The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  Kate cheers in victory. ‘Invite him to my party, whatever I end up doing. In fact, I’ve decided – I’ll cook for us all on the Friday night. Nothing fancy, I just want to be surrounded by the people I love. And it’ll be a perfect excuse to invite him. Tell him you need a plus one.’

  ‘We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?’

  ‘Promise, if things go well in the meantime?’

  ‘One step at a time!’

  *

  Kate’s eaten far too much tiramisu and now lies in the spare room at Bailey’s house unable to sleep. With a sigh she turns on the bedside light and grabs pen and paper from her bag. She’s going to figure out once and for all if it’s even worth hanging around hoping Nick will come good in the end:

  Nick

  Pros:

  Love

  Investment of time to date

  Forty – impending (loss of collagen, general diminution in attractiveness, grey hairs, etc.)

  Bailey and Kavita approve

  His good qualities (see Appendix 1)

  Cons:

  He might wobble again at any time – puts me on perma-shaky ground

  Therapy can’t change a dog into a cat

  Various annoying friends’ annoying opinions (particularly Mrs Finn)

  His bad qualities (See Appendix 2)

  Kate has written many lists before:

  Alex: gorgeous/drinks too much

  Toby: creative, romantic/too young

  Maloney: successful/shallow and unkind.

  She dreams of being in a relationship where she does not, at some point, have to put pen to paper in order to make facts seem less unpalatable.

  Mind you, she’d write down the pros and cons of buying a particular sofa, and a boyfriend is far more complex than a sofa – even a boyfriend nicknamed Amoeba. Especially a boyfriend nicknamed Amoeba.

  Cecily keeps telling Kate to be bold. Would the brave thing be to quit, because of one (admittedly hurtful) incident and some rapidly fading pain? No, far braver surely to absorb a knock, get up again and not be beaten – to work through it with Nick – that was the braver choice. Cecily can’t have been married to Samuel for sixty-odd years without having had to work through their problems, but she never mentions that side of things, does she?

  There’s no need to debate the matter further. Her mind’s made up. She’s going to the Radiohead gig with Nick on Thursday and if all continues to go well, she’ll agree to supper on Saturday. One step at a time.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ‘I BROUGHT YOU FLOWERS, Mrs Finn. And I made the English madeleines from your book.’

  ‘Flowers and cake?’ says Cecily frowning. ‘You must be feeling guilty about something.’

  She really is a witch, thinks Kate, heading off to find a vase. Kate didn’t stay at Nick’s last night – she’s learning what a boundary is, and is ring-fencing herself firmly in the flirty friend zone for a while longer. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t spend as much of the weekend as possible with him. She’d left him at midnight, tipsy Cinderella, hopping into a cab after a movie and dinner at their favourite Italian, three shared pastas and a bottle of red. She’d met up with him again this morning at Columbia Road flower market, then gone back to his flat to make the madeleines together. It’s the happiest she’s been since Thursday when they’d been to see Radiohead, then gone to Edgware Road for a late-night kebab followed by a couple of Bourbons in a basement bar. She’s desperately trying not to attach hope to all this happiness, but it’s so hard not to.

  By the time she’s found a tall enough vase and returned to Cecily’s room, Cecily has vanished. Kate pokes her head back down the corridor – she definitely hasn’t gone for a wander. She knocks on the toilet door and a moment later Cecily issues a series of farts as loud as gunfire and demands Kate call for a Filipina.

  ‘Are you OK, Mrs Finn, you haven’t fallen over?’

  ‘Stop patronising me and go and fetch one of the girls.’

  Kate heads to the carers’ station, and waits while the carer heads off to Cecilys’ room. Reading the noticeboard she marvels at all the activities on offer that Cecily refuses to take advantage of: film screenings, a talk on Matisse, a Yoga and Stretch class.

  Kate returns to find Cecily sitting straight-backed, looking more aloof than ever.

  ‘I brought tea roses,’ says Kate, placing the vase of pale yellow perfumed blooms on Cecily’s bedside table, before laying the cakes in front of her. They look delicious, delicate cone-shaped sponge towers covered in a light scattering of desiccated coconut with shiny glacé cherries on top. Cecily eyes them with suspicion.

