The Sunshine And Biscotti Club (7 page)

‘Open the windows,’ he called, and Dex pushed the handle and the whole front wall concertinaed open. The smoke escaped like a trapped animal, streaming out into the fresh evening air.

They all peered at the tray of blackened biscotti.

‘Well, they’re definitely twice baked, aren’t they?’ said Dex, picking one up and then dropping it, his fingers burnt.

Eve looked at the little charred biscuits and thought about Libby alone somewhere in the hotel. There couldn’t have been a more obvious symbol. ‘We shouldn’t have cut that class short,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Miles solemnly.

They all stared at the tray.

Then Jimmy laughed and said, ‘They’re only biscuits.’ And Eve nudged him because he was ruining the moment.

When Libby couldn’t find any of them at breakfast the following morning she asked Giulia who said that she thought she had seen someone go into the outhouse. When she walked down the garden to have a look she found them all in there, standing to attention like soldiers behind their stations.

Someone had made coffee, there was a fresh cup on her table, the steam catching the rays of the rising sun. She looked from the cup to the group to see Dex raising his mug to his lips, scrolling through something on his phone. Eve had her hands wrapped around her mug, blonde hair all awry; she looked like she’d either slept really deeply or not at all. Jimmy was bent forward, elbows on his table, his fingers toying with a teaspoon. Miles was reading the paper. Jessica had retreated to the back, to Giulia’s previous workstation where the smell of burnt biscotti still lingered.

Libby had remembered about the biscotti in the middle of the night and gone running down to the
outhouse in a panic, only to find them in the bin, black and burnt, the oven off. Wide awake, she’d stood alone knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she went back to bed. So instead she’d done her make-up, styled up her silk kimono dressing gown, and decided to record a midnight feast video for the blog. The garden outside, silent and eerie in the moonlight, was the perfect backdrop.

She made biscotti because she could make it with her eyes closed and wouldn’t need to rehearse. She flavoured it with liquorice because it always split opinion and that would make for good comments. To camera she explained her decadent love of liquorice, the tangy bitterness that fizzed on her tongue. She talked about how they always caused a stir at the supper club, some guests devouring them with their coffees, others too scared to even give them a nibble. She dropped a casual mention of a celebrity wedding that she had catered and how they had insisted on pink and white striped sweetshop bags of the liquorice biscotti as the favours.

She didn’t mention that it had been her aunt Silvia who had taught her to make them here at the Limoncello Hotel. She didn’t mention that she had made them when she got home and how her younger brother had spat his out on the table, making all the other younger ones spit theirs out too. How they had then thrown them at one another, a big biscotti fight across the table. How her mum had come in from work
and gone mad about the mess. How her youngest sister had then been sick on the floor and Libby had cleared it up, along with all the biscotti everywhere. How she’d got annoyed with them all and her mum had told her to go and calm down while she made the dinner that Libby was meant to have made for the little ones. How when she sat and looked at herself in the mirror she saw her dad’s face and wondered if that was what her mum saw and whether that affected the way she felt about her.

She never talked about her family in her videos. Never talked about its crazy, hectic boisterousness. She never talked about how she would be given a reprieve every summer when she was sent to the Limoncello where she would cook in the restaurant and read books in the shade of the lemon grove. Where she would take herself off on her bike and scour the local flea markets and buy old Italian enamel saucepans and flour jars. Where she was just Libby and allowed to exist as just Libby rather than as one of the mass of chaos where she was sister, half-sister, step-sister, nanny, daughter, peace-keeper. A chaos that often left her unable to breathe, with a tightness in her chest and a desperate need to escape.

In the videos she didn’t talk about any of that. She talked about her life in the present. All polished up, her lips always red, her hair always shiny. She could edit it down nicely to portray exactly the life she wanted.

After she’d taken the biscotti out of the oven she had a piping hot bite for the camera; she’d hidden the burn
of the roof her mouth with a laugh. She’d staged it so her followers would think she was taking the rest of the plate to bed with a cup of hot chocolate but, in reality, she’d turned the camera off and sat for a minute or two, her mind straight back to that haphazard family kitchen table. Straight back to the noise and the bluster. She’d realised she hadn’t made liquorice biscotti for herself for years. Jake hated liquorice.

