Her waiter had not yet reappeared, and she was becoming even more self-conscious, envying the amorous couple, whose every action only served to emphasize her plight. The man was feeding his partner, spearing tasty little morsels on to his fork and sliding them between her lips. Neville wouldn’t do that in a million years. He didn’t believe in sharing food – although he was always more than willing to finish hers, if he assumed she’d had enough. It had never actually struck her before, but now she came to think about it, wasn’t he a trifle mean? On the few occasions he’d taken her out to dinner, he somehow seemed to order himself the most luxurious dishes, whilst talking her into humbler fare – always for her good, of course. The first time they’d been out together, to a restaurant in the City, he had opted for a huge, sizzling T-bone steak, and sat devouring it in front of her, bite by juicy bite, while she was eating quiche. In fact, she had wanted steak herself, but he’d said T-bones were a ‘male thing’ and she’d be better off with something less substantial and easier to digest. And he never asked her if she’d like a pudding, although he knew she had a sweet tooth. The special for that particular day had been pear and almond tart, which she’d been eyeing with some interest, but when he called the waitress over, it was ‘Coffee and the bill, please’, not ‘How about dessert?’
Yet with his high-powered job in banking, he certainly wasn’t short of money. And she was punctilious about paying him back – in kind, if not in cash; cooking all his favourite foods in her cramped and stuffy kitchen, then taking them round to his airy mansion-flat.
On impulse, she waved her hand at a passing waiter. ‘I’m sorry, but could you take my order, please? I’ve been waiting for some time.’ She flushed at her temerity, but it had the desired effect – within seconds her own waiter appeared, order-pad at the ready
‘So what would madam like?’
‘Er, the poussin. No – wait a minute …’ The blush deepened, seemed to spread, even to her toes. It was as if Neville were actually standing there, daring her to challenge him. ‘Do you have, er, T-bone steak?’ she asked, her voice shaky as she spoke.
‘I’m afraid not, madam. But I do recommend the entrecôte. It’s one of our signature dishes, served with Béarnaise sauce, wild mushroom duxelles and grilled asparagus spears.’
He was pointing to the item on the menu, but she saw only the price – flagrant, unbelievable. Was she out of her mind? She could buy a pair of shoes for that. Yet her nausea had now completely vanished and she actually felt ravenous.
‘You’ll find it exceptionally tender, madam, with a most distinctive flavour. All our beef is certified organic, and comes from a small private herd in Gloucestershire that has won dozens of awards. In fact, I think I can safely say it’s the finest meat in the country.’
In that case, bugger the price! The finest meat in the country was bound to be expensive. ‘Yes, I’ll have it, please. And the pâté de foie to start with.’ The foie gras cost almost twice as much as boring Kentish dandelions; more even than the oysters, but suddenly she didn’t care.
‘Certainly, madam,’ the waiter purred, already looking at her with new respect. Money bought respect – as Neville knew, of course. ‘How would you like the steak cooked?’
‘Medium rare.’
‘And have you chosen your wine?’
She panicked for a moment, now completely out of her depth. He handed her the wine list, which only confused her further. There appeared to be no half bottles, nor even wines by the glass. And she dared not ask for just a glass, for fear of looking cheap. If she was taking up a table for two, she had to make it worth their while to have her there at all. In any case, it was only Neville who had encouraged her to eat and drink so sparingly, for fear she might get fat. Well – that was what he said, but it could be for a different reason: it left more for him to guzzle. Again her eyes strayed to the adjoining table and the bottle of champagne. Only the best was good enough for that adored and pampered woman. They were now toasting each other, clinking glasses, entwining little fingers.
‘Er, what would you suggest?’ she asked the waiter.
‘Well, the Chevalier de Lascombes is seriously good, madam – a ripe, rich, plummy wine, with real finesse.’
She fought an urge to giggle. He sounded just like Neville, who claimed to identify all sorts of tastes in wine: not just plums, but cherries, raspberries, redcurrants, even irises, for heaven’s sake, and violets.
