Cooking the Books (39 page)

‘They certainly are,’ said the Professor, adjusting his glasses.

‘Now if only we had been able to find Elijah Hawkes,’ sighed Daniel, ‘the plot would be all wound up.’

‘Elijah Hawkes?’ said Mrs Dawson sharply. ‘You didn’t mention that. You were looking for him?’

‘The father of those delectable twins,’ explained Daniel. ‘He was an electrician and we did wonder if he might be working on the show. This is a soap opera, you know. We have already had the revelation of the concealed twins. It would be nice to have the missing father, as well.’

‘In accordance with the unities,’ agreed the Professor.

Mrs Dawson seemed to be about to speak but Tash called out, ‘On set!’ and we all fell silent. Tash was radiant. She looked like a milkmaid whose freshly shampooed, garlanded cows had just won the blue ribbon at the show.

‘We have finished filming,’ she announced. ‘Apart from post,
Kiss the Bride
is in the can. Ethan will be showing a bloopers reel tonight which I hope that you will all enjoy. But we have a few awards to present first. To Ali, sound man of sound men.’

She called him up and gave him a perspex plate on a stand. In deference to religious sensibilities, it just had the word
Ear
engraved on it. Ali scowled. Sound men do not talk much. But he bowed to the assembly and was cheered back to his place.

‘To Ethan,’ said Tash. She gave him a trophy in the form of a perspex eye. He leant down from his careless height and hugged her so hard that she squeaked. There were tears in his eyes. Bernie jumped up and down in her place, fortunately putting down her tray first.

‘To Marina, our editor and post-production person, whose hard work is still to come,’ said Tash. Marina, who was among the animal lovers, came forward and accepted a perspex trophy with a thumb drive embedded in it. Then the rest of the cast were called, each to receive the actor’s trophy, a bridal headdress encased in plastic. Professor Dion remarked that they resembled laurel wreaths and were doubtless well deserved.

‘More like a wooden foil,’ I muttered, and he chuckled. He himself had told me that retiring gladiators received a wooden sword as a prize.

Kylie and Goss received their awards with becoming modesty. They had behaved very well, I thought. Rising at five, makeup and hair, staying on their diet, never complaining, not a slip until their defence of Tabitha, which did them credit, at least with me. This production ought to do their CVs some good. Tash would have to give them a high mark for skill, intelligence and good behaviour. They came through the throng to show us their prizes. I admired them.

‘I did wonder if I really wanted to be an actor some- times,’ Kylie admitted. ‘Especially early in the day. I don’t know how you do it, Corinna, getting up at four every morning to do your thing.’

‘I’m going to sleep in till noon for a month,’ declared Goss.

‘But it was such fun,’ said Kylie. ‘Wasn’t it?’ She sounded wistful.

‘I suppose so,’ I said. I didn’t want to dampen the cele- brations by telling this pair that serious steampunk machinery would be needed to drag Corinna anywhere near a TV production in the future. Me for the nice quiet early morning; just me, Jason, the Mouse Police and the yeast. Kylie and Goss hugged me, one from each side. They were still wearing their stage makeup and smelt sweetly of Max Factor and gin. Then they dived for the hors d’oeuvres. They were no longer on a diet, bless them.

I collected one of Bernie’s toasties. It was cream cheese topped with chives. Yum. Mrs Dawson put a hand on my arm. ‘Corinna,’ she began.

‘Have a savoury,’ I offered, holding out the plate. ‘Sylvia, maybe you would like a chair instead,’ I added. She was as pale as milk. Professor Dion, who had stratospheric social talents, summoned a minion and sat her down.

‘Whatever is the matter, Sylvia?’ he asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, with a return of her hostess manners. ‘It is rather hot in here. I shall just sit still for a moment and I will be fine. Can you bring Daniel over? I would like a word with him. And you, Corinna.’

‘Done and done,’ I said. I waved to Daniel and he detached himself from Tash’s audience and came to my side.

‘Mrs Dawson,’ he said. We grabbed a couple of chairs and sat down, close enough to hear her over the party babble.

