by Prue Leith
He strode back to his seat, through the throng of customers. Fortunately the noise was such that the extraordinary exchange with Dennis had not been heard by many. But he felt unsettled by it and waited a little anxiously for his food to arrive.
Unfortunately it was Dennis who brought it. Oliver, with sinking heart, watched him mincing through the crowd, the oval platter held with professional skill high above his shoulder. He put it down, almost tossed it down, with disdain.
‘Just because you lost your job,’ he said, his hands now on his hips, ‘you need not have blamed me, and cost me mine.’
‘Dennis, I do not know what you are talking about, and if you have a quarrel with me, make an appointment and come and see me. This is no place for a discussion.’
‘I don’t want a fucking discussion,’ said Dennis, his voice now high with indignation. ‘I want to know why you had it in for me.’
‘But I didn’t. To be blunt, Dennis, I have never liked you, but I’ve certainly not wasted my time thinking about you or plotting your dismissal. I had better things to do.’
Dennis tipped his head on the side, lips pursed, ‘I bet you had. Like cheating on your wife and robbing the taxpayer.’
Oliver looked round. He could either let this ridiculous scene escalate into a full-blown show for the bystanders, or he could walk out and leave his supper. Or make Dennis see sense.
‘Dennis,’ he said, his voice low, ‘I can see you are upset. I don’t understand why, but again, this is not the place. You have customers to serve and I have supper to eat. Just go away.’
But Dennis’s voice was again on the rise and Oliver was conscious that the neighbouring tables had fallen silent. ‘What do you mean you don’t understand?’ said Dennis. ‘Don’t pretend that you don’t know I’ve been blamed for the press stories about you. As if the whole world didn’t know what you were up to – closeted in the kitchen with Kate McKinnon, driving her about in a Government car …’
Suddenly Oliver understood.
‘It was you who tipped off the press! I should have known.’ What a slimy bastard the man was.
‘What if I did? It was my duty!’ Dennis was rapidly losing control. ‘It’s right to blow the whistle. That wine you were drinking with her was government property.’
Oliver stood up as the manager elbowed his way out of the crowd round the bar and into the restaurant area. He said, ‘I apologise about this, but your barman here …’
‘I know, Sir. It’s for us to apologise, not you.’ He took Dennis by the arm and said, ‘Dennis, you’re fired. Come with me.’ He signalled to two waiters. ‘Give him his things and chuck him out.’
‘Christ!’ shouted Dennis, now completely out of control. ‘First he gets me the sack from a job I’ve done for twenty years, and then he—’
But he was not allowed to continue. The waiters bundled him through the crowd and out of sight.
Oliver sat down again, and bore the manager’s apologies. He really wanted to abandon his supper and leave, but almost everyone in this room would know who he was, and he was not going to run away. He sat back, assured the manager there was nothing to worry about and asked him for half a bottle of the Australian Merlot.
When the man returned with the wine, he explained that he had occasionally used Dennis to do odd shifts on a casual basis and had felt sorry for the man when he lost his job, and had hired him to run the bar.
‘But why was he sacked?’ asked Oliver. ‘I had no idea he had been. Was it for speaking to the press?’
‘Not exactly, though I guess that was a part of it. Government butlers must hear stuff all the time that’s secret, and they’re not meant to go blabbing. And he didn’t deny he got paid for it. But when he was summoned to a disciplinary hearing he lost his temper with the boss. Julian something? Like now, I guess.’
As Oliver ate his supper he began to feel a tiny shaft of sympathy for Dennis. But really, the man was a snake. He deserved what he got.
It was weeks since Kate had last put the phone down on Oliver and it puzzled and annoyed him that he couldn’t put her out of his head. Specifically, he could not forget the bitter tone of her remarks in that newspaper piece.
Maybe he just wasn’t used to people not liking him, or thinking he had wronged them? Up till now I’ve led a charmed life, he thought: happy marriage, wife with money to pay for the good life, great political career, enough celebrity for people to be honoured by my attention. So when someone feels I’ve done badly by them – no, when I know damn well I’ve done badly by them – I can’t handle it.
