My course-mates were a motley bunch: men and women, ranging from privileged eighteen-year-olds to bored housewives who wanted to spice up their Surrey dinner parties.
‘I’ve been a lorry driver for twenty years.’ Paul, a burly forty-year-old divorcé chatted to me as he deftly piped the choux onto a baking tray to form delicate cheese gougères. ‘Always wanted to be a cook, and I’m finally doing it.’ He winked at me. ‘Life’s too short, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed with feeling.
Thankfully, thoughts of my own stagnant situation had been pushed aside with the pace of the course. And it helped that CeCe was as busy as I was. When she wasn’t preoccupied with choosing furniture for our new apartment, she was off riding the length and breadth of London on the red buses that snaked around the city, gathering inspiration for her current creative fetish – physical installations. This involved her collecting a whole heap of clutter from around the city and dumping it in our tiny sitting room: twisted pieces of metal which she’d gathered from scrapyards, a pile of red roof tiles, empty and smelly petrol cans and – most disturbingly of all – a half-burnt man-sized doll made of bits of cloth and straw.
‘The English burn effigies of a man called Guy Fawkes on bonfires in November. How this one here lasted until July, I’ll never know,’ she told me as she loaded a staple gun. ‘Apparently it’s got something to do with the fellow trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament hundreds of years ago. Bonkers, as the English say,’ she added with a laugh.
In the last week of the course, we were put into teams of two and asked to prepare a three-course lunch.
‘All of you know that teamwork is a vital part of running a successful kitchen,’ Marcus, our flamboyantly gay course leader, informed us. ‘You have to be able to work under pressure and not only give orders, but receive them too. Now, these are the pairings.’
My heart sank when I was teamed with Piers – more a floppy-haired boy than a man. So far, he’d contributed very little to group discussions, other than jokey juvenile comments.
The only good news was that Piers was a naturally talented cook. And often, to the irritation of the others, the one who would receive the most praise from Marcus.
‘It’s just ’cos he fancies him,’ I’d heard Tiffany, one of the cluster of posh English girls, bitching in the loo a few days ago.
I’d smiled as I washed my hands. And wondered if human beings ever really grew up, or whether life was simply a playground forever.
‘So, this is your last day, Sia.’ CeCe smiled at me as I drank a hasty cup of coffee in the kitchen the following morning. ‘Good luck with your competition thing.’
‘Thanks. See you later,’ I called to her as I left the apartment and walked along Tooting High Street to get on the bus – the Underground was faster but I enjoyed seeing London on the journey. I was greeted by signs telling me that my bus was being rerouted due to gas works on Park Lane. So, as the bus crossed the river to the north, we didn’t go the usual way. Instead, we went through Knightsbridge and sat with the rest of diverted London, before the bus freed itself of traffic, eventually taking me past the magnificent domed Royal Albert Hall.
Relieved we finally seemed to be on our way, I listened to my habitual music: Grieg’s ‘Morning Mood’ – so reminiscent of Atlantis – as well as Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet . . . both originally played to me by Pa Salt. I thanked God for the invention of iPods – with CeCe’s taste for hard rock, the old CD player in our bedroom had regularly vibrated to breaking point with clanging guitars and screaming voices. As the bus drew to a halt, I searched the street for a familiar landmark, but recognised nothing. Except for the name above a shopfront to my left as the bus pulled away from the stop. Arthur Morston . . .
I craned my neck to look back, wondering if I was seeing things, but it was too late. As the bus turned right, I saw Kensington Church Street emblazoned on the road sign. A shiver ran through me as I realised I’d just seen the physical embodiment of Pa Salt’s clue.
I was still thinking about it as I filed into the kitchen with the other students.
‘Morning, sweetheart. Ready to cook up a storm?’ Piers came to stand next to me and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. I swallowed hard. I was a feminist in the truest sense of the word – I believed in equality with neither sex dominant. And it was fair to say that I loathed being addressed as ‘sweetheart’. Either by a man or a woman.
