“The thing”—Chester paused briefly—“is that with your mother I’ve learned that the best strategy is a swoop.”
“A swoop,” I said. “And that is?”
“It’s when you see a company you want and you go for it quickly—buying up stock, forcing a takeover, whatever. As opposed to a circle, where you spend longer developing a deal, flirting with the board and shareholders, launching a long-term charm offensive.”
I frowned. “I still don’t see how—”
“The longer she knows something, the longer she has to stew over it. It never works in my favor,” Chester explained. “Believe me, I’ve tried charm offensives and your mother sees through them every time. Far better to give her the news with minutes to spare and hope that by the time I’m back she’s forgiven me.”
“You’re a brave man, Chester,” Max said, shaking his head.
“Brave?” I was incredulous. “He’s …” I turned to Chester. “You’re …” I wanted to tell him he was an idiot. But I wanted to say that to my prospective stepfather; I still didn’t dare talk to Chester the client that way. Instead, I just looked at him with my mouth open. “You’re going to have a very difficult conversation,” I said eventually. “And she’s going to be pretty angry with you.”
“Which is where you come in.” Chester was smiling again. I found myself wondering if this was how he did all his deals; certainly it was hard to say no to him.
He caught my expression and pulled a puppy-dog face. “I know. I screwed up. But I’ll be gone only a couple of weeks.”
“Two whole weeks?” Max whistled. “You couldn’t take her with you?”
“I thought about that,” Chester said with a shrug, “but I’m going to be too busy. And two weeks isn’t so long. I’ve just got some ends to tie up, you know? I never saw myself living here permanently, and now that I’m getting married, well, there are things to do.”
Max and I nodded; Chester beamed at us. “So you’ll go and see her? Keep her occupied so she forgets how pissed she is? Talk me up all the time?”
“Sure,” I gulped. “But you’d better go and tell her now. And you’d better wear some armor.”
Chester nodded quickly. “I know. I will. And thanks, Jess. I appreciate it. Max, you’re a lucky man, you know.”
Max grinned. “Don’t I know it. And don’t worry about Esther. We’ll keep an eye on her. You go on your business trip and leave her to Jess.”
“Yes,” I agreed, trying to sound as certain. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry at all.”
Of course things weren’t fine. They weren’t fine at all.
“He didn’t tell me until this afternoon,” my mother said, incandescent with rage when I called up to see how she was that evening. “An hour before his flight left. He called me from the airport. From the bloody airport, Jess.”
I bit my lip. My mother very rarely swore; I got the feeling that Chester hadn’t managed his departure particularly well.
“Maybe he was just nervous about telling you,” I said tentatively.
“Well, he should have been nervous. He’s gone away for two weeks. Leaving me to organize everything. And who knows what he’ll be up to over in the States. Chatting up women, out partying every night …”
I frowned. I had never seen Chester chatting up a woman, and the idea of him being out partying was simply … well, if not inconceivable, then certainly unlikely. “Mum, I don’t think he’s really a party animal,” I said. “And he’s gone out there to tie up loose ends so that he can marry you. It’s quite romantic when you think about it. And he’ll be back soon enough—”
“The point is, he doesn’t appreciate me. That is absolutely clear. And I don’t appreciate being unappreciated, Jess. I don’t, it’s as simple as that.”
“Of course he appreciates you,” I said quickly. “It’s obvious he’s mad about you.”
Mum paused. “Maybe,” she said a moment later. “But love doesn’t stop us from taking others for granted, darling. And I won’t be taken for granted. I won’t. Chester needs to realize that.”
“I’m sure he does realize that,” I said uncertainly.
“Does he? Then why is he abandoning me?”
I sighed. “I wouldn’t call a two-week trip abandoning you. And, anyway, isn’t that a bit rich coming from you? After all, you did leave me with Grandma and fake your own death to escape from some debts, didn’t you?”
There was silence for a second or two. “That,” Mum said eventually, “was different. Very different. I’d have thought you knew that, Jessica.”
