A Winter Bride (21 page)

Table six had finished their puddings – a peach melba and a black cherry gateau – and were leaning back waiting to have their dishes removed. Nell obliged, asked if they wanted coffee and on her way to the kitchen told Karen to stop hanging about the window waving to her admirers.

As she passed table eight, she overheard a snippet of conversation. The two Chicken Kiev eaters were discussing the new British cinema. ‘It’s gritty. It’s real. It’s what film should be about. I identify with everything.’

‘Miranda, darling, your father owns a bank. What do you know about life in the back streets of Liverpool or Nottingham?’

‘I know about heartache, loss and loneliness.’

Nell thought she could talk about the new British cinema to Alistair when she got home – after she’d flattered him and before sex.

In the kitchen, May had moved on from talking about cuddles and was waxing lyrical about mushrooms. ‘They’re beautiful. Perfect. When you slice them they look sculptured and have many shades of brown. They make you sigh.’ She took a swig of wine, leaned on her cooking range and added, ‘I was almost thirty when I had my first mushroom. We didn’t have such fancy things where I came from.’

Annie, now washing the dishes, said, ‘My mother used to make lovely mushroom tarts.’

‘Really? Your mother was a cook, then?’

Nell put the pudding dishes next to the sink for Annie to wash and lingered over pouring two coffees, eavesdropping.

‘My mother loved to cook. She made wonderful soups and her pastry was light as a feather,’ said Annie.

‘That’ll be why you’re the right size. You got fed proper when you were young. I didn’t, so I’m not the right size. This me you see is an optical illusion. I’m really meant to be taller.’ She took another large swig of her wine, which Nell noticed was an expensive Margeaux. ‘I was destined to be really tall, but I didn’t get the nutrition when I was a child. So my bones are compacted. All the natural growth is still in them waiting to come out, only it won’t happen now because I’m too old to grow any more. That’s why I get pains in my hips and elbows when it rains.’

Annie said it was a pity. ‘I’ve never heard of compacted bones before.’

‘It happens. Only the doctors don’t recognise it as a condition, so there’s no cure.’ She topped up her glass and swigged some more.

It dawned on Nell that May wasn’t sober. In fact, now she thought about it, May was often a little worse for wear these days. Perhaps she was worried about Johnny and guilty about not cuddling Harry enough. It was tough being a businesswoman, a wife and a mother.

Nell put two cups, a bowl of sugar cubes, a jug of cream and a small plate of petit fours on to a silver tray and carried it into the dining room. Poor May, she thought, she’s had a hard life. She served the coffee and asked if anyone wanted a brandy or liqueur. She was told no, and she smiled and moved away, noticing that the Chicken Kiev and film buff eaters were leaning back, plates shoved aside.

Nell brought two dessert menus to the table, handed one to each diner and removed the main course plates noting that Miranda, the lover of gritty films, hadn’t eaten anything. Nell asked if she was sure she’d finished and was waved away.

‘I’m not in the mood,’ said Miranda, ‘but I’ll have pudding. I love pudding.’

In the kitchen, May stared at the unfinished plate. ‘What’s this?’

‘The customer said she wasn’t in the mood. She’s having pudding, though.’

‘Oh no, she’s not.’ May took the plate and stormed out into the dining room. She stood, holding the plate, glaring round at the diners, looking for the brazen one who’d rejected her Chicken Kiev. Table eight. That was her. Thin as a pin, spoilt and brainless. May went over, shoved the plate under the brainless one’s nose and demanded to know what was wrong with it.

‘Nothing,’ said Miranda. ‘Perhaps a bit heavy on the butter. But nothing really.’

‘It’s Chicken Kiev. Of course it’s got butter. Butter’s the whole point of Chicken Kiev.’

‘I’m just not in a buttery mood,’ said Miranda.

‘Do you know how tricky this is to make? Stuffing the chicken, dipping it in flour, then beaten egg, then breadcrumbs, making it so the butter doesn’t burst out before it’s served. It’s not easy. And you’ve turned up your nose at it. There’s people in the world would be glad of a dish like this. There’s people starving in Africa.’

‘Well, send it to them, then.’

‘Don’t you get cheeky with me. This is good food and I’m proud of it.’

‘Well, good for you,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ll have the butterscotch ice cream with chocolate sauce.’

