by Alice Ross
As Steve perched on the stool next to her, Trish picked up the glass and cleared her throat. ‘I, er, owe you an apology for the other evening.’
He quirked an eyebrow.
Her cheeks flew scarlet. She shifted her gaze to the fruit bowl on the island. ‘I’ll spare you the details, but something – or rather someone – was in the restaurant when we arrived. Which completely knocked me for six.’
‘I see.’
She flicked a look at him and found him regarding her strangely. Hardly surprising. To quote Amber, she must sound like a complete loser. Oh no. Amber! She snapped her head round to the garden again, thankfully finding no sign of her daughter’s slender form. Hopefully she wasn’t now hovering next to the open doors, recording her every word. Well, whether she was or wasn’t, she’d started now, so she’d have to finish. ‘It was my husband. With his assistant. The woman he left me for. She celebrated her twenty-seventh birthday last week and is pregnant with his child.’
A few seconds’ silence followed this revelation.
‘Oh,’ uttered Steve eventually. ‘Well, I, er—’
Trish’s phone beeped again. If this was Amber and she’d heard that confession…
Everyone okay for tomorrow. Get more details and let us know the plan
‘It’s from Connie. We can all do tomorrow,’ she said, beaming at Steve.
‘Fan-bloody-tastic,’ he said, beaming back.
Chapter Eleven
Trish had lists. Lots of lists.
In Steve’s cavernous kitchen, where she’d instructed all members of the cookery club to meet at seven o’clock that morning, Kate looked completely shattered and ever so slightly terrified.
‘I’ve performed some stack of operations in my time,’ said the vet, eyeing the mountain of food in the enormous fridge. ‘But something tells me, this is going to be one of the most intricate.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ assured Trish. ‘I’ve worked out exactly what we need to do and when we need to do it.’
‘Blimey. You must’ve been up all night,’ gasped Connie.
‘Between sorting out what to make, then shopping for the ingredients, I was. Thank heavens for twenty-four-hour opening. Still, I’d rather be up doing something constructive than tossing and turning in bed, worrying about things out of my control. And believe me, this has proved the perfect distraction from all the other stuff in my life which is out of my control.’
‘I don’t think I could cope with half you have going on,’ confessed Kate. ‘I’m just pleased to have an excuse not to take my three swimming this morning. A task involving only marginally less organisation than this one.’
‘Is Andrew taking them?’
‘Yes. He and Domenique. I only hope they don’t forget the kids can’t actually swim yet.’
‘What time are the guests arriving?’ asked Melody, abruptly changing the subject as she scraped back her long brown hair into a ponytail and secured it with a band.
‘One o’clock.’
‘Yikes. That’s only six hours. How many things are we making?’
‘A few. But we can do it. Good teamwork is what’s required. Our forte.’
‘You sure we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew?’ asked Kate. ‘No pun intended.’
‘Absolutely not. It might be a challenge, but I have no doubt it’s one we can rise to. Now, are we ready to start?’
The group exchanged a dubious look, before chorusing, ‘Bring it on.’
Trish issued each member with their own list of dishes and instructions, and the cooking then began in earnest.
‘So, how come we have a Mexican theme?’ asked Melody, mixing mayonnaise, mustard, chillies and Tabasco for her ham and cheese empanadas.
‘Steve and I came up with the idea together,’ replied Trish, tipping a load of hobnobs into the food processor – the base for a vanilla cheesecake with pineapple caramel.
‘Did you now?’ asked Connie, with a knowing nod.
Trish bit back a smile as she flicked on the machine. After receiving Connie’s text confirming the group’s availability yesterday, she and Steve had sat in his garden with a jug of fruit punch, going over the original caterer’s menu.
‘To be honest,’ she’d concluded. ‘I think it’s a bit uninspiring.’
Steve had laughed. ‘My words exactly when my assistant emailed it to me. I think we should spice it up. Make it a bit more fun. What do you think?’
‘Definitely. And because the club’s working on a Spanish theme at the moment, I’m thinking something along those lines. Or South American.’
