A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  ‘Good Lord, Kate, what are you up to?’ she said, looking at the upheaval all around.

  ‘As you see, the annual great chuck-out. I thought it might be therapy for the glums.’

  ‘And is it? Are you coping?’

  Kate smiled. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really. But you are just beautiful, ’Lika. Pregnancy suits you.’ Kate hugged her friend as she admired the pink blush to her brown skin, the clarity of her eyes and the new fullness to her cheeks and neck. She looked like a model for a Visit India brochure.

  Suddenly, she had no idea why, Kate felt her eyes fill with tears and she turned away, but Talika’s arms were around her at once and Kate gave in, unable to stop herself crying.

  Talika didn’t ask why. She just waited for Kate to stop. Then she said, ‘Can I help?’

  Kate knew she meant would it help to talk about her troubles, but she chose to misunderstand.

  ‘Well, you can do what I’m incapable of, and chuck that lot out,’ she said, sniffling and waving a hand at the towel-covered pile.

  Talika removed the towels and examined the packages. ‘You can’t chuck all this out.’

  ‘I know, but I must. There’s just no room in there. But how can I dump the beetroot and sweetcorn from the garden?’ She picked up a package. ‘Or the stewed apple. That comes from that apple tree out there.’ She rubbed her eyes with the tea towel and smiled. ‘I’m so hopeless. I can’t chuck this fruit compote, or that elderflower syrup. Toby and I made those after pick-your-own sprees last year.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Talika started sorting packages rapidly into two piles, the bangles on her wrists flashing and clinking. ‘We could make brilliant chutney. Why not? It will be fun.’

  And so they did.

  With the cleaning session turning into a cooking one, Kate cheered up. She put her iPod into its stand and turned the sound up so Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony swelled and swooped through the kitchen. She collected her biggest pan (actually a fish kettle) from the garden store and put it on the range. The women chopped onions and garlic, and tipped them into the pan with everything else. The beetroot and berry fruit turned the mix a vibrant pink, and the apple and parsnips gave the mixture body.

  Talika patiently grated orange zest and fresh ginger. Kate blitzed a handful of coriander and cardamom seeds in the coffee-grinder and added everything with a pint of vinegar.

  ‘I know,’ said Kate, ‘let’s add these.’ She reached for one of the storage jars, containing hard dark discs.

  ‘What are they?’ Talika looked sceptical.

  ‘Believe it or not, they’re apricots. Only God knows how old. They’ve dried to leather.’

  She tipped them into the mixture and set the pan to simmer, stirring slowly. They’d judge the amount of brown sugar to add when everything else was cooked down to chutney thickness.

  Why, she wondered, was cooking so calming, so uplifting? Her mother, who hated cooking, thought her daughter liked it because she wanted to be in control: of the food, of the diners’ diets, of the family timetable. But her grandmother, who had cooked wonderful old-fashioned Scottish fare, had understood. She’d seen that cooking gave one the chance to care for people you loved, to give friends a good time.

  ‘Talika,’ she said, ‘do you think cooking is an act of love? My gran thought it was.’

  Talika looked up. ‘Of course it is. Or should be. My mother liked feeding the goats, or mixing the scraps for the chickens in the same way as she liked making the dhal for the family. There’s satisfaction in being the provider.’

  Kate nodded. ‘I think the pleasure also comes from the ritual of the process: turning good ingredients into something important and wonderful. We lose that ritual at our peril. Microwaving a TV dinner somehow doesn’t do it.’

  Talika smiled, ‘How about microwaving pea purée? Is that allowed? We could eat it with eggs on top. I’m starving.’

  She thawed the bright green purée, and reheated it with a dollop of butter. Kate fried some rashers of bacon (also rescued from the out-of-date pile) and poached two eggs.

  They carried their plates into the garden and sat on the bench in the shade.

  Talika, grinding black pepper over her egg, said, ‘Tell me now why you were so upset. Is it because you want another baby too?’

  Kate nodded without looking up. ‘Partly, yes, but I’m just in such a mess, Talika.’