I could tell I’d upset her; she used my full name only when she was cross with me.
“I do know that,” I amended. “But I think you should maybe give Chester a break. Cut him some slack. He’s gone for two weeks, so enjoy it. Plan the wedding, get everything organized, go and have a few facials.”
“Facials?” Mum said, sounding incredulous. “I don’t have time for facials. No, I shall be networking. You know I’m a Facebook now?”
I suppressed a giggle. “You’re a Facebook? You mean you’re on the site?”
“Yes, and I have lots of friends,” Mum said triumphantly. “Chester had better watch out.”
“I’m sure he’s quaking in his boots,” I said indulgently. “Just be careful, will you? There are all sorts of loons on the Internet.”
“There are loons all over the world,” Mum replied in a patronizing tone. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Good,” I said with a smile. “And the two weeks will pass in a flash, I promise.”
“Perhaps,” Mum said archly. “But a lot can happen in two weeks. An awful lot.”
Chapter 6
MUM WAS RIGHT, of course. Lots could happen in two weeks; in fact, I had my own two-week schedule all mapped out to get Project Ideal Wife off the ground. I had devised a new plan, setting out the values with key objectives associated with them. So under Goodness I had Doing charitable works, and under Care I had Looking after Max, and for each of these objectives I had a list of things to do each week. Already this week I had run Max a bath (care), spent all day Thursday talking to as many people as I could at work about the audit to convince them it was a good thing (loyalty), and had contacted a local soup kitchen to offer my services (goodness). I hadn’t worked out how or when I was going to tackle the whole Hugh business (honesty), but I figured that if I did the other things well, then telling Max the truth would somehow fall into place.
In fact, as Helen and I made our way to the cookery course the following Saturday (care), I had a little spring in my step for the first time in what felt like ages. I might not be perfect, but I was on my way.
“Is this it?” Helen asked, peering at a sign outside a small house. “The Mary Armstrong Cookery School?”
“Yes!” I said, and pressed the buzzer, then felt Helen’s hand on my shoulder. “We’re really doing this?” she asked incredulously. “I mean, seriously? Because we can still leave. There’s still time to run.”
“We’re not running anywhere,” I said firmly. “We’re going to learn to cook.”
“And remind me again why? You used to tell me that cooking was just a form of enslavement, that the trick was to work hard and earn enough to employ a cook.”
I frowned; she was right, I did say that. I’d meant it, too. “Helen, I’m not saying I want either of us to be chained to the kitchen,” I said, shrugging. “But cooking is a basic skill. Everyone should be able to cook.”
“They should?”
“Yes, they should….” I caught her expression: She was laughing at me.
I sighed. “Oh, please, Hel. You know why we’re here. I want to do something for Max. He’s so stressed out at the moment. We’ve got this bloody audit at work, we’re losing business every day, and I swear Max has started to go prematurely gray with the stress of it all. Even if you don’t care about cooking, at least be supportive.”
“Of your transformation into Bree Van de Kamp?�
� Helen raised an eyebrow.
“No,” I said, trying not to smile. “Not Bree.”
“Then who? I mean, do you have any evidence that Max wants you to be able to cook?”
I frowned. “Well, no, but—”
“Look, I know that he teases you,” Helen said, “but I don’t think I’ve ever heard him actually criticize you. Or even suggest that he cares at all that you’re a total idiot in the kitchen. It’s one of your charms.”
“One of my charms? So I do have some?”
“One or two. Maybe.” Helen grinned. “Do you really want to do this?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I want to be able to cook. Anyway, food is the best way to a man’s heart. Everyone knows that.”
“No, everyone knows that’s a myth,” Helen corrected me. “Blow jobs are far better, as I discovered last night …”
“Hello?”
Helen looked up and reddened. A woman had opened the door and was standing in front of us, looking slightly confused.
“Hello!” I said hurriedly. “Hello, we’re here for the class. We’re late, I’m afraid. We were just … um … um …”
“Just discussing the use of blowtorches when making crème brûlée,” Helen said, smiling. “Versus the broiler.”