‘Mexican?’
‘Perfect! Should we look up some recipes on your laptop and draw up a list?’
‘Sounds good to me. I’ll go and get it.’
While he’d nipped into the kitchen, Trish had received another text from Amber.
If you don’t leave in the next five minutes, I’m going to kill myself.
Knowing her daughter wouldn’t dream of carrying out such a threat without wearing a suitably worded T-shirt, Trish had ignored the message and concentrated on sourcing recipes. A task she always enjoyed. But which was all the more pleasurable when shared with Steve.
‘Well, even if I say so myself, that’s a pretty impressive feast,’ exclaimed Kate five hours later, as they stood back and surveyed the results of their efforts. Along with Melody’s empanadas and Trish’s cheesecake, they’d made spicy salsas, creamy guacamole, tostadas laden with fresh tomatoes, crudites, refried beans, several varieties of rice, a bazillion salads, a squillion different tacos, quesadillas, pizzas, chilli con carne, and a plethora of desserts. ‘And, for all my initial trepidation – of which there was lots – I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it.’
‘Me too,’ said Trish. ‘And I had more trepidation than you, I just didn’t dare admit it.’
‘You hid it well,’ chuckled Connie. ‘And you did a brilliant job organising it all.’
‘Thanks. But no matter how good my lists, it wouldn’t have come together without our brilliant teamwork.’
‘I think we should consider setting ourselves up as a catering company,’ said Melody. ‘I quite like the idea of working with food.’
‘So do I,’ agreed Connie. ‘In fact, I don’t just like the idea – I love it. Ever since my first holiday in Italy, when my parents took me to a gorgeous little bistro with checked tablecloths, where I tasted my first ever panna cotta, I’ve dreamed of owning somewhere just like that.’
‘Well, there you go then,’ said Melody. ‘That’s your future sorted. And when everyone has stuffed themselves silly at your bistro, you can send them along to my exercise classes to burn off all the calories.’
‘I think that’s what you call a complete offer,’ chuckled Kate, just as Steve entered the room.
‘Wow!’ he gushed, coming to a stop at the island, his eyes dancing over the array of colourful dishes. ‘That looks… amazing. I mean, I knew you’d do a good job, but this is – in the words of my son – awesome. As impressive as anything I’d expect from the professionals. I can’t thank you all enough.’
‘Our bit was easy,’ said Connie. ‘Trish did the hard work sorting it all out.’
Steve turned to Trish. ‘Thank you,’ he said. In such a warm, intimate tone that her innards copied the mozzarella on the Oaxacan pizzas – and melted.
A little persuasion had been required, but Trish had eventually persuaded Amber to assist at the function. Despite a decidedly cool initial response.
‘Walk round with trays of food and collect empty glasses? Ugh. I’d rather hang upside down by my eyelashes.’
‘The bank’s paying. Lots, apparently.’
‘What? Like enough to buy a new iPhone?’
‘Probably,’ Trish had replied, having no idea how much a new iPhone cost. ‘Oh. And Miguel’s helping too.’
‘Oh. Okay then. I’ll do it. But I’m not wearing a skirt.’
Shortly before one o’clock, all members of the cookery club – a
part from Trish – tootled off home: Connie remembering something she had to do in the shop, Melody being completely exhausted, and Kate receiving a call from her tearful four-year-old daughter complaining that her younger brother had vomited over her favourite teddy.
With no such emergencies to attend to, Trish pottered about and had just started emptying the dishwasher when Steve appeared, looking extremely handsome in cream chinos and a yellow polo shirt.
‘Aren’t you going home?’ he asked, as he approached her. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘Amazingly, I’m not,’ replied Trish. ‘And as I have nothing to go home for, I thought I’d hang around a bit. Keep on top of the dirty glasses and things when the guests are here. And make sure Amber’s behaving herself. If that’s okay with you, of course.’
He came to a stop right in front of her, his mouth stretching into one of his gorgeous smiles. ‘I’d love you to stay. If you don’t mind.’ He reached out a hand and brushed a finger against her cheek. ‘Flour,’ he all but whispered.