‘And you’ll find it an excellent partner to the steak.’
If even steak had a partner, that made her own predicament all the more reprehensible. She sat dithering a moment more. Any wine this waiter recommended was bound to be the priciest, maybe even the equivalent of half her weekly rent. But she longed to indulge herself, for once – in fact, go completely wild. Did Neville really have the right to lay down what she could eat or drink; dictate her shape and size? ‘Thank you. It sounds perfect.’
‘Shall I bring it straight away?’
‘Yes, please.’ While she waited, she continued watching the couple, who were fortunately so absorbed in one another, they seemed oblivious of her scrutiny. Had they just got engaged, she wondered, or was this some adulterous affair? The man put down his glass, kissed his palm, closed his fingers round the kiss, then transferred it to the woman’s hand. How enchanting, how demonstrative! Neville would never dream of doing such a thing, let alone in public. She had always tried to understand his emotional detachment – in fact, blamed it on his public school: a strict, no-nonsense establishment, bound to leave its pupils repressed, if not deeply scarred. Her attempts to bring him out even appeared to be succeeding, at least in minor matters – until this week’s body blow.
The waiter was back in minutes, carrying an impressive-looking bottle, with a picture of a château on the label, surmounted by a swanky coat of arms. He poured the wine for her to taste. She knew the protocol. She must roll it round her mouth, frown in concentration for a moment, then pronounce it drinkable. ‘Yes, fine,’ she said, feigning Neville’s air of expertise, which seemed to convince the waiter, who now filled her glass with a deferential bow. She sat up straighter, refusing to slump hunched-shouldered any longer, as if she were only here on sufferance. If she couldn’t celebrate her and Neville’s first-year anniversary, she’d celebrate her birthday instead. It had actually been a fortnight ago, and Neville had forgotten it. Not that she could blame him, when he’d been going through such a hectic time at work. ‘To me,’ she whispered, taking a long draught of wine. ‘Many happy returns, Lizzie!’
The waiter returned with the pâté and a plateful of hot toast. The portion was extremely large, but she intended to finish every morsel, to make up for the many times she’d rationed herself for the sake of her figure. Neville detested chubby women; damned them all as ‘gross’. Well, that freckled blonde was ‘gross’, yet her partner didn’t appear to mind – in fact, couldn’t get enough of her. His hand was now caressing her neck, making teasing little forays up towards her earlobe and down between her breasts. They’d be undressing any moment, having it away, right there on the white tablecloth. And it would be quite a sight, she guessed. Neville was so serious in bed. Though she couldn’t fault his performance, he never let his hair down, never giggled or played lovers’ games, and had frowned in disapproval the one time she’d used a nickname for his cock.
While she ate her pâté, she imagined the couple tonguing it from one another’s bodies, or passing wine from mouth to mouth, or hanging fronds of parsley over each other’s nipples and giggling as they nibbled it. And what would they do with butter, she wondered with a grin, as she spread it thickly on the toast, before digging into the pâté again, with unaccustomed greed. Since Neville’s cruel announcement, she had barely touched her food, but now she had to fill that hole – the hole not only in her stomach, but in her heart, her life. The wine was helping, certainly. She was drinking far too fast, gulping rather than sipping, but she needed it to soften her raw edges, heal the painful wounds. �
��For heaven’s sake, slow down, Lizzie,’ she could hear Neville reprimanding. ‘And you don’t need butter – that pâté’s rich enough.’ Larding still more butter on her final piece of toast, defiantly she crammed it into her mouth.