  ‘Try one?’ says Kate, smiling as she thinks back to a few hours ago, when she’d dolloped a spoonful of the raspberry jam onto the tip of Nick’s nose, then dusted coconut on him so he looked like Rudolph with a touch of psoriasis.

  ‘Did you use the correct darioles?’ says Cecily, inspecting one of the little cake towers with a deep frown.

  ‘I followed your recipe to the letter. Oh, I saw on the noticeboard there are some events coming up you might like. How about a screening of Casablanca?’

  ‘Not with Burbridge shouting all the way through it – if you’ve gone deaf, don’t make life unbearable for those of us who haven’t.’

  ‘A talk on Matisse? I could come with you next Saturday?’

  Cecily shakes her head violently.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ says Kate, throwing her hands up in resignation. ‘By the way, the other day you didn’t get round to telling me how you came to be a writer.’

  ‘It’s a very long story,’ says Cecily, still glaring at the madeleines as if they’re about to bite.

  ‘I’ve got time,’ says Kate, carefully pouring her half a cup of tea.

  ‘It’ll take more than one telling.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ says Kate, placing the cup and saucer on Cecily’s side table.

  ‘Well, only if you insist. Samuel’s work back then was as export manager for a kitchenware company. He spoke five languages, so it was an ideal role for him, and it suited me very well. He’d often bring me back a new saucepan or egg whisk to try out. The company needed him to sample their products across Europe, so much to everyone’s disapproval, after our honeymoon, we set off on a longer adventure, armed with ten suitcases filled with pots and pans. We started in Copenhagen, then went to Denmark, Finland, Germany . . .’ she says, counting the countries off on her fingers. ‘Holland, Norway – oh the fiskepudding in Oslo . . .’

  ‘What is fiskepudding?’

  ‘Light as air, utterly delicious. Everywhere in Oslo you’d see white-haired old ladies all looking wonderful, they seemed to survive on a diet of the stuff. I once asked Bernadette to make some, bloody woman served up mackerel paté, as if a mackerel and a pike have the least thing in common. Norway, Sweden, Belgium, Czechoslovakia . . . I can’t remember the order, but the pattern remained the same: innumerable suitcases, waiting at stations, arriving at a cheap pension with a bedroom too small or dark, the towels thin and prickly. In the daytime, Samuel would visit customers, and I’d find the nearest gallery or museum. Once Samuel returned, we’d head out together to explore. We climbed the Fisherman’s bastion in Budapest, watched the bridges light up like circles of pearls over the Danube. We danced in the Bois de la Cambre under the beautiful old trees, drank the waters in Franzensbad . . .’

  ‘That sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Oh, it was. But already there was an uneasiness across Europe. I remember visiting Samuel’s family in Warsaw. We travelled by cargo boat and I remember a breathtakingly beautiful sunset over the Baltic, the sky navy, purple and crimson with streaks of molten gold. We sat in the captain’s cabin drinking schnapps. Samuel rarely drank but he was so excited we’d be spending time with his family that he had a few too many and had to sleep it off. But as soon as we disembarked I started to regret the trip. The cold in Warsaw was savage, the breath froze in our nostrils. Samuel
and I had to dodge in and out of shops in order to even breathe. Everywhere there was a sense of depression and gloom. The horses were starving, their ribs poked through their skins, there was snow and slush everywhere. And while Samuel’s parents’ home was immaculate, the tenement they lived in, with its dirty stairs and dreary hallways, was miserable. We went for Friday-night dinner and when Leon and Shindel opened the door to greet us, I was shocked at how drawn they looked. The shadow of fear fell everywhere.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘December of ’36. Rumours were seeping out from Germany like tendrils of fog, making our hearts chill. Most of Samuel’s siblings and their families had come to the apartment – we were sixteen in total. They embraced us so warmly, Oskar and his wife and twin sons. Oskar was tall like Samuel but strong like a bull, when he hugged you it felt like nothing could ever harm you. Izzy was there, the most handsome of the brothers – he looked like James Stewart, with the most dazzling smile. He’d been a womaniser in his day but was now kept in check by his wife Hannah, a beauty with flaming red hair and a fantastic quick wit. They had brought their four children, all girls, and Izzy looked at them with total adoration. Lilli was there, Samuel’s other sister, such a delicate girl, with a smattering of freckles and the same huge brown eyes Samuel had. Lilli had brought along Max, a chap she worked with at the garment factory who was sweet on her, and whenever he left the room, Leon and Oskar would tease her about a wedding. Everyone did their utmost to welcome us. Outside the snow fell in relentless flakes, driving against the window panes, but inside we were wrapped up and warm, and the room was filled with chatter and laughter, everyone talking over each other in their excitement to see us. The glow from the Shabbat candles filled the dark corners of the room with soft light. We said a prayer of thanks for the food and the wine and then we ate, my goodness did we eat. We had wonderful fresh challahs from the bakery Hannah’s family owned, and Shindel had prepared all of Samuel’s favourite dishes: borscht, gefilte fish, stuffed cabbage, potato and mushroom knishes.’