Trish’s heart stuttered. Her gaze locked on his, she could do nothing but nod.
Steve moved a shade closer.
She did likewise.
He lowered his head.
She raised hers to meet it.
He parted his lips.
She did the same.
‘Mum!’
They leapt apart.
‘Er, yes, darling,’ blustered Trish, plastering a smile onto her face and smoothing down her hair.
Amber pursed her lips, eyes darting from her mother to Steve, then back to her mother. For what seemed to Trish like an eternity, a heavy silence hung over the room, before Amber blew out a breath and said, ‘You’re not expecting me to, like, talk to people or anything this afternoon, are you?’
Steve invited Trish to join the party but she declined, content to remain in the kitchen, observing proceedings, or – more specifically – observing Steve, admiring the way he mingled with ease, laughed with sincerity, and rattled off fluent Spanish to native speakers.
By early evening, most of the guests had drifted off, and with Amber complaining about a blister on her foot, Trish deemed it time to go home.
‘What’s going on?’ Amber demanded in the car.
Oh no! Sensing an interrogation about the scene in the kitchen earlier, Trish’s stomach clenched. ‘What’s going on with what?’ she asked innocently, glancing at the pencil in the console and determining that it really was going out of the side window at the earliest opportunity.
‘With you and Miguel’s dad?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
Amber’s eyes narrowed. ‘It looked like he was going to kiss you.’
Trish gave a tinkling laugh, which came out slightly more tinkling than planned. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course he wasn’t.’
Collapsing into bed thirty minutes later, Trish felt an emotion she hadn’t experienced much of lately: happiness. Had someone told her a couple of weeks ago that she’d have organised a feast for thirty people with only a few hours’ notice, she’d have died laughing. But she had. And not only had it been tremendous fun, but it had restored a large part of her self-esteem, awarding her a sense of achievement she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. And, to top off her manic but brilliant day, there’d been that strange moment in the kitchen with Steve. The more she came to know him, the more she liked him. And the way he’d winked at her whenever his gaze had snagged on hers during the afternoon – when he’d been mingling and she’d been faffing about in the kitchen – had caused a strange but pleasant sensation in her gut. Had he been going to kiss her? she wondered. And, more to the point, had she wanted him to?
Trish hadn’t reached any kissing conclusions before she dozed off into a deep sleep. So deep, it took a while for the shrill of the doorbell to penetrate her consciousness. Once it did, she jerked awake, heart hammering. The bedside clock beamed 1.57 a.m. Which could only mean one thing: bad news. With all manner of horrific scenarios bouncing about her head, she tentatively opened the front door, to discover a spiky-haired Ian on the step, tears rolling down his face.
‘It’s Chloe,’ he whimpered. ‘She’s lost the baby.’
Thankfully, there had been but a handful of times in Trish’s life when she’d experienced that weird out-of-body feeling that accompanies shocking news: the time Gloria the guinea pig had scampered off to the big guinea-pig farm in the sky; the time her gran had shuffled off to the big old folk’s home in the sky; the time Ian and his pre-packed suitcase had scarpered to Chloe’s luxury apartment on the fifth floor in the sky. And now, with her estranged husband explaining in great and repetitive detail, over several cups of tea, how Chloe had been out with friends in Cirencester when she’d experienced a horrific pain, collapsed in the street, and been rushed to hospital in an ambulance. Upon examining her, the medics had confirmed the baby was no more. And while Ian’s tears had come thick and fast, Trish had shed a few of her own. Not Chloe’s biggest fan, the news had nevertheless knocked her sideways. For years Trish had experienced the monthly disappointment of not managing to produce a sibling for Amber, but that was different. To have conceived a life and then lost it must be utterly heartbreaking.
‘I told her to take better care of herself,’ sniffed Ian, dabbing at his nose with the last of a full box of tissues. He tossed it onto the pile of used ones at his feet. ‘Told her to stop gallivanting about, coming home at all hours. And warned her about the dangers of drinking when pregnant. But she just laughed and called me an old fart. Something she’s been calling me a lot lately.’