‘You mentioned Elijah Hawkes,’ she said slowly.

‘I was tasked with finding Ms Atkins’ lost baby,’ said Daniel. ‘We finally located Zephaniah. But there was another child, and that was Harrison, and his birth certificate had a father’s name on it. And it was Elijah Hawkes. Why do you ask? Did you know him?’

‘I was married to him for forty years,’ she said.

We sat stunned for some moments.

‘I did talk about the unities,’ said Professor Dion apologetically.

‘My husband, if he was female, would have been called a complete tart,’ said Mrs Dawson. ‘Dearly as I loved him, some girl only had to flash her bosom in his direction—sometimes not even in his direction—and off he would go. A standing cock has no conscience,’ she told me. ‘He was so charming and so kind and so funny that I got used to it. He always came back to me,’ she added. ‘He was the only man I had ever met who could always make me laugh.’

‘My dear,’ said Professor Dion, and took her hand.

‘Mostly he confined his attentions to intelligent, well-prepared young women who knew what they were doing,’ she continued. ‘But when he met Molly Atkins, he fell in lust head over heels, and she with him. And Molly Atkins was not a well-prepared young woman. She conceived. And she would not consider an abortion.’

‘Sylvia,’ said Professor Dion, with deep sympathy. She tightened her grasp on his hand.

‘The affair was over by then, of course; they never lasted. Molly came ramping up to the house to confront him. He wasn’t there to confront. He never was,’ she said with a flash of bitterness. ‘So she had to make do with raging at me. But there wasn’t a lot I could do. I couldn’t make “Elijah Hawkes”—how that man loved his secret life—go back to her. She could have ruined his career but she isn’t vengeful, really. I offered her an allowance and I took her to hospital myself when the time came. She was delivered by C-section—she never saw the children, she didn’t even know there were two. And she didn’t care. Then she decided that she wouldn’t keep the child after all. It would constrain her future as a model and an actress. Which they would have, of course. I offered to take them but she would not give them to me. I had not thought of them for years until the girls got this job. Then I heard a name I had not heard for such a long time.’

‘Goddess have mercy,’ said Meroe. She fumbled in her bag and came up with a pinch of greenish dust. This she flung over Mrs Dawson, muttering some sort of spell. Sylvia, who would retain her social skills through a hurricane and fire storm, nodded a thankyou.

‘I echo my learned colleague,’ I said. ‘What do you mean to do now, Sylvia?’

‘You know, Corinna, for the first time in a long time, I really don’t know.’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘Come along.’

‘Do you know what you are doing?’ asked Daniel in my ear.

‘Hope so,’ I replied. Now what relationship would work? Sylvia was technically a stepmother, but stepmother wasn’t going to cut it. I needed a relationship which would have instant credibility and also not be threatening to this fragile new mother-and-children triangle . . . Aha!

I escorted Mrs Dawson through the people until we stood in front of the triangle. All three of them looked up at us.

‘Harrison, Emily,’ I said, ‘this is your grandmother Sylvia.’

‘It’s you,’ said Molly Atkins, reverting instantly to Superbitch.

‘It is I,’ replied Mrs Dawson. ‘Hello, Molly.’

The twins examined her. Slim, elegant, dressed in a milk chocolate linen shift, emblazoned on one shoulder by a huge gold Minoan brooch. Draped in a cotton wrap patterned with fire-drakes, borrowed from Meroe. Immaculate, stylish, unashamedly old in the same way as a priceless antique shouts its antiquity. They approved.

They sprang up and embraced her, one on each side. Young face, old face, young face. They were a picture. By someone like Caravaggio.

After that Molly Atkins had to accept the fait accompli. I like my faits to be accompli rapidly. I hate waiting.

‘What happened to Elijah?’ asked Molly.

‘He died a few years ago,’ said Mrs Dawson.

‘I hated him for a long time,’ said Molly.

‘Oh, so did I,’ said Mrs Dawson. ‘For daring to die and leave me alone.’