The waiter removed the dirty plates, brought her a steak knife, refilled her glass (again), and finally presented her with the entrecôte – the biggest steak she had ever seen, preening on an oval platter, crowned with tomato flowers and fresh green herbs, and covered in a thick, creamy sauce. The accompaniments were equally impressive: tiny, tender asparagus spears; dark, rich, buttery mushrooms and, as decoration, deep-fried parsley sprigs. All at once, the food seemed worth the money. Indeed, she even felt relieved that it was she who was paying the bill. Only now did she realize that being subsidized by Neville came at a high price, since, in return, he assumed the right to tell her how to live. She was also beginning to see advantages in eating on her own: no one to reprove her, or contradict her views, or make her feel she should leave some food, even if she were hungry enough to finish every scrap. All she needed was confidence – confidence to do as she liked – and that was growing steadily, courtesy of the Chevalier de Lascombes. A connoisseur she might not be, but even an ignoramus could tell this wine was special.
The pianist was playing ‘You’re Nobody’s Sweetheart Now’, which, though apt, was hardly tactful. ‘Damn!’ she said out loud, annoyed with herself for letting grief creep back, instead of booting Neville out of the restaurant and giving her full attention to the meal. Normally, she didn’t have the chance. She had to concentrate on him – his opinions and his needs – often barely noticing what she was putting into her mouth. But, this evening, as a singleton, she could surrender herself to all the different sensations: the dark, exotic flavour of the mushrooms, the silky-soft asparagus tips, the velvety yellow sauce. This was, no question, the most delicious food she had eaten in her life. She even forgot to watch the couple as she focused on each mouthful, registering the various tastes and textures – eggy sauce, exquisitely juicy steak, soft, translucent onions, the zizz and kick of herbs – only noticing the pair again when a waiter bustled up to clear their table.
‘If you can’t decide, have both,’ she overheard the man say, as his partner studied the dessert menu. ‘And I will, too, which’ll give us four to share.’
Lizzie listened, fascinated, as he ordered, yes, four desserts, along with coffee and liqueurs. No restrictions there; no attempt to tell the blonde she should be aiming for a dress-size ten, rather than settling for a ‘gross’ sixteen.
She continued watching as the waiter brought their puddings: a tart, a gateau, a plateful of ice-creams, and a foamy cream confection, served in a tall glass The man picked up his spoon and fork, but instead of tucking in himself, began feeding his mate with mouthfuls of each one in turn, keen to gratify her sweet tooth. Of course, Neville didn’t like sweet things, but did that mean no one else should, either?
It was hard to tear her eyes away from the wodge of chocolate gateau, with its swirls of cream and shoals of nuts on top, and surrounded by a darker chocolate sauce. And that strawberry-studded tart, topped with miniature meringues and more whipped cream, of course. And the ice-creams looked amazing, obviously home-made, and in colours that she didn’t know existed: palest green, deep purple, burnt almond, tangerine. As for the foamy thing, it could be zabaglione, or some sort of mousse or soufflé, and was also richly decorated, with tiny berries, star fruits and a shower of toasted almonds.
She could hardly wait to finish her steak, so she could choose a pudding. ‘The problem is,’ she told the waiter, ‘I don’t know which to have. The mascarpone and lemon pepper sorbet definitely sounds intriguing.’ (Pepper in a sorbet – how outlandish!) ‘On the other hand, I’m tempted by the pomegranate vacherin, with aromatic rose cream.’ She had no idea what a vacherin was, but by now she was game for anything.
‘We could make you up a tasting plate, madam, comprising a portion each of all of our desserts.’
She almost heard Neville choke, but there was a real pleasure in ignoring his objections. ‘Yes, that would be quite brilliant.’ Sheer stupefying gluttony, in short.
‘And a liqueur for you, madam?’
That couple were sipping liqueurs, so why shouldn’t she indulge? Again she asked the waiter’s advice, no longer caring if he thought her ignorant. He was there to serve her, wasn’t he?
‘And I’d like to buy a drink for the pianist, if you’d kindly give it to him, with my compliments. Do you happen to know what he likes?’ Her self-assurance was incredible! Neville wouldn’t recognize her. She barely recognized herself. In fact, the way she was feeling at present, she might even succeed in going home with that youngish, fairish, plumpish guy, who was really rather gorgeous, and must be exceptionally emotional, judging by the passion he lavished on his music.