Poor Kate. He would have one more go at reconciliation. He rang her home number. Almost at once a male voice answered.
‘Hello. Chris here.’
Oliver frowned. Who was Chris? ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I think I must have the wrong number.’
‘No problem, mate.’
The voice was Australian. But he was sure he’d dialled the right number. Oliver said, ‘I was looking for Kate McKinnon.’
‘Right, well she’s not in. Can I help? I’m her partner.’
Partner? What kind of partner? Oliver said, ‘Could you ask her to give me a call? It’s really important.’
‘If it’s about a catering job, I can probably help? We work together.’
Ah, business partner. Oliver said, ‘No, it’s private. Could you just ask her to ring this number?’ He had to wait while Chris found a pencil and wrote it down.
‘What’s your name, mate?’
‘Oliver. I’m Oliver.’
There was silence at the other end so Oliver said, ‘Thanks, that would be great.’
‘Oliver? Not Oliver Stapler?’
‘Well, yes. I need to speak to her.’
Oliver heard the intake of breath and then suddenly the man was shouting. ‘Oliver bloody Stapler. What makes you think she’d want to ring you back, shithead? You’re the guy who couldn’t pick up the phone for, what is it, six months? When she was going through fucking purgatory? When she thought you were a mate? Some bloody mate. I’m not giving her any messages from you. Take a hike, Oliver Stapler.’
Oliver stood stock still by the phone, listening to the silence. Then he slowly put the handset back in its cradle and sat down.
He pulled his laptop towards him and told himself he would forget about Kate. What was the point of apologising or explaining? She’d not change her view, and speaking to her would be painful or embarrassing for them both.
He would concentrate on dealing with constituency emails and correcting the proofs of his booklet for Civitas.
But the conversation with the Australian bugged him and two days later he just pulled out his mobile and texted Kate:
I know it won’t change your attitude to me, but I want to say I’m sorry. Can we have lunch? Or supper? Any day, anywhere. Oliver
He had a reply ten minutes later.
Can’t do supper. And lunch would have to be at half term. Oct 26-30 this month? Kate
Wonderful. Shall we say Tuesday 27th. Wolseley in Piccadilly? One o’clock? Oliver
Yes. Thank you. Kate
Three weeks later, Oliver was early, determined to be there before Kate. He waded through a wall of restaurant noise, nodding at customers he knew, returning the smiles of waiters and feeling the old glow of satisfaction at being in the thick of it. The Wolseley had that perfect atmosphere of buzz and fashion upheld by serious service. The place looked like a Paris brasserie with gleams of silver and glass, white cloths, high ceilings, dark wood, waiters in long black aprons. But the clientele was modern, mostly under forty and tie-less, the woman polished and chic. The food was unpretentious, good and generous.
Oliver was gratified to see that he’d been given his usual table in spite of his fallen status. It was one of the quieter corner ones where you could sit diagonally across from your guest on a roomy banquette rather than opposite on a chair, or side by side. In his glory days he’d eaten a lot of good food at that table, hosted a lot of VIPs, drunk a lot
of fizz.
He positioned himself so that he could watch the door. But almost immediately Kate was at the table. She’d come from the back of the room.
Oliver half stood. ‘Kate! You look wonderful. But where did you spring from? I’ve been looking out for you.’
She slipped into her seat. ‘I arrived early. I’ve been skulking in the loos.’
‘You mad woman. Why didn’t you sit here and have a drink?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been good at being on my own in posh restaurants. I think everyone’s feeling sorry for me because I’ve been stood up or something.’
‘And you so independent, and in the catering trade!’
‘Feeble, isn’t it? I can just about manage Carluccio’s, but even then I’d probably prefer a coffee bar.’
But Oliver noticed there was no trace of shyness when it came to ordering. Kate questioned the waiter about the food with cheerful confidence and his professional coolness melted under the warmth of her interest and knowledge. She spoke to the man, not like a pedantic foodie, but like a fellow enthusiast. How did they make the steak tartare? At the table or in the kitchen? Where did the beef come from? What breed? Within seconds the two of them were nodding and chattering like old friends.
