Best Served Cold, page 16
‘I’m Mary Southerland, and I was pleasantly surprised by your work in the show. This is Mr Baker and Mr Stratoni.’ She nodded left and right. ‘Please?’ She indicated the portfolio. I supposed if she’d been ‘unpleasantly’ surprised, I wouldn’t be here.
Heaving it onto the table, I opened it and let them finger their way through it. They made noises, and I wasn’t sure if they were approving sounds or negative ones. There seemed to be a lot more sucking of the teeth. I was hard-pressed to stop fidgeting.
‘Can you give us a moment, please, Lily?’
I stood outside the office, trying to hear what was being said but not wanting to appear to be eavesdropping. The door sprang open, and Mr Baker ushered me back in.
Mary indicated a chair. ‘We have a new writer, Johnathan Elliot, who has recently joined the company, and we believe your illustration style would fit perfectly with his work. We would like to offer you a contract to illustrate his first book, with the proviso you continue to work with him for future books.’
Mary gazed at me expectantly, but I’m sure my chin was on the floor.
‘How does that sound to you, Lily?’ Tilting her head to one side, she reminded me of a small bird. She also didn’t appear to blink.
‘That sounds perfect,’ I managed to croak.
‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘We shall introduce you to Johnathan, and if we all agree, we shall draw up a contract.’
A contract? Had I been asked to illustrate a book? A whole book?
‘You can either drop it back to us signed or sign it at home and send us a scanned copy. Please ensure you read every sentence on the contract. There should be no nasty surprises, yet it’s astonishing how many people sign on the dotted line without reading it first.’
‘Thanks. I will.’ We shook hands, and I left, my legs now jelly. I had to clutch at the railing in the lift. I couldn’t phone Harry and Alice fast enough.
‘A real, proper book? I’ll get the champers in,’ said Harry. ‘I think we’ve been upgraded.’
I was beyond ecstatic the day when Mary offered me that illustration job. And every day since, I am grateful to be so lucky my day job is the thing I love to do more than anything in the world. But I’m scared of losing it, worried that one small trip up and it all might come crashing down. A fragile House of Cards. I now don’t like change. Anything that might wobble my status-quo. Is that what the problem is with Rose? That I’m not up for sharing my closeness with Alice instead of being happy that we have another wonderful friend? I used to think I was an open book, although now I’m not sure. And the incident with the wine glass stain has left me disorientated. I’m looking for someone else to blame, but maybe that should start at home? Have I done this to myself somehow?
Chapter Sixteen
SATURDAY, 19 DECEMBER – WHAT IS MY REALITY?
I’ve been in bed for a couple of hours, although sleep is eluding me, and no number of sheep can fix it. There is a sound that is remarkably like the door to my roof terrace being clicked shut. My hair stands on end, and, for a moment I freeze, unable to move. What the hell? Maybe that second gin wasn’t such a good idea now. My head is thick and fuzzy, and I’m sure there’s a dead vole in my mouth.
I drag on a sweater hanging over the chair in the bedroom and slink down the hall. Everything appears normal. The key is hanging off the nail where it always is. It’s not moving. My hands are shaking as I unlock and open the door. Flicking the hall light switch, the terrace is illuminated. There is no one – no shadows, no fleeing figures. I tiptoe outside and hang over the rail to peer into my neighbour’s gardens. Still nothing. The roof is shined with a heavy frost, and ice crystals crunch between my toes. They are going numb.
So, I must have either imagined it or misheard something and interpreted it as my back door. I let my breath trickle out of me. Wow! I seem to have a surge of adrenalin, as my heart is thumping. The thought of another person, a stranger in my house, uninvited, makes me feel nauseous. But it’s okay. There was no one in here. I close the door and lock it again. I’ll buy a bolt, just to make sure.
Then I have a thought. Hands shaking, I re-open the door and creep out. Yes, I can see the imprints of my feet, the toes prominent as I was on tiptoe. Can I see anything that shouldn’t be there? The breath freezes in my throat. Scuff marks go down the side of the fence. I peer closer. There aren’t any discernible footprints, but I can’t rule it out. If I can climb up to here from the garden below, anyone can. A couple of cats caterwaul in the neighbour’s veg patch, and I jump as if I’ve been poked with a cattle prod. I clutch at my chest. Again, I bend down and follow the marks. There are cat paw prints all over, so that must be it. I can feel I’m shaking, and it’s not only due to the cold, even though I’m only wearing a T-shirt and knickers under the sweater. I know the cats have often used my terrace to fight over territory or potential mates. I will accept this, and now I must forget about it because the alternative is too horrible to contemplate.
I scuttle back to my bedroom and pull the duvet over my head. The early dawn light comes gradually through my gauzy curtains. I’ve had one of those nights where you’re not quite asleep and wake feeling as though you haven’t slept at all. Although I know I have slept because I can recall snippets of fevered dreams.