‘Let’s have another drink,’ suggested Molly. I summoned Bernie urgently and she came forward bearing cocktails. I had another one too. That had been a huge risk. Then I left Mrs Dawson with her new grandchildren and let Daniel find me a chair by the kitchen wall. Lance the Lettuce Guy was there, full of excitement.

‘I’ve got it, Corinna!’ he exclaimed.

‘What have you got, Lance?’ I asked wearily.

‘The secret ingredient to Uncle Solly’s Thousand Island dressing.’

‘Wonderful,’ I said. There was a long pause. I went on, ‘And are you going to tell me what it is?’

He looked around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. Next to us was a spirited debate on the virtues of long as opposed to short Jacobean stitch, between the wardrobe ladies, Therese Webb and, of all people, Tash, who apparently sewed in her spare time. Lance the Lettuce Guy leant close and whispered in my ear, ‘Lovage.’

‘Never heard of it,’ I told him.

‘You try it,’ he said, perfectly sure of himself. ‘I munched my way through all the European herbs trying to duplicate the taste. I am sure that it is . . .’ he dropped his voice, ‘lovage.’

‘Well, I hope you and the . . .’ I dropped my voice in turn, ‘lovage will be very happy together.’

‘Oh, we will,’ he said delightedly.

‘Fairytale endings all round,’ commented Daniel.

‘It’s a judgment,’ I said. ‘A judgment on me for getting involved in soap operas. Yea, a judgment.’

‘Shall we go?’

‘Not yet,’ I told him. ‘Surely that has to conclude the revelations. Of course, at any moment a plane may crash into the studio. Or possibly someone may reveal that they have been someone else all along, they just lost their memory.’

‘Or were possessed by the devil,’ said Daniel gravely.

‘Or were dreaming,’ I added.

‘Corinna?’ It was Bernie, looking guilty. I knew what she was going to say and tried to forestall it.

‘I won’t tell a soul,’ I promised.

‘You knew?’

‘I saw you talking to Simply Simon at the banquet,’ I told her. ‘I know you were spying for him. But you didn’t tell him anything important.’

‘He offered me a job,’ whispered Bernie.

‘But now you have one,’ I stated.

She brightened. ‘I do, don’t I?’ she said.

She kissed me and swam off through the crowd.

‘And that,’ I told Daniel, ‘is the last revelation.’

‘Positively the last?’ he teased.

‘Absolutely,’ I said firmly. I swigged my drink. It was very good. Maybe green chartreuse? That was the only thing I was intending to investigate any time soon.

Thereafter, it was a nice party. Jason was claimed by two young things who professed themselves agog to know all about being a baker. And gave him a lot of information about being an actor. The bloopers tape was playing on an endless loop. On it Molly Atkins planted her foot on Tabitha’s neck and was knocked backwards by the tiger’s abrupt objection. Harrison and Emily flung themselves on her, the girls embraced the big cat, and I led her away from her assault on Lance the Lettuce Guy’s apron. I had never seen myself on film. I was huge. Compared to the rest of the cast, the only person who would outweigh me was Tabitha.

But that was all right. I did not want to be an actor. I wanted to be a baker, and I was. So that was all right. All shall go well, nought shall go ill, Jack shall have his Jill again, and all go well, as the nursery rhyme said.

Several hours later we made our farewells. We had to go home to pack for our holiday. Ethan was discussing her medieval cake shop with Bernie. Ali, with fruit punch, was talking about the value of silence with the Professor (with more red wine). The kitchen staff were swapping recipes. Tash was talking about bobbin lace-making with Therese, who had offered to give lessons. Molly, Sylvia, Harrison and Emily were still entwined in familial affection. Everyone was happy and no one was quarrelling. Time to go.

I actually had my hand on the door when Leonidas Cohen shoved through the crowd and called my name. I paused.

He thrust a huge bouquet into my arms.

‘From Tabitha,’ he said.

We stood outside in the cool night air. I examined my blossoms.

Daniel began to laugh. ‘Tiger lilies!’ he said.

I kissed him.

Satan finds some mischief still for busy hands to do.

—Charles Dickens,
David Copperfield