As she alternately lifted her face to the waiter or bent her head to the menu, Oliver examined her. She was much thinner, and her skin was pale. Her thick curls made her face look small and her freckles were more noticeable than he remembered. He noticed that her eyes were subtly made up with soft smudgy browns. They had that frank, almost merry, gaze he remembered. When she smiled her teeth were bright against her dark red lips. She was wearing some sort of lipstick but it wasn’t thick or shiny, more like a rich stain. If I touched her mouth, he thought, it would feel soft and dry and leave no trace on my fingers. He pulled his gaze to the menu.
The ordering over, there followed a few minutes of conversation about nothing: the traffic, the weather. Oliver took the plunge.
‘Kate, I told you I wanted to apologise …’
‘No, Oliver, really … I should …’
He put his hand on her knee, hard. ‘Kate, just hear me out.’
She shifted back in the seat. ‘OK.’
‘Until that article in the Evening Standard, I had no idea how horrible it must have been for you.’ He paused, frowning. ‘No, that’s not true. I did know. I saw footage of you being doorstepped by the press, and I did nothing. I behaved disgracefully, Kate. I’m so sorry.’
She returned his gaze, her face solemn. ‘All the same, I should not have talked to the press. My excuse was that I needed the money, but I think I wanted to hurt you too.’
Her hand was on the table, curled into a fist, tense. He put his much larger hand over it, with the sensation of holding still a small animal. ‘You had every right. I did not even ring you. I did want to but I let myself be talked out of it. I was leaving for the Middle East and I didn’t have your number and didn’t want to ask around for it in case that lent credence to the story …’
‘It’s over now. It’s OK.’ Kate pulled her hand away, not fast, but firmly. Oliver’s hand felt the loss of it.
Maybe she would never say ‘I forgive you’, but Oliver, still seeking absolution, told her of his tussles with Terry and the refusal of the Government to join her case to his in suing the paper, of Brampton’s refusal to help, and his advice to steer clear of her.
Even to his own ears it all sounded like the feeblest of excuses and he ended by saying, ‘The truth was I was more concerned with my career than with yours, or, I’m ashamed to say, with damage to you.’
Neither of them had touched their food.
‘Some of the damage was the recession,’ Kate told him. ‘But your cutting me off so fast did hurt. You seemed not to have given me a thought, or not to care …’ She tried to smile but her lip trembled and she put her hand to her mouth and ducked her head.
He wanted to put a hand on her arm or an arm round her shoulder. ‘Maybe we should eat,’ he said.
He applied himself to his fishcakes, and, giving her time to recover, he did not speak for a few mouthfuls. Then, nodding at her eggs Benedict, he asked, ‘Any good?’
‘Delicious. Spinach gritty though. Still, it proves it was grown in sand and didn’t come in a pre-washed packet.’
‘Is that good?’
She smiled, ‘Well, it means the chef is probably buying British and local.’ She took another mouthful. ‘Oliver,’ she went on, ‘won’t you be unhappy as a backbencher?’
‘I don’t think so. The fall from grace was nothing like as painful as I expected.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I spent a month on my own in France and somehow settled a few things in my head. Finally rumbled that being constantly busy, forever on the move, always in demand is not the same as doing something important. A lot of that constant round of meetings, late night discussions, those endless papers, papers, papers, achieves precisely zero. And it certainly distanced me from the things that matter, like family and friends, and walking along a river bank or reading a book. Sounds trite I know, but it’s true for me.’
He looked across the room, wondering if he was being wholly honest. He knew he’d never get the top job now: did he really not mind? On the whole he thought he didn’t.
They talked on, and Oliver found he was slipping back into the comforting groove of confiding in Kate. He told her of his separation from Ruth and his worries about damage to his daughters. He talked of his ambitions to write, and his new life in the rented cottage, living like a sort of appendage to the family, close in case of need, but not central to it.