‘Hmm.’ Trish didn’t know what to say to that. Partly because it was five in the morning and she could barely keep her eyes open. And partly because she couldn’t help but question why she was spending the night listening to the man who’d ripped her world apart, talking about the woman who’d assisted him.
Amber had made a brief appearance, heard the news, made one of her indecipherable grunts, then shuffled off back to bed. In another hour she’d be up to do her paper-round. Or at least Trish hoped she would. There was no way she could cover for her this morning.
‘You don’t mind if I grab a few hours’ kip here, do you?’ asked Ian, tossing the empty tissue box onto the growing pile of debris at his feet and wiping his nose on his sleeve.
Under normal circumstances, Trish had a fair idea how she might have replied to that request. But given that the circumstances were far from normal and her brain hurt, she said, ‘I’ll make up the spare bed.’
‘Thanks.’ He flashed her a watery smile. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Trish woke up a few hours later, with the unpleasant sensation of someone having piped her head full of mashed potato. Noting the time of eight o’clock, she dragged herself out of bed and padded along the landing to Amber’s room. Knocking on the door, she held her breath. If the girl hadn’t gone to her paper round she’d…
Tentatively turning the handle, she opened the door and peeped inside. As usual, the room verged on the condemnable, but thankfully without Amber.
She breathed a sigh of relief. She really should give her daughter more credit. Despite the girl’s disturbed night, and the emotions the news must have ignited, she’d still gone to her paper round – and on her bike.
Feeling a rush of pride, Trish carried on along the landing and down the stairs to the kitchen.
Where she discovered Ian, fully dressed, fiddling with her new cappuccino-maker.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, taken aback by the sight of him a) in the kitchen, and b) fiddling with her lovely new machine.
‘A bit came off but I’ve stuck it back on,’ he informed her, brandishing a tube of superglue.
One hour later and Ian was still fiddling with the cappuccino-maker, from which several other parts had seemingly come unstuck, also requiring a generous dollop of superglue. In the meantime, Amber had returned from her paper round and gone back to bed, and Trish had grabbed a shower and thrown on
some clothes.
‘Aren’t you going to the hospital to see Chloe?’ she asked, suspecting that if Ian continued faffing with her lovely new coffee-maker for just two more minutes, he might find it on his head. ‘I’m sure she’ll be expecting you.’
All fiddling ceased as he puffed out a sigh so dramatic, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d flung himself on the sofa and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.
Clasping the tube of glue, which Trish suspected was now stuck to his hand, he said, ‘She sent me a text saying she’s home now, is feeling okay and that I can go and see her this evening.’
Trish furrowed her forehead, concluding that this was definitely odd. Adding extra oddness to the already odd situation. ‘Well, you don’t want to sit around the house all day,’ she replied – desperate not to have him sitting around the house all day. ‘Why don’t you do something to take your mind off it all? Like… cut the grass,’ she suggested, blurting out the first thing that sprang to mind.
He nodded. ‘Yes. That’s a good idea. Mower in the shed, is it?’
No. It’s in the airing cupboard, Trish resisted saying. ‘As always,’ she replied instead. ‘You can fix the coffee machine later.’
‘Okay.’ He prised the tube of glue from his fingers, accompanied by a slight wince and a mumbled expletive.
He trotted off to the shed, whistling a rather annoying – and distinctly incongruous, given the circumstances – jaunty tune, and Trish had just finished fixing the cappuccino-maker when there came a knock at the door.
Steve.
Behind an enormous bunch of flowers.
‘Dropping these off for you and Amber on my way to work. To thank you both for all your help yesterday.’
‘Goodness,’ gasped Trish, noting, through the foliage, how sexy he looked in his navy suit.
‘And,’ he continued, ‘please don’t feel obliged, but I’d really like to take you out for dinner again. To show my appreciation.’
Trish tutted. ‘There’s no need for that.’