  She told her friend about missing Toby, about Chris resurfacing, about her cash-flow crisis. She just stopped herself from blurting out her ridiculous longing, and occasional hate, for the monstrous Oliver and managed to remain on safer ground.

  ‘I can’t even pay you back for the flights to Arizona. What am I going to do, ‘Lika?’

  ‘Forget about that. Amal hasn’t even mentioned it. One day you will pay us back, but it doesn’t matter if you never do.’

  ‘It does, it does. I can’t bear it.’

  Talika changed the subject. ‘More important, what are you going to do about Chris?’

  ‘Nothing. Just hope he stays away.’

  ‘Are you sure? Is that fair on Toby? Chris is his dad.’

  Kate was comforted by the long conversation and Talika’s concern and good sense, and when her friend left, she went back to her desk cheered. She sweetened the chutney, gave it one last boil and filled twenty-eight jars with the ruby-red mix. It smelt wonderful and looked beautiful. With a few months’ mellowing and covered with pretty gingham or paper tops they’d raise good money for Toby’s school.

  Mum was right, Kate thought. She could hear her mother’s brisk answer to her teenage groans and moans. ‘Stop complaining, darling, and do something. Physical activity, young lady, is what you need.’

  And cooking, Kate thought, is the best.

  But the next morning she had a letter from her bank telling her that as she had gone beyond her authorised overdraft of twenty thousand, she would now be paying two per cent a month on both the unauthorised total of £392 and the agreed overdraft of £20,000. In addition, since she had breached the overdraft limit, they had the right to call in the whole loan, which they were now doing. She had thirty days to settle the debt.

  Kate stared at the figures. She could not make sense of them. She unconsciously held her breath while her heart banged loudly in her chest. How could they insist on cancelling her overdraft?

  She read the letter again. And then she understood. Two per cent a month. On the lot. She had been paying six per cent a year. Suddenly it was twenty-four per cent. Kate gasped air back into her lungs and swallowed, nausea and despair competing.

  Why were they pursuing her for repayment? It wasn’t that much money for the bank, surely? And where was she to get twenty grand, plus interest, in a month? Her business, if it ever recovered, would not do so that fast.

  Kate knew she must get rid of the overdraft. Even if the bank could be persuaded not to call it in, she would be paying five grand to borrow twenty. Every year. It was criminal.

  She rang Jarvis Stanley. And immediately she regretted it. Banks might be sharks, but so were journalists. Was she jumping from the fat into the fire? She felt her whole life heaped on top of her. But was she really reduced to doing deals with a newspaper?

  She put the fingers of both hands into her thick curly hair and clutched at it in a frantic gesture of panic and indecision.

  Almost for the first time in her life, Kate longed for a partner to share her troubles with, to talk money to, to help her through the woods and tell her it would all be all right.

  And then she sat up and said to herself, so, OK, you want the dream husband. Well, forget it. He doesn’t exist. Grow up and make decisions for yourself.

  Jarvis Stanley would worm all sorts of tiny details out of her and blow them into a scandal. He would make it a sort of kiss and tell piece, even though there’d been no kissing, no real kissing anyway, and there was little to tell. But what could she do? She had to get out of debt.

  And what would Oliver think?

 
; But then she thought, what do I owe Oliver? Precisely nothing. Damn his eyes, he’s screwed up my life and he doesn’t give a toss. I have to live. I cannot end up bankrupt, on state benefit.

  All day Kate was on a roller-coaster of indecision. One minute her hand was on the telephone, about to cancel. The next she had bolstered herself with the thought that she would tell the truth, and how could the truth hurt Oliver? And even if he didn’t like it, so what? He’d not given a thought to her suffering. He’d got her into this hole, with her business down the drain and the world thinking she was a tart. Time for him to suffer a bit.

  * * *

  Jarvis Stanley and Rake Jones arrived together at four p.m.

  Kate made tea and they sat in the kitchen. Jarvis was all avuncular concern. ‘I brought Rake with me, because I don’t want you feeling I’ve bounced you into anything. If he says not to talk to me, then no harm done. My editor doesn’t even know you rang me, so there will be no pressure on my side.’