“Ah,” the woman said knowingly. “Well, we all have our favorite methods, don’t we?”
I nodded and tried not to giggle when Helen nudged me in the ribs. “We certainly do,” she said seriously.
“So you’re quite an accomplished cook?” the woman asked, leading us inside. “I’m Mary Armstrong, by the way.”
“The eponymous Mary Armstrong?” Helen asked, rushing after her and purposefully sidestepping the question.
“That’s right.” Mary smiled. “Now, we’re in here.” She opened the door to a room made up of ten workstations. “Why don’t you two take that one?” she suggested, pointing to one toward the back.
“Great!” I said enthusiastically.
“And grab a coffee. We’re going to start in five minutes.”
She pointed toward a filter coffee machine, around which people were gathered.
“Coffee,” Helen said brightly, as Mary walked away. “Great idea,” and she promptly collapsed into a fit of giggles.
The others, it turned out, were made up of two sorts of people: gap-year students who needed to learn to cook so that they could get jobs as chalet assistants for the winter season, and middle-aged divorced men who had realized that they couldn’t live on takeout and toast for the rest of their lives.
“Looking forward to getting your apron on?” a man said, coming over to talk to me. “So what’s someone like you doing here?”
I blushed. “Oh, you know,” I said. “I want to learn to cook so I can produce nice meals at home.”
He nodded sagely. “Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”
“And you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Got to face facts, haven’t you? Got to accept that life has changed, that it’s time to move on. There’s no one cooking meals for me anymore.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, that makes two of us,” he said, evidently relishing the chance to talk. “Divorce came through six months ago, and I still wake up sometimes thinking that maybe she’ll come back.”
“But?” I asked gently.
“She’s not coming back,” he said sadly. “She’s getting married soon. Apparently the kids love him.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Well, maybe you’ll meet someone, too,” I said eventually, deciding that he could probably do with a little positivity. “I mean, if she left you, then you have to think good riddance, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I miss her every day. I don’t want to meet anyone else.”
“Ah,” I said, biting my lip and wondering where Helen had got to. She was way better at this kind of stuff than I was.
“And the worst thing is that it was all my fault.”
“What was your fault?” Helen asked, appearing at my side. I looked at her in relief.
“This is …” I started to say, then realized that I didn’t know who this man was.
“Andrew,” the man said.
“This is Helen,” I said. “And I’m Jessica.”
“We were just talking about … about …” I looked at Andrew awkwardly. Was it good taste to say we were talking about his divorce? About the fact that his wife had left him, plunging him into a pit of despair? “About marriage,” I finally said.
“Divorce, actually,” Andrew said. “That’s why I’m here. Got to learn to stand on my own two feet.”
“That’s the spirit,” Helen said encouragingly. “We’re here because Jess wants to become a Stepford Wife.”
“No, I don’t,” I said crossly. “Learning to cook doesn’t make me a man-pleasing clone.”
“My wife’s cooking was amazing,” Andrew said balefully. “Whenever we went out to a restaurant, I always said to her that her cooking was better.”
“And she still left you?” Helen asked, apparently serious, but I could see the twinkle in her eye.
Andrew didn’t notice it. He nodded gravely. “And it was all my fault,” he said again.
“Oh, don’t say that. Takes two to tango,” Helen said briskly.
“Okay, people,” Mary called out suddenly. “We’re going to start in just a minute, so please make your way to your workstations, where you’ll find some ingredients in glass bowls laid out for you. We’re going to start by cooking a nice simple lasagna, followed by a yummy chocolate pudding.”
I looked at Andrew uncertainly. “So what happened?” I asked him, as Helen ran off to bag a workstation right at the back of the room.
He laughed, a low, bitter little laugh that sent shivers down my spine. “I cheated. One stupid drunken night. Same story as every guy here, I imagine.”
“And she left you right away?” My heart was thudding in my chest.
He nodded. “Said it was too much of a betrayal. That I wasn’t the person she thought I was. And the thing was, the night I did it … all I was thinking about was her. Wishing I was at home. Stupid, right?”