Oh, God! Jack will be here in a few hours. Why on earth did I invite Alice and Rose over the day before seeing Jack? I should have known we’d all drink too much. It’s no good trying to get back to sleep. I will probably miss my alarm or wake up with a thumping headache. Hauling on leggings, I make a coffee and have toast and marmite. If Jack is one of those people who doesn’t like marmite, he can bloody well sod off… Oh dear. I think this must be the stress radiating out from last night. I haven’t forgotten it, merely shoved it underground, where it rises in bouts of biliousness and bad temper.
A hot shower and fixing my face for the day make me feel marginally better. I do appear tired, though, and no amount of foundation can change that. Do I tell him what I feared? Or wait until he asks why I look so knackered? Or shrug it off, as he might put me down as neurotic and unstable? Should I tell Alice? Though what, exactly, would I tell her?
It’s not as if I’m watching the clock or anything, but when I hear the downstairs buzzer go, I hurtle down to open the door. Jack has his hands behind his back and a sly smile.
‘Happy nearly Christmas,’ he shouts, whipping out a big bouquet of flowers. They are my colours, pinks and oranges, purples and lilacs.
‘Oh, Jack! They are gorgeous!’ I rise on tiptoes and kiss his cheek. He pulls me close, gathers me into his arms and kisses me deeply. It’s warm and slow and very sensual. Then an icy blast of air whistles past us.
‘Sorry,’ he calls gaily. ‘Too cold for this here.’ Hooking the door with his foot, it slams behind him. He has his holdall in his other hand.
‘Come on in, then.’ I grab his hand, and we race up the stairs. He rips off his coat and hangs it up, kicking the holdall down the side of the sofa.
‘Oh, wow!’ He nods around the room. ‘This all looks great. Very Christmassy.’
‘I tried, although I’m not really a Christmassy person. I’ll get a vase for these.’ The only thing I can find that will fit them is a large green glass juice jug. It’s the one I use for the roses, so part of me doesn’t want to use it, but it’s all I have. They look beautiful, but as I place it on the table, Jack grabs me, and I nearly upend the whole lot onto the floor.
‘I’ve been waiting all week for this.’ He nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m so sorry I had to rush off last Sunday. Trust me, it won’t happen again. I kind of messed up my own idiom there, didn’t I?’
I look up into his face.
‘I said I worked to live, not lived to work.’
‘Yes, you did. I had all sorts of plans for us, though I guess we’ll just have to do them this weekend instead?’
‘Hmm, fancy a little…?’ He glances towards the bedroom.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ I flutter my eyelashes, glad I’ve put the central heating on early.
Practice makes perfect. There’s less clashing of teeth, and bumping of knees, and elbows in the ribs, so we must be doing something right. Lying in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, I lightly trace my fingers across his chest. The sky is still a pewter grey, edged with a soft yellow. The colours of impending snow? I hope so.
Jack stirs. ‘I know you had plans I ruined last week, so what have you got lined up for us this week?’ He turns his head, and our noses touch.
‘I have lots of plans. It’s what I do. How about something simple to start with? A walk along the beach?’
‘That sounds great.’
‘I hope you have your winter warmers with you. It can get pretty chilly down there.’
‘After I forgot my gloves last week, I’ve brought a stack of woolly things with me. Not going to get caught out again.’
We dress, glancing shyly at each other. I find my gloves and scarf, and he does his coat up to the neck and rummages for a beanie-style hat. As we head out, something cold and wet is on my cheek, a tiny, icy kiss. Light snowflakes are swirling around us, and even though traffic is crawling past us, there’s a silence you only get with falling snow. It doesn’t take us long to get to the beach. The pebbles are limned in frost and glisten. I must be careful not to slip and fall over. The waves rolling in are practically the same hue as the sky, though the sounds are soft and muffled.
‘How beautiful is this?’ I breathe in, filling my lungs to capacity before I let the air whoosh out. ‘Aren’t negative ions good for your mental state?’
‘Isn’t your mental state good right now? Mine is. And, yes, you are beautiful.’ He pulls me to him, and we kiss, unaware of anyone else around us. Not that there are many people about by now. The snow is thicker, and vision is limited as the beach disappears into a white haze.
‘My mental state is brilliant, thanks.’ I grin up at him. ‘But I think my bodily state is pretty cold.’
‘No kidding,’ he laughs.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ I link arms with him. ‘There’s a cute little café up ahead.’
‘Can you find it in all this? I can barely see my hand in front of my face.’
‘Well, if we get wet feet, we’re heading in the wrong direction.’ I shouldn’t joke, as visibility is low now. The wind is behind us, making it slightly more manageable, though it takes us time to find the main path, and then the café lit up with all its Christmas fairy lights. Pushing through the door, we shake ourselves like wet dogs on the mat. There’s one other couple in there, who glance up as we fall in but then return to their conversation. We choose a small round table at the far end.
‘What a cute place,’ says Jack.
It is painted Brighton colours, all the sea greens and turquoises, the candy floss pinks and burning oranges. The furniture and artwork on the wall are mismatched, which is probably why I like it here. I spot a domed glass jar of chocolate muffins the size of hamsters.
‘What can I get you?’ An elderly lady, in a crisp green apron, with round pink cheeks and rosebud lips, is standing with a little pad and a pencil.
‘I’ll have a cappuccino and one of those chocolate muffins.’ I point.