‘You’ll have nothing of the sort,’ said May. ‘No pudding for those as don’t eat their main course. Pudding’s a treat.’

The room was hushed. Every diner had stopped eating to watch. A few women were looking in despair at their plate knowing that they could never finish the heaped pile of food it contained. They feared this ticking off would soon happen to them.

Miranda stood up. ‘What did you say? Did you just refuse to serve me pudding? Are you forgetting that I’m the customer here? I can eat or not eat as I like.’ She turned to her companion. ‘We’re going. Nobody talks to me like that.’ She swept her coat from the back of her chair, picked up her handbag and headed for the door.

‘Hold on,’ cried May. ‘You haven’t paid.’

‘You expect me to pay for being told I don’t get a pudding because I didn’t eat my main course? I don’t think so.’

‘You drank a bottle of Chablis,’ shouted May.

‘It was overly chilled,’ said Miranda as she walked out of the door.

May took the plate back to the kitchen. ‘Some people have no manners,’ she said. She filled her glass. ‘I cook and I cook and I sweat and I slave and then some spoiled brat turns her nose up at my efforts. It’s just plain rude not to eat the food you’re offered.’

Annie agreed. ‘Just a few mouthfuls to let the cook know their hard work is appreciated. That’s all it needs.’

Nell said nothing. She was confused. She thought if people didn’t want to eat the food they were paying for, it was their decision. Then again, it must be hurtful to serve up a delicious meal and have it rejected.

She made up her mind to handle such a tricky situation tactfully should it happen when she was in charge of her own restaurant. If the meal hadn’t been up to snuff, she wouldn’t charge for it. If it had been all right and the diner hadn’t felt like eating it, she’d offer them a free glass of wine. She imagined herself putting a glass of the best house red in front of a reluctant eater and saying, ‘A little something to cheer you up.’ That would keep the customer happy.

‘Leaving without paying,’ said May. ‘That’s mean. People should pay for what they order. I do. Well, I don’t at the moment but as soon as this place is turning a profit, I fully intend to pay my bills.’

Looking out into the dining room, Nell saw a young couple who’d arrived not long before the pudding dispute finish their free cocktails, put on their coats and leave. And the group at table two – prawn cocktails and steak au poivre all round – were shifting in their seats, looking round for someone to give them the bill while gathering their jackets. Plainly, they’d decided to give pudding a miss. She went out to make up the bill which she’d take to them on a silver platter and hand over with a smile. That was the way to do it. Surely when they saw how polite and friendly she was, they’d come back. But no, as they heaved on their coats and headed for the door, one of them said, ‘Well, I’m never coming here again.’ The others agreed.

Nell lingered that night at the special table, drinking coffee and listening to May, who was working her way through a second bottle of wine, justifying her outburst.

‘I’m not just a cook,’ said May. ‘I’m an artist. I create dishes. I give people pleasure with my imagination. Every dish comes from my heart. I’ll not put up with rejection.’

Nell nodded.

‘What I do is on a par with Van Gogh or Da Vinci.’

‘Is it?’ Nell asked.

‘Oh, I’m not a genius like they are, but I put my soul into my creations, just like they did. All I want is a bit of recognition for my art. Not some spoilt brat saying she’s not in the mood for it.’

‘Of course.’ Nell was by now numb with tiredness, and wanted only to lie down and sleep. She longed for her bed.

It took May some time to notice this and stop her long flow about being a misunderstood artist to turn to Harry and tell him it was time the poor lass was in her bed. ‘She’s tired out.’

In the car, half asleep in the back seat, hearing, but not making out, the soft murmur of May and Harry’s conversation, Nell realised that May had not cooked the Chicken Kiev. Annie had. In fact, since Johnny’s accident May had spent every afternoon and evening visiting him, leaving Annie to prepare all the shrimp cocktails, steak au poivres, Sole Véroniques and chocolate mousses, as well as everything else on the menu. May put the prepared chicken into a pan and noisily, flamboyantly cooked it with flares of flame and clouds of steam. But all the hard graft was done by Annie. Nell supposed that was how it was when you were boss: you delegated.

The flat was quiet when Nell got in. She went straight to the bedroom, and, without switching on the light, took off her coat, hung it up and said, ‘I hope you’re not sleeping. I think we should talk. We never talk these days.’ Nothing. She reached for the switch and snapped on the light. The bed was empty.