  ‘What’s a knish?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a marvellous pastry parcel filled with delicious stuffing, very moreish. The dishes kept on coming. Just when you thought there couldn’t possibly be any more, someone would disappear into the kitchen and return with a platter of delights and a proud grin. After dinner Leon insisted on sharing an entire bottle of slivovitz plum brandy. I can taste it now,’ she says, shivering. ‘That first fiery shock, then warmth spreading up your body like a tree in flames.’

  ‘Ah! That meal’s in your book, isn’t it? It has about eleven courses?’

  ‘That’s right – “Winter Feast for Visiting Relatives”.’

  ‘And there’s that amazing chocolate babka for dessert. It must have been an incredible feast.’

  ‘Well, the food was plentiful and his family was hugely hospitable, but as the hours went by the evening turned ominous. Samuel was convinced his family’s future looked bleak if they stayed in Poland. He sat at that table for hours after the meal was finished, trying to persuade them to leave, but they refused. He begged his father but Leon thought Samuel was overly fearful, which was ridiculous because Samuel was always such an optimist. Lilli seemed to take Samuel seriously, but the following spring she got engaged to Max and he didn’t want to leave. Things might have been different for her if she hadn’t fallen in love. Ultimately Warsaw was everyone’s home. By the end of that evening Samuel was in tears of frustration. I felt worried for him, and scared for all of them.’

  ‘Oh God. It sounded really festive in the book . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s editing for you. We had two days in Warsaw and I must admit, I’ve never been happier than when we crossed the border and were safely out of that ill-fated land. That trip was the only low point of those years. Aside from that, there was always fun and laughter. Samuel was like his father – too generous, always lending money, but in spite of chronic hard-up-ness, our lives were never dingy. Even in the cheapest digs we made great friends, talked art, music, politics,’ she says, her eyes sparkling with the memory. ‘So when you say you’re content spending your life writing about carrots, I find it incomprehensible.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ says Kate, taking a large bite of cake, then pushing the plate of madeleines towards Cecily. She’s far too content this afternoon to get into a fight. If Cecily thrives on conflict, Kate simply won’t give it to her.

  ‘Have you no gumption?’ says Cecily, forcefully pushing the plate back. ‘You’re willing to waste your entire adult life unfulfilled because you’re scared of the unknown?’

  Kate tuts. ‘Everybody’s scared of the unknown. Besides, I might not even have a job next week, so can we talk about something else?’

  Cecily examines Kate, then twitches her head slightly to the left, then back to centre, like a bird about to pierce a worm. ‘You haven’t mentioned him once today,’ she says, pursing her lips. ‘Why is that? Clearly you haven’t cut him off or you wouldn’t be looking quite so rosy-cheeked.’

  ‘I know you’re not a fan – but if you do want to know, we’ve started seeing each other again, as friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ says Cecily, snorting.

  ‘I am his “person” – he sends me pictures of his breakfast, I send him pictures of my lunch.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kate shrugs. ‘It’s just those little things that make up your day, that make you feel connected to someone.’