She’d sat in the darkness and wondered where he was.

Every time the bell rang on the front door of the hotel she found herself catching her breath thinking it might be him. Equal amounts hope and alarm.

Dex clicked his phone off and straightened up. ‘Listen, Libby, we’re all sorry. We shouldn’t have been talking about you last night. It was completely out of order.’

She saw Eve nod in agreement.

‘And rest assured, from this moment on, we are all fully committed bakers. Aren’t we?’ He glanced around the rest of the group.

Everyone nodded really earnestly.

Libby felt herself blush. She wanted to say something but was a little overcome. They had surprised her by being there without any cajoling.

By being there for her.

And the sight of them all standing there was much nicer, more comforting, than she could ever have imagined.

In the end she simply said, ‘Thank you,’ and then busied herself handing out new laminated recipes.

Jimmy frowned at his. ‘A
cornetto
? Isn’t that an ice cream?’

‘No,’ Libby said, passing out the rest and going back up to the front. ‘It’s like a croissant but Italian. Which means less butter, more sweetness, and an egg to give them their sunshine yellow.
Cornetto
—it means little horn.’

Libby held up a picture of the finished product. ‘Now it’s heavier than a traditional croissant and usually has a slight hint of orange but we’re going to substitute the orange zest for lemon—mainly because we have so many but also to tie it back to the region.’

‘It’s never really occurred to me that you can make a croissant,’ Jimmy said, picking up one of the lemons on his counter and giving it a sniff.

Eve frowned. ‘Where do you think they come from?’

‘I literally have no idea. I just see them as sort of appearing,’ he said with a shrug.

‘I hear you on that, mate.’ Miles nodded, frowning down at the recipe as if it was algebra. ‘I mean, how do you get all those layers?’

‘That’s part of the pastry.’ Eve shook her head like they were complete idiots and turned to roll her eyes at Libby. It was only after she’d done it that she seemed to catch herself in the gesture. Without thinking about it, she’d thrown a ball on the assumption of their friendship.

Libby smiled.

Eve half smiled, and looked shyly down at her bench.

Just that one tiny piece of shared communication had Libby’s confidence spreading through her like one of those fancy Japanese flower teabags that unfurls with hot water.

‘OK, first thing we need to do is make friends with our yeast,’ she said, picking up her little bowl of yeast and holding it so they could all see what it was.

‘Why?’ asked Dex, peering into his bowl with distrust.

‘Because it’s alive.’

‘Like an oyster, Dex,’ Jessica said from the back.

Dex narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.

‘Your yeast is what’s going to do the work for you on this one so you have to treat it well. We’re going to dissolve it in warm water—not too hot or you’ll kill it and there’ll be no layers in your croissant. Use your thermometers,’ Libby added, holding up the vintage metal kitchen thermometers she’d lovingly sourced from various flea markets.

‘These are nice,’ said Eve, and Libby nodded, unexpectedly pleased at Eve’s approval.

The kitchenware had been Libby’s vision entirely. Probably because it wasn’t something that interested Jake. He had involved himself in the symmetry of the building design, in sourcing shiny metal sheets for
the work surfaces and stainless steel shelving. It had been him who’d painted the whole thing white and hung huge burnished metal ceiling lamps over the workstations. Libby had worried it was a bit clinical but he’d said it was cutting-edge and thrown her one of his patented ‘leave this kind of stuff to me’ looks before giving her a hug. The type that always felt like a boy hugging his teddy bear.

‘This is like a physics lesson,’ Miles said, running his eye down the recipe.

‘Don’t read ahead.’ Libby went over and took the recipe out of his hands, laying it down on the counter. ‘Just go with what I say.’

Miles laughed like he’d been told what to do for the first time in years and Libby felt herself soften. Seeing him again was like watching her younger brother grow up. Gone was a tall, gangly, sullen dude who went to gigs and played in a band and chain smoked Marlboro Reds. He’d been replaced by this quiet man who’d filled out and bulked up; his jaw had sharpened, his features had all found their place and settled into being not bad looking.