‘So.’ Marcus appeared in the kitchen and handed each pair what looked like a blank card. ‘On the other side of your card is the menu you are to prepare between you. I will expect each course to be on your workbench and ready to be tasted by me at noon sharp. You have two hours. Okay, loves, good luck. Turn over the card now.’
Immediately, Piers swiped the card from my hand. I had to peer over his shoulder to get a glimpse of what we were to cook.
‘Foie gras mousse with Melba toast, poached salmon with dauphinoise potatoes and sautéed green beans. Followed by Eton mess for dessert,’ Piers read aloud. ‘Obviously I’ll do the foie gras mousse and poach the salmon, as meat and fish is my thing, and leave you to do the veggies and the pudding. You’ll need to get started on the meringue first.’
I wanted to say that meat and fish was my thing too. And by far the most impressive bit of the summer lunch menu. Instead, I told myself that one-upmanship didn’t matter – as Marcus had said, this test was all about teamwork – and busied myself with combining the egg whites and caster sugar.
As the two-hour deadline approached, I was calm and prepared, while Piers was frantically re-piping his foie gras mousse, which he’d decided to remake at the last minute. I glanced at his salmon still poaching in its kettle, knowing he’d left it in for too long. When I had tried to say something, he had brushed me off impatiently.
‘All right, time’s up. Please stop what you’re doing,’ Marcus called, his voice ringing through the kitchen, and there was a clatter as the other cooks put down their utensils and stepped away from their plates. Piers ignored him as he hastily moved the salmon onto the plate next to my potatoes and beans.
Eventually, having praised and annihilated the other five offerings in equal measure, Marcus stood in front of us. As I knew he would, he lauded the presentation and the texture of the foie gras mousse, winking at his favourite chef.
‘Wonderful, well done,’ he said. ‘Now on to the salmon.’
I watched him take a bite of it, then frown and look directly at me.
‘This isn’t good, not good at all. It’s way overcooked. These beans . . . and potatoes, however,’ he said, taking a bite of both, ‘are perfect.’ Again, he smiled at Piers and I cast my eyes towards my fellow chef, waiting for him to correct Marcus’s mistake. Piers averted his eyes from my gaze and said nothing as Marcus moved on to my Eton mess.
In fact, it looked rather like a tulip about to open, the meringue itself forming the vessel in which the ‘mess’ of strawberries – macerated in cassis liqueur – and Chantilly cream were hidden. There was nothing ‘messy’ about it and I knew Marcus would either love it or hate it.
‘Star,’ he said, having tasted a spoonful, ‘the presentation is creative and it tastes bloody delicious. Well done.’
Marcus then awarded first prize to us for the starter and again for the dessert.
In the changing room, I opened my locker with slightly more force than necessary and retrieved my street clothes so I could change out of my chef’s whites.
‘I’m amazed you kept your cool in there.’
I looked up, the words having just mirrored my own thoughts. It was Shanthi – a gorgeous Indian woman who I’d guessed was around my age. She was the only member of the group apart from me who hadn’t joined the others for drinks at the pub at the end of each day. Yet she was very popular within the group, always exuding a calm, positive energy.
‘I saw Piers overcooking the salmon. He was at the bench next to me. Why didn’t you say something when Marcus blamed you?’
I shrugged and shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was only a piece of salmon.’
‘It would have mattered to me. It was an injustice done to you. And injustices should always be set straight.’
I pulled my bag out of my locker, not knowing what to say. The other girls were already leaving, heading off for a final end-of-course drink together. They called their goodbyes as they left, until it was only Shanthi and me left in the changing room. As I tied my trainer laces, I watched her brush her thick ebony hair, then apply a dark red lipstick with her long, elegant fingers.
‘Goodbye,’ I said as I headed towards the changing room door.
‘How do you fancy a drink? I know a great little wine bar round the corner. It’s quiet in there. I think you’d like it.’
I hesitated for a moment – one-on-one conversations hardly being my thing – and felt her eyes on me as I did so. ‘Yes,’ I agreed eventually. ‘Why not?’