  Cecily grunts. ‘Another’s cloak does not keep you warm . . .’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘This man is a waste of your time. Time is precious. These are not complicated concepts, surely?’

  ‘Why are you so convinced Nick’s not good for me?’

  ‘Because he’s careless with your feelings. Your relationship crossed the Rubicon on that holiday, and I’m damned if I know how a reasonably smart girl can be so stupid.’

  Kate can’t remember what the Rubicon is, but having just been called stupid for the umpteenth time she’s disinclined to ask.

  ‘You like icing so much you’re willing to eat sub-standard cake,’ says Cecily in disgust.

  ‘Is that another metaphor?’ says Kate, resting her plate wearily on the side table.

  Cecily replies with a hard stare.

  ‘So you’re saying, percentage wise, Nick’s bad outweighs his good?’

  ‘Of course that’s what I’m saying,’ says Cecily, who is now so angry Kate can see a vein pulsing through the thin skin at her temples.

  ‘Why do you even care?’

  ‘Because unlike that man, I am your friend.’

  ‘Friends like these . . .’ mutters Kate.

  Probably not a good time to mention she’s heading straight back to Nick’s after this for slow-cooked chilli and a triple bill of 30 Rock. Nor to ask Cecily about the finer points of the menu she’s planning to cook him next weekend when Rita’s away with Patrick.

  The truth is, Kate can take or leave the cake part of any cake – isn’t the icing the whole point?

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Dinner for the Man You Hope to Marry

  Being your slave, what should I do but tend,

  Upon the hours and times of your desire

  Shakespeare, Sonnet 57

  Aim: to impress him with your skill in ministering to his comfort, and the promise of an endless vista of delightful meals.

  Setting:

  Clearly this is the occasion for red roses and candlelight. You cannot do any more without being obvious. Music should be a last resort.

  Menu:

  Fried scampi

  Chicken in cider

  Pavé potatoes

  American double-layer strawberry shortcake

  Method:

  Prepare in advance, except for the scampi. No harm can come from the sight of you emerging flushed from the kitchen bearing a love offering of deep-fried golden morsels. Sometimes deep-fried golden morsels are the best way to achieve o
ne’s ends.

  NICK IS GOING TO LOVE this meal. Kate runs a finger down her final list of ingredients; she’ll buy the chicken and fish from that fancy food hall in Mayfair after work on Friday. Of course she could buy a Fletchers’ chicken for a fifth of the price, but it would taste like traumatised roadkill so she’s going to splurge and buy quality – besides, it’s an investment in her relationship.

  The scampi require Dublin Bay prawns, which are langoustines, more like mini-lobsters. The fishmonger is sure to stock those, and he’ll deal with the heads, tails and other gross bits.

  Music should be a last resort? Presumably because it fills the silence and means they wouldn’t have to talk – but she wants Nick to talk. They’ve been getting along so brilliantly lately, she just needs a little more reassurance that he’s committed to their future.

  She commends herself once more on her behaviour since they’ve been back in contact. She’s done a decent job of skating on one leg – demonstrated she’s empathetic and patient, but not prepared to put up with any further nonsense. It’s been a tricky balancing act, this one-legged skating malarkey, particularly on such thin ice – but Nick has done and said all the right things, booked gig tickets for next spring, told her he wants a proper long holiday together to make up for the terrible time in France. She’s finally allowing herself to believe in him again.

  Nick is working an overnight shift on Friday – a data transition so complex that no matter how many times he explains it, a drawbridge goes up in Kate’s brain. The timing couldn’t be better. Rita’s leaving for her weekend with Patrick at 4 p.m., so when Kate comes home from work on Friday she can start cooking. That way, on Saturday she can pop in to Lauderdale and persuade Cecily to go to the Matisse talk; then she has a mani-pedicure and waxing booked – the best deal she could find is out in Harlesden. It makes for a rushed afternoon, but most of the cooking will be done by then; it’ll just be finishing touches. She’s added home-made bread to the menu – no doubt Cecily would say she’s gilding the lily, but Nick adores fresh bread – and the smell of it baking as he walks through the door should set the perfect tone.