Nell went into the hall, called Alistair’s name and stood listening, waiting for a reply. Nothing. In the kitchen there was an empty bottle of champagne on the table along with a crumpled pile of fish and chip wrappings. Someone’s been having fun, Nell thought. Shouting, ‘Hello, I’m home,’ she went into the living room.

It was dark, but the fire was glowing. There was enough light from that for Nell to make out the two sleeping people lying entangled on the sofa. There was no doubt about what Carol and Alistair had been up to. Neither of them was wearing anything. She was sprawled across his chest. He had his arms round her. The wine and the physical activity that had gone with it had sent them both into a deep stupor. And Nell’s presence, standing gazing at them in horror, did not wake them.

She didn’t cry out. She just stood, hand over mouth, shocked. They looked comfortable, content, like the pictures in a book she’d loved when she was little –
Babes in the Wood
. She hated them. But she couldn’t move. She noted that Carol slept with her mouth open and she’d had her hair cut in the latest style; there was a mole on the side of her right breast; her nails were bitten. Alistair had his hand spread over Carol’s hip. He still had his wedding ring on.

Nell slipped from the room. She shut the door quietly behind her, tiptoed up the hall to her bedroom and sat on the bed, arms wrapped round herself, rocking back and forward thinking, how could they?

She didn’t know what to do. If she stayed Alistair and Carol might gang up on her in the morning. ‘What do you expect?’ they’d say. ‘You’re never here. We were lonely.’ Then again, they might be horribly apologetic. Beg for forgiveness. They might swear it was a once-only thing. It hadn’t happened before, and wouldn’t again. Nell doubted this. She knew the allure of naughtiness. After all, when she and Carol first went to the Locarno they’d vowed they’d only stay for half an hour. Just to see what it’s like, they’d said. But they’d stayed all night. And they’d gone back again and again. They hadn’t been able to resist it.

She decided to leave. She packed the white suitcase her mother had given her to take on her honeymoon. It was only as she was walking up the hall towards the front door that it occurred to her to leave a note. In the kitchen the only thing she could find to write on was the envelope of a gas bill. She stood chewing the end of her pen. What to write? Something scathing? Something nasty –
you bastards
, perhaps? Something to make the adulterous pair feel guilty? In the end she wrote just three words:
I saw you
.

Chapter Twenty-two

Comfortable’s
All You Want

It was five in the morning, and Carol and Alistair were in the kitchen. He was making tea; she was sitting at the table reading and re-reading Nell’s three word note. They had woken, stiff and cold, looked round in alarm wondering momentarily what they were doing on the sofa.

‘What time is it?’ Carol had asked.

‘Late,’ said Alistair. ‘So late it’s early.’

‘How long have we been sleeping?’

‘Hours,’ said Alistair.

‘Where’s Nell? Is she home?’

Alistair got up and went through to the bedroom. ‘She’s not here.’ He went into the kitchen, put on the kettle and found the note. Carol came through to read it.

“Three words, that’s all. What does she mean
I saw you
?’

‘She means she saw us,’ said Alistair. ‘She knows what we’ve been up to,’ said Alistair.

‘So why didn’t she wake us up and demand an explanation?’

‘Nell wouldn’t do that. She hates confrontation. She’d walk to Peru to avoid a fight.’

‘But she left a note. She wanted us to know she knows.’

‘She wanted us to feel guilt and regret,’ said Alistair.

‘And do you?’

‘Guilt, yes, but no regret,’ he told her.

She agreed. ‘Not that I planned it or anything. It just happened.’

It had happened slowly. At first, when Nell had started working for May, leaving the pair alone together every evening, they’d avoided one another. When Alistair had arrived home from work, Carol would be busy bathing Katy and putting her to bed. After he’d eaten, Alistair would take some work to the small desk he had in the bedroom, leaving Carol to watch television.

This had been their routine for several weeks, with Carol aware that Alistair had been feeding himself on baked beans and fried eggs as he’d been too tired to cook anything else. Thinking he was looking pale and underfed, she’d cooked him a steak and had sat opposite him drinking coffee as he ate it. She’d already eaten. He had been so grateful, she’d cooked for him again the following evening and the evening after that. Soon she’d taken to exploring Nell’s cookbooks and planning meals.

Mostly, they had spoken about Nell: how lovely she was; what a good person but such a dreamer.