We walked along the road and settled ourselves with our drinks in a quiet corner of the wine bar. ‘So, Star the Enigmatic.’ Shanthi smiled at me. ‘Tell me who you are?’
Given this was the question I always dreaded, I had a stock response to it. ‘I was born in Switzerland, I have five sisters, all adopted, and I went to Sussex University.’
‘And what did you study?’
‘English Literature. You?’ I asked, deftly tossing the conversational ball back to her.
‘I’m first-generation British from an Indian family. I work as a psychotherapist and mostly deal with depressed and suicidal adolescents. Sadly, there’s a lot of them about these days,’ Shanthi sighed. ‘Especially in London. The pressure parents bring to bear on their kids to achieve these days is something I’m all too familiar with.’
‘So why the cookery course?’
‘Because I love it! It’s my greatest pleasure.’ She grinned broadly. ‘You?’
I understood now that this woman was used to drawing people out, which made me feel even more guarded.
‘I love to cook too.’
‘Do you intend to make it your career?’
‘No. I think I like it because I’m good at it, even if that sounds a bit selfish.’
‘“Selfish”?’ Shanthi laughed, the musical timbre of her voice warm in my ears. ‘I believe feeding the body is also a way of feeding the soul. And it isn’t selfish in the slightest. It’s okay to enjoy what you’re good at, you know. In fact, it will help the finished product hugely. Passion always does. So, what else are you “passionate” about, Star?’
‘Gardens and . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Writing. I like writing.’
‘And I love reading. That, more than anything, has opened up my mind and enlightened me. I’ve never had the money to travel, but books take me there. Where do you live?’
‘Tooting. But we’re moving to Battersea soon.’
‘I live in Battersea too! Just off the Queenstown Road. Do you know it?’
‘No. I’m still quite new to London.’
‘Oh, so where have you lived since university?’
‘Nowhere really. I’ve travelled a lot.’
‘Lucky you,’ Shanthi said. ‘I hope to see more of the world before I die, but to date I’ve never had the money. How did you afford it?’
‘My sister and I took jobs wherever we were in the world. She did bar work and I usually did cleaning.’
‘Wow, Star, you’re far too bright and beautiful to have your hands down a toilet, but good on you. Sounds like you’re the eternal seeker . . . unable to settle down.’
‘It was more to do with my sister than me. I just followed her.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At home. We live together. She’s an artist and she’s starting a foundation course at the Royal College of Art next month.’
‘Right. So . . . do you have a significant other?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. Any previous meaningful relationships?’
‘No.’ I looked at my watch, feeling heat spread through my cheeks at her barrage of questions. ‘I should be going.’
‘Of course.’ Shanthi drained her glass, then followed me out of the wine bar.
‘It’s been great to get to know you better, Star. Here’s my card. Drop me a text sometime and let me know how you’re getting on. And if you ever need to talk, I’m always here.’
‘I will. Goodbye.’
I walked away from her swiftly. I was not comfortable discussing ‘relationships’. With anyone.
‘Finally!’
CeCe stood, hands on hips, in the cramped entrance to our apartment. ‘Where on earth have you been, Sia?’
‘I went out for a quick drink with a friend,’ I said as I passed her to go to the bathroom, hastily shutting the door.
‘Well, you might have told me. I’ve cooked you something to celebrate the end of your course. But it’s probably ruined by now.’
CeCe rarely, if ever, ‘cooked’. On the few occasions I hadn’t been around to feed her, she’d eaten takeaway. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll be out in a second.’
I listened through the door and heard her marching away. After washing my hands, I pulled my fringe out of my eyes, bending my knees slightly to regard myself in the mirror.
‘Something has to change,’ I said to my reflection.
5
By August, London felt like a ghost town. Those who could afford to had fled the temperamental UK climate, which seemed to oscillate inconsistently between humid and cloudy, sunny and wet. The ‘real’ London was asleep, waiting for its occupants to return from foreign shores so its daily business could resume once more.