The waiter returned with her Grand Marnier, the tasting plate (enormous) and a message from the pianist, who was delighted by her offer of a drink and happy to play a number of her choice.
‘Ask him to choose,’ she murmured, eying the feast of desserts – everything from cranberry crème brulée to brandied truffle cake – and noting with a sense of shock that she actually felt relaxed, the first time in a year. It had always been an effort, she realized only now, trying to keep up with Neville, without being judged as ‘crass’. His interests and his conversation were so pedantic and sophisticated, usually she failed to make the grade. On her own, however, she could simply sit and smile, or bat her lashes flirtatiously as the pianist caught her eye. She suddenly imagined the fellow in bed. Yes, he was tearing off his tie and tails, to reveal tight black underpants, which he yanked down in a trice. And, before she knew it, he was running his hands across her keys, coaxing deep, ecstatic sounds from her. He had thrown away the score and began thrillingly to improvize; she responding to his rhythm, melting at his touch.
All at once, she was aware of being watched – and by the maitre d’, of all people. Giggling, she tried to get a grip on herself; dispel the riotous fantasies. Yet when she glanced across at the object of her lust, he was still gazing at her intently – in reality, in truth. Then, with a teasing smile, he launched into ‘her’ tune, playing with his usual panache and even breaking into song. His voice was wonderfully powerful, and he seemed to be singing just for her, as if she were the only person in the room; the one woman he desired.
‘All or nothing at all’, he crooned, his eyes riveted on hers still.
‘Half a love never appealed to me.
If your heart never could yield to me,
Then I’d rather have nothing at all.’
How extraordinarily apt the words were, as if he knew her situation. Wasn’t it patently true that Neville had tried to fob her off with half a love, half a heart, half a glass of wine?
‘If it’s love,’ the song continued, with a thunderous accompaniment that made her whole frame tingle, ‘there is no in-between.’
Absolutely, she agreed, startled that the pianist should understand so well. Love was a sacred bond, demanding total commitment, unreserved devotion.
‘Why cry for something
That might have been?’
Why indeed? She had cried quite long enough.
‘So, you see, I’ve got to say
No, no …’
As he reprised the word ‘no’, with new, determined emphasis, she was mouthing it to Neville. ‘No, Neville, you can’t hurt me any more. No, Neville, it was never right – I just let you bully me. No, Neville I shan’t change my mind, even if you come crawling back on your knees.’
‘All, or nothing at all …’
Picking up her spoon, she plunged it into the centre of the plate, sampling all of the desserts in turn – yes, each and every one. She wanted everything: the works, the world, the full length and breadth. Why settle for less, when one day she’d meet the kind of man who could give her his whole heart? It might even happen tonight. When the pianist had finished his st
int, might he not come over and ask if he could join her?
Join her at a table for two.
Magique
‘If it’s taken away, you feel not just deprived, but actually bereft. A vital part of you has been cut off and …’
Catching the words as she walked into the kitchen, Helen darted towards the radio and turned the volume up. A fellow sufferer, obviously.
‘It’s such an essential thing – absolutely central to you, so if you lose it, you lose your whole identity.’
Exactly how she felt herself. Although about to go out and already in her coat, she remained hovering by the set. This was too important to miss – the shops would have to wait.
‘There’s a sense of dislocation. Suddenly everything’s changed, and you’re not prepared for it.’
Could one ever be prepared? It came as such a shock: a meteorite falling from a clear and cloudless sky.
‘And there’s nothing you can do. It’s beyond your control. You’re informed of the situation and that’s it – end of story.’
Perhaps she could get in touch with the caller: email the programme, or phone the producer. Woman’s Hour was unfamiliar territory – she was normally in the office at this hour of the morning, meeting clients, working on reports. But it would be good to have someone to talk to: someone in the same situation, who would understand, commiserate.
‘Actually I blame the manufacturers. Don’t they ever consider their customers when they discontinue brands?’
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 3