The Sunshine And Biscotti Club (17 page)

Eve barely flinched. A flicker in her eyes. As fast as a hummingbird’s wing but it was there all the same.

‘But you say you stopped it,’ Libby carried on.

‘I did stop it.’

‘And I believe you, because you are my friend and I trust you. But I will never know, Eve, I will never know. And that’s how trust works. That’s the whole point.’

Eve pressed her lips together and lowered her phone a fraction as she thought about it.

‘At the very least,’ Libby said, moving to stand up, feeling that maybe yes, she herself was happier. Because suddenly she could give advice without the voice in her head saying ‘that’s rich coming from you.’ ‘I’m imagining you sure as hell wouldn’t want Peter seeing the lead up to you putting a stop to it.’

Eve’s jaw dropped, indignant, but her reply was stalled when Dex pushed the door open and, seeing them both sitting on his bed, smiled broadly and said, ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

Libby laughed. ‘Don’t get excited, Dex, it’s just new curtains.’

Eve couldn’t believe it when she woke up at six in the morning. They’d been up until gone midnight painting and papering, all of them, even Jimmy who abandoned the garden when the light went. Jessica and Dex had come back from the local hardware store with everything they needed, including more plastic boilersuits, so they resembled a gang of CSI as they stripped old wallpaper, pasted up lining paper, sanded the newly revealed parquet flooring, and painted skirting boards as the lining paper dried. To their surprise, Giulia had brought up beers and then steered her way through the dust and mess to take measurements for the curtains.

It had been fun. All of them working; focused on their individual jobs. No eye contact, no time for any meaningful chat. Just old memories and funny stories that left them sniggering into their sandpaper. They’d always had fun as a group. It made her think of all the parties they used to throw, people dancing up on
the roof in the summer or arriving, dusted with snow, in the winter surprised to have something so classy as the mulled wine Libby had insisted on preparing while the boys just rolled in a beer keg. The best bits were when everyone else had gone to sleep, drunkenly squished into the living room like sardines, while they sat together on the stairwell with a bottle of ice cold vodka that Dex kept in the freezer, talking, stuffing down pancakes that Libby knocked up, reminiscing about the hours just gone, laughing, getting shouted at by the neighbours, whisper giggling, Eve always a bit cold or needing the loo but never wanting to get up and leave because there was magic in the moment, just the seven of them.

To Eve’s surprise, when they finished the renovations that night ready to crawl into their respective rooms, dusty, muscles aching, hot, sweaty, and satisfyingly bone tired, Dex said, ‘Wait,’ and disappeared downstairs, returning with a bottle of ice cold vodka. And without a moment’s hesitation they all found their places, leaning against half painted walls and dust-sheet draped chairs, all of them clearly silently reminiscing about the same thing. And Eve found herself really needing the loo but she stayed exactly where she was because it was magic.

But now Eve was wide awake. The sun was up, grinning with the promise of exquisite ferocity. She went over to the open window and looked down the
garden to the outhouse. She thought about how good she had felt when Frank the journalist had tasted her cake. She hadn’t thought it would mean quite as much as it did but it was like a validation of her talent at exactly the time she needed it.

She felt a mounting urge to make another; to get dressed and go down to her workstation and perfect the flavour. Instead she got back into bed. It was stupid to start baking at six a.m.

But, as she lay with her eyes shut, Eve was hit by an equally strong urge to read Peter’s emails. Temptation buzzed through her like the bees in the lemon trees.

So she got up, got dressed, and headed outside. Wearing a grey cotton skirt, yellow vest, and no shoes she felt like a local, especially with the scarf tying her hair back. She imagined herself living here, frolicking about in the heat. Then she stopped herself, pausing for a moment by the pink chairs and table, and made herself acknowledge that it was another dream, another greener grass. She looked back at the hotel. No. She didn’t want to live here; she saw the stress Libby was under, she just wanted to be on holiday here, exactly as she was, not wishing it was something else.

Opening the outhouse door she felt like a burglar. No one aware she was there; her feet silent on the concrete floor. Time seemed to still as she worked—steeping the smashed pine needles for different lengths of time to test the best strength, slicing the chinotto thinner,
testing the addition of a maraschino and lemon syrup drizzled down holes she made in the oven-fresh cake, sampling her different bakes as she sat on a stool and looked out at the garden. She could almost hear the prickly pear cactuses groaning as the heat began to build.

She saw Libby before Libby saw her.

‘Oh, hi!’ Libby stopped up short in the doorway.

‘Hi,’ said Eve, sliding off her stool and going back to her workbench. ‘I’m just practising some stuff.’