I too felt a strange sense of torpor. If I had not slept in the days after Pa Salt’s death, now I could hardly rouse myself from bed in the mornings. In contrast, CeCe was all action, insisting I accompany her to choose a particular fridge or the perfect tile for the splashbacks in the new apartment.
One muggy Saturday, when I would have happily stayed in bed with a book, she demanded that I got up and dragged me on a bus to an antique shop, convinced I would love the furniture it stocked.
‘Here we are,’ she said as she peered out of the window and dinged the bus bell for the next stop. ‘The shop is number 159, so we’re here.’
We alighted and I gasped as, for the second time in the space of a couple of weeks, I had ended up a few feet from the door of Arthur Morston Books. CeCe turned left, heading to the shop next door, but I lagged behind, peering briefly into the window. It was full of old books, the kind that I one day dreamed of having enough money to collect, and which would adorn my own shelves on either side of my imagined fireplace.
‘Hurry up, Sia, it’s quarter to four already. I don’t know what time they close here on a Saturday.’
I followed her, entering a shop that was full of oriental furniture – crimson stained and lacquered tables, black cupboards with delicate butterflies painted on the doors, and golden Buddhas smiling serenely.
‘Doesn’t it make you wish we’d bought a container-load when we were travelling?’ CeCe raised her eyebrows as she looked at one of the price tags, then formed her hands into the sign for ‘lots of money’. ‘We must be able to source them cheaper elsewhere,’ she added.
She led us out of the shop and, having perused the windows of the other quaint old-fashioned shops along the street, we headed back to the bus stop. While we waited for the bus to arrive, there was nothing to do but stare back across the road into Arthur Morston Books. My sister Tiggy would tell me that it was fate. At best, I thought it was indeed coincidental.
A week later, while CeCe went to the apartment to check on the progress of the tilers as we were due to move in a few days’ time, I walked to the local corner shop to buy a pint of milk. As I stood at the counter waiting for my change, I glanced down at a headline on the bottom right-hand side of The Times.
CAPTAIN OF THE TIGRESS DROWNS IN FASTNET STORM
&nb
sp; My heart missed a beat – I knew my sister, Ally, was currently sailing in the Fastnet Race and the name of the boat was horribly familiar. The photograph below the headline was of a man, but it didn’t lessen my anxiety. I bought the newspaper and scanned the article nervously as I walked back to the apartment. And, having done so, breathed a sigh of relief that so far, at least, there was no news of any further fatalities. The weather, however, was apparently appalling and three-quarters of the boats had been forced to retire.
Immediately I sent a text message to CeCe and reread the article when I returned to the apartment. Even though my elder sister had been a professional sailor for years, the thought of her dying in a race was one I’d never even contemplated. Everything about Ally was so . . . vital. She lived her life with a fearlessness that I could only admire and envy.
I wrote her a short text saying I’d read about the disaster, and asked her to contact me urgently. My mobile rang as I pressed send, and I saw it was CeCe.
‘I’ve just spoken to Ma, Sia. She called me. Ally was in the Fastnet Race and—’
‘I know, I’ve just been reading about it in the newspaper. Oh God, Cee, I hope she’s okay.’
‘Ma said she’d had a call from someone to say she was. Obviously the boat’s pulled out of the race.’
‘Thank goodness! Poor, poor Ally, losing a crewmate like that.’
‘Terrible. Anyway. I’ll be on my way home in a bit. The new kitchen’s looking fantastic. You’re going to love it.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘Oh, and our beds and the double for the spare room have arrived too. We’re finally getting there. I can’t wait until we move in. See you later. ’
CeCe ended the call, and I marvelled at her ability to switch to the practical so quickly after bad news, even though I knew it was just her way of coping. I mulled over whether I should be brave and tell CeCe that, at the grand old age of twenty-seven, perhaps it would be more appropriate to have our own bedrooms rather than share one. If we ever had guests to stay, it would be easy for me to move back into her room for a few days. It seemed ridiculous to be sharing when there was a spare room.
The Shadow Sister Page 4