  Kate didn’t quite believe this, but she wanted to. She didn’t challenge him, just nodded. He went on, ‘Of course I want to tell your story, and I’d be sick as a parrot if you sold it to someone else. But why don’t I go away for half an hour or so while you talk to Rake. I’ll go have a fag in the street. Or maybe I could talk to young Toby? Is he in the garden?

  ‘Arizona. With my mother.’ For once Kate was glad of this, she would not have wanted him talking to Toby.

  When Jarvis had left, Kate said, ‘Is Rake your real name?’

  He grinned, ‘No. Made it up. But everyone calls me Rake now.’ He reached for a biscuit and stayed sitting forward, looking at Kate.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Why do you want to tell Jarvis your side of things?’

  ‘I’m broke. I need the money.’

  ‘Good reason. You do know that if you hire me, I will take thirty per cent of anything you get?’

  She didn’t, and it seemed a lot, but before she could object, he said, ‘But I do promise you that I will get far more for you, even after my commission, than you would get on your own. I am very good at this.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Fine. I just want to clear my debts, and get enough money to rebuild my business, which has gone pretty much belly up because of this Oliver business.’

  ‘Have you totted up how much you need?’

  ‘Urgently, about twenty-five thousand. But I really need twice that.’

  ‘No problem. They’ll easily pay a hundred grand for a double page spread. But they will want pictures, some that they take when Jarvis does the piece, some of you and Toby …’

  ‘No, not Toby.’

  ‘They needn’t be taken now. They could be family snaps.’

  Kate frowned, hesitating, and Rake came in quickly. ‘It will make all the difference, Kate. We need the reader to sympathise with you, and a picture of you and Toby will put them on your side before they’ve read a word.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, let’s leave that for the minute. How do you feel about television interviews, magazine stories? The truth is I can make you a celebrity, which will help rebuild your business. You do want to rebuild the business?’

  ‘Yes. Or I suppose so. I have to. But to be honest, I wish I could just run away and forget the whole thing. Oliver, the business, everything.’ Kate could feel the emotion welling up, and she stood up and walked away to the window. Then she turned. ‘I’m sorry. Could we just talk about what happens next? If I allow the interview, will I be able to vet it, change it if I don’t like what he has written?’

  ‘No, they’ll not agree to that. But I know the line he will take is that you are innocent and that you have been damaged unfairly. You will need to be careful to tell him only what you are prepared to see in print.’

  ‘OK. I understand. I’ve never done this before.’

  ‘You could make a lot of money, Kate. And if it’s a good story and creates interest, it could lead to other things. Which will set you up, make you known and sought after.’ Kate shook her head, and he said quickly, ‘But that’s all for a later discussion. Shall we just agree I will do a deal with Jarvis’s editor?’

  Kate consented and Rake went to find Jarvis. She cleared away the tea things then wandered into the sitting room from where, through the window, she could see the two of them sitting side by side on the garden wall, Rake talking animatedly on his mobile. Once or twice he broke away to speak briefly to Jarvis, then went back to his call.

  Kate stood with her forehead against the window pane, knowing that the die was cast and soon Jarvis would come inside to tell her the deal was done. He’d start questioning her, a photographer would arrive, and she would betray Oliver.

  She turned away from the window, straightening her shoulders. Tough, she told herself; and he cares so little it will be water off a duck’s back. At least I’ll be able to pay the bank.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In the end Oliver took a flat in a converted stone barn on a neighbouring farm. It wasn’t ideal – rather cramped and facing north – but Ruth wanted him out of the house and he was in no mood to traipse round a succession of cottages and flats. At least this was only two miles from the house and his daughters could bike there.

  One Saturday morning he heard the sound of horse’s hooves coming up his garden path, followed by a shout, ‘Dad, are you there?’ With Obi-Wan Kenobi yapping at his heels, he walked to his open study window to see Andrea sliding off her pony. Oliver felt an unexpected flood of love at the sight of his daughter.

  She was wearing what looked to him like a petticoat, or perhaps fancy-dress for a sprite. Her hair, long, straight and blonde, draped her shoulders in windblown hanks. She was wearing flip-flops.