I suddenly remembered being in the bar with Hugh, feeling so angry with Max, feeling betrayed and hurt but still wanting him so badly.
“Pretty stupid,” I agreed, my voice catching slightly. “Pretty bloody insane, actually.”
“So,” Mary said, as I nipped over to the workstation Helen had saved for me, on which were two carefully laid-out steaks and various bowls. “Making lasagna is really quite straightforward. But first we need to get our prep done. Which means mincing our beef and making our pasta. Has anyone here made pasta before?”
One of the gap-year students and one of the middle-aged divorcés put up their hands.
“Wonderful.” Mary beamed. “The rest of you, just follow my instructions and you’ll find that it’s the easiest thing in the world.”
It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. It wasn’t at all the easiest thing in the world. I did my best to concentrate, but Mary kept shouting out instructions and I didn’t even hear her because I was still trying to complete my first task—making a pasta dough and turning it into sheets of lasagna.
“Helen,” I said tentatively. “How do I—”
“Look!” she said triumphantly, not hearing me because she was too preoccupied with her pasta maker, out of which perfect, square lasagna sheets were emerging. “Look, I made that!”
“Great,” I muttered unenthusiastically. “Just great.”
“Oh dear,” Helen said, noticing the lumpy and misshapen sheets that I had produced. “Are you maybe putting too much in at a time?”
“Maybe,” I sighed, as I put my lumpen dough back on the workbench, where it immediately stuck.
“And I think your mixture has got too much water in it. It’s not meant to be that sticky. See?”
Helen put more of her mixture through and smiled happily as anot
her perfect sheet emerged.
“You’re a natural,” a guy at the next workbench said, grinning at her. “Are you sure you aren’t a great cook who’s come here to make the rest of us look bad?”
Helen smiled flirtatiously. “Make you look bad?” she asked. “Impossible. I’m Helen, by the way.”
“Will,” the man said. “Nice to meet you.”
I looked at Helen in frustration. “I didn’t put too much in. I put in the same amount of water as you,” I said, trying to stay calm. “We were given the same exact amounts in our bowls.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Helen said, shaking her head in bemusement. “So why is mine coming out okay and yours is … is …”
“Is crap?” I asked, surprising myself with the anger in my voice.
“Not crap,” she said quickly. “Try it again, okay? And I’ll help you.”
“If you help me, then I’m not learning, am I?” I said hotly. “Just leave me alone. Let me get on with it, okay? Because actually it’s quite distracting having you talking at me all the time.”
“Fine,” Helen said defensively. “I was only trying to help.” I watched as she picked up her perfect squares of lasagna and placed them, as Mary had instructed, under a piece of muslin on the cool stainless-steel counter. “I’ll get on with the beef, shall I?”
I nodded and went back to my pasta-making. It was no big deal, I told myself. So pasta-making wasn’t going to be my forte—there were other things, right? Maybe my sauce would be spectacular. Maybe my chocolate pudding would be the best ever.
“Right, so your pasta squares should be ready and waiting and your beef should be gently frying with your onions,” Mary called out. “Now, simply add the fresh tomatoes that you’ve squished, along with the herbs, and leave that to simmer on a low temperature. Meanwhile, we’re going to turn our attentions to our chocolate pudding.”
I looked up in alarm. I hadn’t even started to fry my beef. Quickly, I grabbed a frying pan and shoved my minced beef, onion, and a few other things in it before turning the hob on high to make up some lost time. Remembering the tomatoes just in time (not squished—I hadn’t got round to that—so I grabbed a knife and roughly chopped them as they went in), I looked up quickly as Mary was telling us to decant the white powder in the blue bowl into the large clear bowl and to add the eggs. Hurriedly, I did as she suggested. I could do this. I was a grade-A student—always had been at school and university. But there I’d had more time. If I’d slipped behind, there was always the evening to catch up. Not like this. Mary and her instructions were relentless. There was no time to think. No time to …
An Ideal Wife: A Novel Page 7