‘Great, that’s great,’ said Libby, walking over to her own bench. ‘I didn’t expect anyone else to be up. But that’s great. That’s what this place is meant to be for. Do whatever you like. That’s great.’

Eve could tell she had hoped the place would be empty by the slight flush on the tips of her cheeks. ‘I won’t get in your way,’ she said.

‘No no, not at all.’ Libby waved a hand. ‘I didn’t think you would. I was just going to practise some bakes.’

‘Yeah, go ahead,’ said Eve. ‘I have stuff I’d like to do.’

‘OK.’ Libby nodded.

‘OK.’ Eve nodded.

For half an hour or so they didn’t talk. Not a word. Just worked in concentrated silence. Neither of them referred to yesterday’s conversation about Peter; acting almost as professional colleagues rather than friends.

Giulia appeared to ask Libby a question and then returned with a tray of piping hot coffee that she poured into little cups and put on each of their workstations with a biscotti. Her respect for the pair of them was growing with their diligence.

Outside the sun was hard and sharp. Inside it was still relatively cool and smelt of lemons and coffee, sticky pine sap and grated chocolate. As she put another cake in the oven, Eve found that she didn’t want to leave, didn’t want this to be the end of her session; her urge to work on her own ideas was still unsatisfied. The others had started to wake up. She’d seen Jimmy walk past with a towel over his shoulder, off for some mindful meditation. Dex was reading a book on one of the pink chairs.

‘I can take your cake out if you like. When it’s ready,’ Libby said. ‘If you wanted to go.’

Eve frowned. ‘Why would I want to leave?’

‘Oh, I just thought you were done. That’s all. No need to go if you aren’t ready to go. Carry on.’

‘Do you want me to go?’ Eve asked, head cocked, trying to work out what was going on.

‘No, no, of course not. I was just going to record a new video, that’s all.’ Libby shrugged as if it were nothing.

‘You can record your video with me here. I won’t make any noise.’

Libby made a face to say no.

‘Really,’ said Eve, ‘I won’t get in your way. Or I can absolutely go and leave you to it.’

‘No, this is your time, your holiday. I don’t want you to have to go or be quiet. No.’ Libby shook her head, emphatic.

‘Honestly,’ Eve pressed, ‘do it. Otherwise I’ll leave.’

‘No.’ Libby paused. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘What is?’

‘Being watched.’

‘But you post it online.’

‘After loads of edits.’

Eve made a face as if this was ridiculous. ‘Libby, I know what you look like. And anyway, I’m going to be concentrating on my stuff. Please. Don’t not do it because of me.’

Libby winced; Eve knew she had won. Libby couldn’t bear the idea of someone not doing something because of her. She was a people pleaser. Of course Eve could see why recording in front of someone would be embarrassing, but part of her wanted to see Libby suffer the same way she’d made her twist with guilt at her comments about Jimmy in Dex’s bedroom.

‘OK,’ Libby said in the end, and walked over to the corner of the room where she pulled open a drawer to retrieve her make-up bag and a small mirror that she propped up on the shelf.

A little smug, Eve trotted out to the garden and picked a few more of the small, hard, chinotto oranges and the
only ripe fig, then with a tea towel wrapped round her hand and a kitchen knife, went to saw a couple of the huge red prickly pears from the prickly cactus. She dropped one when a spine jabbed through the folded tea towel, and the fruit, so fat and ripe, bounced like a tennis ball. As she followed after it, walking half-crouched through the grass, she looked up to see Libby doing her hair in the little mirror. She watched her pin the final curl in place then liberally douse with clouds of hairspray. Eve reached for the escaped prickly pear, intrigued. It hadn’t all been goading; she’d always actually quite wanted to see Libby record, impressed by her success. She’d seen the wink to camera after a guilty forkful of raspberry swirled pavlova supposedly baked for a dinner party that night; now she wanted to know what it was like behind the scenes.

Eve walked back into the outhouse trying to prise a cactus needle out of her finger with her teeth. Libby was gathering up the mirror and her make-up bag and, after a quick double-check of her face, hair, red and white striped vest top and necklace, shut them back in the drawer. When she turned ready to go back to her workbench, Eve forgot all about the needle in her finger.

‘Blimey,’ she said, ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’

Libby’s make-up was caked on like a flight attendant—glossy red lipstick, liner outside the line of her lips to add faux plump, dark blusher streaks on her cheekbones, thick black eyeliner swishes, and lashings
of mascara top and bottom. She’d piled her hair on top of her head and styled it with pin curls, her fringe swept to one side half covering one eye. A diamond solitaire pendant that she hadn’t been wearing earlier glinted round her neck, along with a couple of other simple gold chains. It took Eve a second to notice she’d also slipped her big emerald engagement ring back on.