‘Things at home seem to be progressing inexorably to divorce,’ he said. ‘These days Ruth and I communicate almost exclusively through intermediaries: our lawyer, the children, occasionally stiff emails.’
Kate reached over and rubbed his forearm. With real concern in her eyes, she said, ‘Poor Oliver. Poor Ruth. It must be horrible.’
‘Ruth says she’s happy. I don’t think she really is, but she’s having an affair with a brawny young saddler who rents space in our yard. That must boost her ego a bit.’
‘Oh, Oliver, how awful for you.’
‘I mind less than I ought, I think. I ought to froth and fume as the wronged enraged husband, ready to kill the man, but you know what? I’m not sure I even mind now. Not sure I even want to get back with Ruth.’ He was silent for a while, frowning at the table. Then he looked up at Kate. ‘But all the years of loyalty and love must count for something. I’m sure one day we will rub along OK.’
He reached for the water and poured them both a glass. ‘I expect it’s vanity,’ he said, ‘but what I find tough is the loss of my reputation. For a politician, I used to be moderately well thought of. A bit aloof maybe, and the press made great play of what they thought of as my grandee air. Now everyone thinks I’m a corrupt thieving politico, a philanderer and a cad. Your partner, for example. Chris …’
‘Chris, how do you know Chris?’ Kate interrupted.
Oliver explained he’d telephoned before resorting to text but got short shrift from Chris. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, in a bid to soothe Kate’s anxious face, ‘it’s understandable. Presumably he knows how I failed to help you, so naturally he’s cast me as a villain. He’s probably right, don’t worry about it.’
He picked up the menu. ‘How about pudding?’
She shook her head, almost impatiently, her mind obviously caught by the talk of Chris. He went on, ‘I didn’t know you had a business partner. That must mean the business is recovering, which is good, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s not like that. Chris is Toby’s father.’
‘What? The Aussie who ran away when …’
‘Yes, that’s right. He came back. He’s living with us now.’
So that explained the hostility. He was the low-life who had abandoned Kate when she was pregnant with Toby. And Kate had taken him back.
The news mad
e Oliver uneasy. More than uneasy; indignant, almost angry. But he said, ‘That’s wonderful, Kate. So you are together again. Young Toby must be thrilled to have his dad back.’
‘Yes, it’s good. I think.’ She stared at her wine which she had hardly sipped. ‘But I’m not sure. My mother says I’m with him for the wrong reasons. You know – security, he’s Toby’s dad, et cetera. She’s been wonderful. Before she went back to Arizona she told me she’s going to give me the house I live in – it’s hers, not mine, you see – so that I will have the security to kick him out if I want to.’
‘And do you want to?’
She had been looking deadly serious but now she suddenly lifted her head and laughed. ‘God knows, Oliver. I certainly don’t. I think maybe at my age you don’t marry for the right reasons. Any reason will do.’
‘And what would be the right ones?’
She looked at him steadily. ‘Love?’
Then she straightened up and smiled. ‘Can we get back to you, do you think? I don’t want to talk of my love-life, or lack of it.’ Oliver’s heart went out to her. She wouldn’t want to revisit her confession to that journalist about her feelings for him. They’d obviously changed now, and he didn’t want to get into that either.
He signalled for the waiter and asked for some cheese and more bread. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we’ve been here two and a half hours and talked of almost nothing but me. Now it’s your turn.’
She ran her eyes around the still full restaurant. The other tables were as full of women as the lunch-time ones had been of men. They were drinking tea and eating cake. Kate looked at her watch.
‘God, Oliver, it’s ten past four.’
‘You’re not in a hurry are you?’
She shook her head. They ordered two more glasses of red to go with the cheese, and she told him, reluctantly at first, how she’d turned down Jarvis and Rake’s ideas of making money from her notoriety, and how her mother and brother had been so generous with the house, how she was working as a teaching assistant, aiming to be a fully fledged food teacher. And how she could not make up her mind about Australia.