  As she landed on the ground, she looked up. Her pale, still-childish face, so open and eager, broke into a wide smile at the sight of him, ‘Oh Dad, I’m so glad you’re here.’

  ‘Andrea, you idiot, you cannot ride bareback on public roads without a riding hat or boots. It’s probably illegal. And where are you going to put Toppy?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she’s good as gold.’

  Oliver opened the front door to let the near hysterical Jack Russell leap into his daughter’s embrace. He noticed that not only was the pony without a saddle but she had no bridle. Just the halter she wore in the field and a rope. I suppose I’m lucky she has that, thought Oliver: Andrea frequently scrambled onto her pony for a canter round the field with nothing but a handful of mane to hold on to.

  They hitched the cob to a wrought-iron lamp screwed into the stone wall. Securely, Oliver hoped.

  As Andrea followed him inside, he said, ‘Does your mum know you’re here?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘We’d better tell her.’

  But there was no answer from the house phone or Ruth’s mobile. Oliver put the phone down. ‘Where’s Mum? Do you know?’

  ‘No. She’s probably at Ben’s.’

  ‘Who is Ben?’

  Andrea rolled her eyes at the extreme stupidity of her father. ‘Ben! You know who Ben is. He’s only your tenant. The man who sells the saddles and stuff, who rents the old hay barn.’ She tapped her father’s temple with a finger, ‘Hello? Anyone at home?’

  Oliver said, quite sharply, ‘Don’t be rude, darling.’ Then he softened. ‘And don’t be such a smarty-pants. OK, I know Ben, but what makes you think Mum is in his shop?’

  ‘She’s always there.’

  ‘What for?’

  It occurred to Oliver that he was pumping his daughter for information about her mother and he found the thought distasteful.

  But Andrea had lost interest and didn’t answer. She just gave an exaggerated shrug and said, ‘Can I see my room?’

  ‘You can. But it’s Mattie’s room too, remember. And it’s not finished yet.’ They went upstairs and Andrea bounced about on the bean bags Oliver had bought online, approved the huge cork boards for sticking posters and photos on and staked a claim
for the top bunk for when the furniture arrived.

  They had a Coke and a biscuit and then Oliver tried Ruth again. This time she answered at once and Oliver said, ‘Darling, just thought I’d tell you that our mad daughter is here. She came on Toppy.’

  Ruth’s only response was, ‘OK. But don’t call me darling.’

  He felt the now familiar flick of irritation, but quelled the desire to snap at her. ‘So sorry. Habit of a lifetime. Must try to break it.’ Immediately he knew that his tone, which he had meant to be merely cool, sounded sarcastic.

  He snapped his phone shut and turned to see that Andrea’s face, which a moment ago had been a vision of childish happiness, was now clouded with anxiety.

  ‘Why are you being so horrible?’ she asked.

  Oliver bent down to hug her. ‘Oh darling, I don’t know. We just seem to get on each other’s nerves at the moment.’

  Andrea struggled out of his grip so she could look at him. ‘Are you going to get divorced?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. Would it be terrible if we did?’

  ‘Yes. Samantha’s parents are divorced and she never sees her dad now.’

  ‘Sweetheart, that will never happen to us, I promise. That’s why I’ve got this flat. So I can be with you in minutes, and you can bike over here to see me whenever you like.’ He stroked her head, her hair silky and slippery under his fingers. ‘Though I don’t think coming on the pony is such a hot idea. If she gets a fright she could pull that lamp out of the wall and set off down the road by herself. Or eat the plants in my landlord’s garden.’

  Andrea wanted to watch Saturday Kitchen, and Oliver, less engaged by the programme than his daughter, went to get his camera. He wanted a picture of her in her ridiculous dress, which he now saw had pink and purple sequins and pearly buttons all over the floral semi-see-through material of the bodice. Her arms and legs, spread over the sofa with the gawky grace of childhood, were thin and tanned. Obi was tucked in beside her, his head on her ankle. Andrea’s toenails, he noticed, were painted deep purple.