‘This is what I wear,’ said Libby, a touch too brightly. ‘For the camera.’

‘You look stunning,’ said Eve. ‘It just looks like a lot of work.’

‘No. It’s easy now,’ Libby said, getting a selection of bowls out from a cupboard—all the beautiful earthenware Eve had seen on the blog.

‘Like a uniform,’ said Eve.

Libby shrugged.

Eve went back to her bench and got on with removing her prickly pear splinters then peeling and sieving the fruit to get rid of the hard seeds, all the while trying not to stare in fascination at Libby who was busy weighing out ingredients.

The prickly pear pulp smelt like fresh cut grass and sherbet and needed something to slice through the sweetness. She squeezed in a few drops of her chinotto orange and a bit of fresh fig and tasted it, shut her eyes and let the flavour infuse her, then she put the bowl down and went to the larder of herbs and spices, dried fruits, flavourings, anything and everything, and stared
at it while her brain got to work plotting, planning, imagining.

She glanced up at one point to see Libby mouthing to the camera, lifting up bowls and showing the contents mechanically like a Barbie doll. Then she’d scuttle round, rewind, watch, adjust, change the bowl, and do it again. It looked exhausting.

When Libby looked up and caught her watching Eve grabbed the nearest ingredient to hand and strode back to her bench, trying to seem indifferent to the minutiae of video preparations.

It wasn’t until Eve got back to her workstation that she looked down and saw what it was that she had picked up.

Liquorice.

Eve never ate liquorice.

All it reminded her of was the slowly hardening Liquorice Allsorts in a cut glass bowl in the centre of her grandparents’ coffee table in the good living room. The one they saved for best. The one she never went into when she stayed with them, but was always used if she was there with her parents, visiting for lunch. Her dad would fidget uncomfortably on the hard, unused sofa, itching to go out for a fag. Her mum would defensively bat away questions about taking responsibility for Eve. About growing up, acting like adults. Her grandparents would ask what they did in all the ‘together-time’ they needed just the two of
them. Eve would sense her dad’s body tense like clay cracking and drying in the sun until he’d snap and stand, patting every pocket to find his Golden Virginia. And her grandfather would sigh, and her mother would stalk out, and her grandmother would stand up to make tea, and Eve’s hand would creep forward, scoop up as many Liquorice Allsorts as she could get and stuff them all in her mouth till she could hardly breathe.

Libby had started filming again.

Eve silently grated the bitter, salty liquorice. Then she dipped her finger into the shavings and brought it up to her mouth. It smelt like stuffy living room and tobacco. But then she touched her finger on her tongue and tasted salt, smoke, fire, and mud, like she’d fallen to the centre of the earth. She dabbed her other finger into the chinotto, fig, and prickly pear mix, tried the two together and a rocket went off in her brain. The taste of waves crashing over her head and tumbling her through the surf.

She almost laughed at the potency. Whether it would work as a fragrance, who knew, but there was an unexpected alchemy in the combination that made magic in her mouth.

Eve glanced up and realised Libby was wrapping up. To camera she licked her spoon, said, ‘Mm, just scrumptious,’ then dropped it in the hand-thrown white bowl and did the same beaming fake smile she always did in every photo they’d ever taken of her.

Libby hated being snapped unawares. She’d always manage to pose in the split second it took for the camera shutter to close.

But Eve remembered one photo of her, taken on the terrace of the Limoncello, Libby really laughing at a story told by her aunt. She hadn’t known Eve was watching and the snap was of her mid-toothy guffaw—double-chinned, eyes closed, hair wet from swimming. Eve considered it the most beautiful photograph she’d ever seen of Libby.

Libby had self-consciously grimaced at the copy Eve had had printed. Over her shoulder Jake had laughingly agreed that she looked hideous. Eve had been left fuming, aware that that was the moment she would lose Libby to him. And then to the many blog followers who fell in love with the perfect version of Libby as well.

‘OK, I’m done now,’ said Libby, packing her stuff away, wiping her lipstick off with a cleansing wipe and then her eye make-up.

‘Yeah, me too,’ said Eve. ‘I’ll just clear all this away.’

‘OK.’ Libby nodded, her jewellery back in the drawer, her hair loose again. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you back upstairs.’

‘Yep.’ Eve nodded.

‘Lots to do today,’ Libby added, her face back to normal but the big fake smile she gave Eve as she walked out of the door still the same.