She glanced behind him and saw the same in Dex, both of them finally fitting their skin. Trying less hard and being much better for it. She remembered how nice Dex had been when he’d come to find her the night before, hovering on the threshold of her room, clearly awkward as he politely checked if she was OK.

If she lined them all up next to Jake there would suddenly be a battle for chief that there never was in the past—Jake ruled the roost with his king of the jungle swagger.

But then she realised there would be no battle at all. Miles wouldn’t care, his strength was already too hard won. And Dex wouldn’t compete. He was probably the natural born leader among them, but Dex simply wouldn’t want it, giving him a silent power that Jake had never had.

She was talking about yeast as all this was flowing through her head. The group were measuring and stirring and then covering their bowls with cloths so the yeast could do its stuff in the comfort of darkness.

All the while Libby was thinking about Dex and Miles and how she never would have expected them to be the yardsticks against which Jake could be measured and found wanting.

‘My water’s too hot,’ Jimmy said, struggling with his thermometer.

Dex was peering under his tea towel. ‘Bubble, you little buggers.’

‘OK, put the yeast to one side and we’ll move on to the egg.’

‘But I haven’t done mine yet,’ said Jimmy, looking worried.

‘What have you been doing?’ Dex shouted. ‘It’s just stirring the stuff in water.’

‘I’ve got some leftover water, Jimmy.’ Eve went over to his bench with her saucepan and poured her perfect-temperature water into his bowl.

Jimmy had his hands on his head, flustered. Libby paused where she was, not quite ready to help him, not quite able to forget what she’d overheard him saying last night about Jake. So it was a relief when Eve showed him what to do with his yeast. Libby watched him laugh at something Eve said, saw her reach right over past him and him maybe smell her hair—or just conveniently inhale—as she grabbed an egg from the packet and broke it into another bowl. She wanted to warn him off. Didn’t want Eve led down that path. But she knew it wouldn’t make any difference. It would play out whether she wanted it to or not.

The thought had echoes of Jimmy not telling her about Jake. And she realised that it wasn’t that he didn’t tell her about the affairs that bothered her. It was the fact that he knew.

And that made her feel stupid.

Embarrassed.

It undercut everything that she had thought she had.

‘See, now you’re level with the rest of us,’ Eve said. Jimmy nodded and turned cockily round to Dex to say, ‘I’m up to speed, I’m with you.’

Dex rolled his eyes and went back to beating his egg.

‘What next?’ Jessica called from the back.

‘So now your yeast will be ready so it’s flour, yeast, egg into your mixers.’ Libby strolled up and down the central aisle as she spoke.

‘Mine doesn’t work,’ shouted Jimmy.

‘Plug it in, you doofus,’ said Dex.

Eve laughed.

‘Add a pinch of salt,’ said Libby, trying to remain the in-control grown-up. ‘And then it’s the butter, vanilla, and the zest of your lemon.’

‘OK no, mine’s a disaster. It’s like sick.’ Jimmy clicked the head of his mixer up and stared down at his mixture.

Dex peered over his counter. ‘It is like sick. Exactly like sick.’

Miles turned around to have a look, gave a wry snort of laughter, and turned back to his own dough.

Libby walked over and looked into Jimmy’s bowl. ‘OK, it’s just a bit curdled. We’ll fix it.’

Jimmy took a step back as she started to rescue his mix, instinctively putting space between them.

She felt him watching as she pulled it back to a smooth consistency. When she slid the bowl along the counter back to him he stepped forward with a nod. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome,’ she replied, but neither of them quite met the other’s eye.

They sat outside in the morning sun as the dough rose. Libby brought out little honey cakes and some liquorice biscotti that she’d somehow managed to knock up the night before, while Jessica made coffee.

Dex was meant to be helping Jessica but he was just leaning against the counter eating biscotti, saying, ‘It’s exhausting, this cooking. I am exhausted.’ As he popped another into his mouth he added, ‘So how are you doing with Miles?’

‘Awkwardly.’

Dex snorted.

‘It really would have been nice if you’d told me he was coming before we arrived,’ she said, pushing the plunger down on the cafetière.

