but didn’t greet her. The word ‘fecund’ came to mind. Talika looks fecund and happy, she thought. Well, she’s pregnant, isn’t she?

  Talika said at once, ‘What’s happened, Kate? What is it? Is it Toby?’

  Kate shook her head, slowly, almost as though she was in a trance. Talika crouched down beside her, her arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Kate, talk to me. What’s happened?’ She gave Kate a little shake, ‘Speak, Kate. Tell me.’

  Talika collected the children from school and parked Kate outside in the warm May sunshine, ostensibly to keep an eye on them while shelling a load of fresh peas. While Kate podded peas, Talika countermanded orders for food, hire and staff for the various cancelled Foreign Office events, and dealt with demands for cancellation fees and explanations; there was outrage, too, at the late notice, especially from the prop company boss who had gone to a great deal of trouble to source Indian punka fans and artefacts for the Durbar Court party.

  Normally, Kate regarded shelling peas in May as a pleasurable annual rite: she could not swear that by the time the peas had been through the London markets and then the wholesalers they were any more flavoursome than frozen ones, but they reminded her of peas from her grandmother’s Scottish garden, eaten in soup plates with a dollop of farm butter and new mint from the trough outside the kitchen door.

  These peas had been destined for tomorrow’s dinner for Oliver, but now they would eat them for supper. Kate doubted that they’d enjoy them. Podding them was certainly providing little pleasure, just something to do, something to stop her trying yet again to ring Oliver, something to distract her from the horror of today’s events.

  All day she had expected a call from him. It was inconceivable that he would not ring her. And she didn’t believe that he was behind the cancellation of the catering orders. Surely, since they were both innocent, they should just go on as usual, not be bounced into a reaction like this. It just made them look guilty.

  But far worse than the loss of the catering jobs, was the feeling that she might have lost Oliver. Not that he had been hers, but they had something, she knew. He liked her, he sought her out for a drink and a chat, he’d insisted on driving her home. Of course he was not in love with her, but he would get in touch, she knew he would. Even if just to express a word of sympathy or solidarity.

  Amal, instructed by Talika, appeared at six o’clock with the late edition of the Evening Standard. He had bought two previous editions, but there had been nothing in them. In this one the Londoner’s Diary led with the story:

  Foreign Secretary denies sex scandal

  The Foreign Secretary, Oliver Stapler, this morning denied rumours of an illicit affair with Kate McKinnon, society chef responsible for many of the Government’s high-profile dinners and banquets. The Downing Street press office statement said that the Cabinet Minister would have nothing further to say on the matter.

  Neither the Foreign Secretary nor Ms McKinnon deny their friendship but Ms McKinnon has told our reporter, ‘I hope you believe me when I tell you that there is absolutely no truth whatsoever in your story. Someone is having you on, or has got it in for me. Or, more likely, for Oliver.’

  According to reports from those close to the couple, they frequently socialise and have twice been spotted going home together after dinners or events.

  Oliver Stapler’s wife, Ruth, lives in his constituency outside Birmingham with their two daughters. Kate McKinnon is a single mother, living in a council flat in Ealing.

  Kate read the piece with mounting dismay. Every paragraph felt like another blow, another stab at her battered self. ‘Society chef’ had offended her, but any indignation was swept away by the graver consequences of the second paragraph.

  That quote was exactly as she’d said it, wasn’t it? But that use of his first name, her lumping them together made it look as though she was claiming a closeness that wasn’t there. And the use of ‘a couple’, ‘socialising’ and ‘going home together‘ could not be challenged. And ‘dinners and events’ made it look as though they were out together rather than he in the dining room and she in the kitchen.

  Worst of all was the loaded description, ‘single mother in a council flat’.

  It wasn’t a flat and no longer the council’s.

  It was horrible, all horrible.

  ‘I’ve got to put this right, ring the editor or something!’ she exclaimed. ‘And I’ve got to explain to Oliver! Oh, why won’t he speak to me?’

  ‘I expect the press people have told him not to,’ said Amal. ‘And, Kate, ther
e’s really no point in talking to the paper. They’ll just make another story out of it: “Cook at the centre of sex storm, denies … etc.”’

  Kate looked from Amal to Talika, her eyes filling with tears, ‘But I can’t just do nothing. What can I do?’

  Talika put her hand on the back of Kate’s neck. It was curiously comforting. Amal said, ‘Do nothing, Kate. Just bear it. It will be a one-day wonder. You’ll see. They’ll be onto another story tomorrow, ruining someone else’s day. Just take no notice.’

  They went inside and Kate bathed the children while Amal cooked supper and Talika fielded calls. Kate’s mobile was now going constantly, with friends and customers offering sympathy but really wanting gossip, to be on the inside, in the know.

  The office telephone rang almost incessantly with the press wanting Kate to comment, to meet them, to give them her side of the story. Talika politely answered all enquiries with ‘Ms McKinnon has no comment to make.’ In the end she switched it to answerphone. She would have pulled the plug on it completely, but Kate wouldn’t let her. What if Oliver was trying to get her?

  The first photographer rang the front bell just before seven that evening. Talika opened the door to him, and was instantly blinded by his camera flash. She put her hand over her face and repeated the mantra, Ms McKinnon has no comment to make, and shut the door again.

  After half an hour of constant bell-ringing, Amal took a screw-driver and disconnected the wiring.

  Kate was grateful for the distraction of the children. She had to appear happy and normal for them, and while Amal and Talika dealt with the press, or rather refused to deal with them, she tried to explain to Sanjay and Toby what was going on.

  ‘The people who work for the television and newspapers know Mummy cooks for famous people and they want me to talk about one of them so they can write what I say in the paper. But I don’t want to.’

  Toby frowned. ‘Is it a pop star?’

  ‘No, darling…’

  Sanjay interrupted, ‘But if you’re on TV you will be famous too. It will be cool.’