‘You wouldn’t have come if I had.’

Jessica didn’t reply.

‘It’ll be good for you,’ Dex said, and then poured himself a coffee and strode outside saying, ‘So what are you up to these days, Miles?’

Miles had his eyes shut leaning back in his chair. He rolled his head round to answer, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. ‘Still at the label,’ he said.

‘Doing well?’ Dex asked with a little smirk on his lips.

Miles shrugged. ‘Pretty well,’ he said, his eyes narrowed slightly as he waited for what was coming next.

Dex nodded. ‘And you’re not doing any of your own stuff any more?’

Miles shook his head, holding in a smile. ‘No. No, I’m not.’

‘No gigs?’

‘No gigs.’

‘Well, thank the Lord,’ Dex said with a grin as he plonked himself down in his seat. ‘I think that makes the world a safer, more melodious place.’

Libby gave him a little thump on the arm.

Miles closed his eyes again, refusing to rise to the bait any longer.

Jimmy chuckled as he soaked up the sun.

Jessica watched from the doorway. She remembered so clearly the evening that Miles had got the call from the record company to say they were interested in his stuff. To ask him to come in for a meeting. He’d walked into the living room, all of them sitting round about to go out, and mumbled the news. Flo had jumped up and made a massive fuss, run to the fridge to get a bottle
of champagne. Miles had waved it away, awkward from the attention.

Jessica remembered being so amazed. So in awe. She’d asked all sorts of really serious technical questions, trying to prise out the answers in between Flo popping the champagne cork and sloshing it into glasses.

At the time it had never occurred to her why there had been a bottle of champagne in the fridge ready and waiting. Or why none of the others shared her amazement. She’d caught Dex rolling his eyes as he’d drained his glass.

She couldn’t understand it. Jessica had spent hours lying on Miles’s bed listening to him strumming on his guitar, soaking up all his chat about the venues he would one day play.

For a girl who had spent most of her life sitting in her bedroom alone listening to music she’d managed to borrow from friends at school, Miles was akin to suddenly waking up and finding herself living with a bona fide superstar. She was living in this flat where everything was allowed and no one was afraid. No one locked all the windows and the doors at half past nine. No one shouted. No one had even read the Bible. People touched, they snuggled, they kissed. It was the world in all its technicolour. And Miles was everything her mother warned her about. He was sullen. He sneered. He liked to lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling. He
liked to listen to obscure new music. He liked to do all of those things, with her. And in her naivety, Jessica had been certain Miles had what it took to be the next big thing.

The thought of it now actually made her have to stifle her own smile as she slid the tray of coffees onto the table, the sharp, bitter tang twining like smoke with the sunshine scent of the lemon groves.

She’d never laughed at anything that involved the two of them before and it was quite liberating.

Miles opened one eye. ‘Thanks, Jessica,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ she replied, taking her mug and going to sit in one of the chairs furthest away from him on the opposite side of the table, snatching up a couple of biscotti before Dex demolished them all.

Jessica had been no match for Flo. She was tall and confident, spoke exactly what was in her head, she was funny and charming with hair the colour of ebony and an innate cool that came from growing up in New York with music industry parents. She knew all of Miles’s adored bands and then some—she’d met them, she’d smoked cigarettes with them on the tour bus, she’d danced at their house parties. Did she like their music? Sure, why not … The thing was, Flo liked everything. She knew about everything. She could lounge on the sofa playing PlayStation wearing cashmere and hundred-dollar foundation as coolly and comfortably as she could fly out of the door in a gifted designer dress
to the BAFTAs because her dad was in town and had got her a ticket.

And the thing about Flo was she got what she wanted, whenever she wanted it. And her sights, at that time, were set on bagging herself a British bad boy with razor sharp cheekbones and a tortured soul.

It had transpired that the record exec who’d called was a friend of Flo’s dad and the meeting had never gone any further. But it was enough to start the ball rolling between the two of them.

And gradually Miles’s soul became less tortured as he adapted to Flo’s lifestyle.

The business class flights back to New York, the backstage passes, the Ralph Lauren clothes, and the job at the record label. All while Jessica watched from the sidelines unable to get in.