Jack looks across at the counter. ‘Are they homemade?’
‘Absolutely, dear,’ says the waitress. ‘Everything in here is. No shop-bought in our establishment, I can assure you.’
‘Then I’ll have the same.’
‘Coming right up.’ She ambles off.
How nice it is to be far from the hustle and bustle of the city, with the snow falling steadily outside.
‘You have to be prepared,’ said Jack, ‘that our wonderful British Rail might stop dead in its tracks because of this… Literally, I mean. You know what the trains are like here.’
‘That’s fine by me. I have enough food to feed the five thousand at home, and you’re welcome to stay.’
‘Good to know.’ The cups of coffee and muffins are placed on the table. ‘These are seriously yummy muffins.’ Jack licks his fingers.
‘Listen, I think strolling along the beach might be off the list now, but I was hoping to impress you with my culinary prowess tonight and cook you a meal? Are you up for that?’
‘You can cook? I love anyone who can cook, as I’m particularly rubbish at it.’
Ah! Then that’s one question answered.
‘I kind of fell into it gradually.’ This isn’t the time to say I cooked with Harry, that he guided and taught me. My repertoire went from tomato soup with cheese in it and a side of bread roll (as Alice would say, that was on a good day) to authentic Chinese, Indian and Moroccan dishes using all the correct ingredients sourced from the local supermarkets. It had been a magical time for me. Something we shared and valued. Bastard! Oh no! Please stop thinking about Harry!
There’s another sharp tinkling sound, and two men pile through the door. ‘Good grief,’ one of them says. ‘It’s cold out there.’
‘I hope they’ve got hot chocolate,’ says the other.
‘Can I recommend the chocolate muffins?’ I call across the space. ‘They are out of this world.’
‘Got to have one of those, then. It feels like a chocolate day all around.’
Jack and I finish our coffee and cakes.
‘Is it letting up yet?’ Jack walks to the main window and peers through. ‘Looks like a scene from Scott of the Antarctic!’
‘Should we stay here and have lunch, or do you want to brave it now?’
Jack turns to the people in the café. ‘Sorry, has anyone got a correct weather forecast?’
The man with the chocolate muffin looks at his phone. ‘It says it’s snowing.’
‘Wow!’ I laugh. ‘So accurate, it’s uncanny!’
‘It also says it will be heavy for about the next hour and then ease off.’
‘Lunch it is then.’
‘I concur,’ says the man. ‘Menus for everyone.’
Glancing up and down the menu, I choose a lamb hotpot with a side of green beans. Jack has two eggs and chips.
‘No one can mess with egg and chips,’ he says, with a knowing wink. ‘Not that I’m saying anything here. I do love eggs and chips.’
Not sure what he’s alluding to, I raise an eyebrow.
‘My gran used to work in catering, and she would only ever eat egg and chips when out. She said all sorts of vile things happen in the kitchens. Things that would make your hair go curly… or fall out.’
‘Yuck!’ I look over at the counter. ‘Maybe I should change my order?’
‘Nah. You’re fine in a place like this. I’m sure they’d give us a tour of their kitchen if we asked.’
‘I’d like that.’
The food is piping hot and delicious when placed in front of us. ‘Maybe I don’t need to cook tonight, after all?’
‘No, I’m sure we’ll be hungry again soon. Especially if we get lost in the snow for hours.’
I see the snow easing off as we finish, so we might make it home safely. After paying, we thank the elderly waitress and wish her a ‘Happy Christmas’, and then, hauling on coats and scarves again, we brave the outside. The seascape has changed dramatically. Snow carpets the beach and softens hard outlines as if the whole place has had a soft, white blanket tossed over it. Only a few stubborn flakes are falling out of a metal-hued sky.
I skid on the pavement. Jack catches me. ‘We should take it slowly, as we don’t want to break a leg or ankle just before Christmas.’
I stop and face the sea. The salt wind caresses my cheek. ‘You know, most people want to be buried when they die, but I think I’d find that claustrophobic.’ I shiver. ‘To be surrounded by so much darkness and mud.’
‘Er, I think by then, you wouldn’t be bothered?’
‘Maybe?’ I shrug. ‘Maybe not.’
‘So, cremation? And this is a weird conversation but do go on.’
‘No. Not cremation, although that’s pretty final.’ I nod out. ‘I’d like to be dropped into the middle of the sea and sink slowly down, to see the light fade through the water, and maybe at the bottom, I’d still be able to see the sun and moon come up. See their light above me.’
I turn to see Jack gazing across the water. There’s a strange expression on his face.
‘Have I freaked you out?’
‘Not at all. I found it interesting. You should write a story like that. A fairy tale.’
‘I’ve probably read too many mermaid books for my own good.’ I laugh. ‘As to writing my own story, maybe one day. Come on. Back to reality.’
Inching our way up a slope by gripping the icy rail, huddled together, we walk back past the Old Steine Gardens, now a winter wonderland. On past The Level, now silent of skateboards and shouting kids, until we are opening my front door. The central heating has been chuffing away since we left, and the wall of heat is a shock after the temperature outside. Stripping off coats and sweaters, we fall in a heap on the sofa.
‘I fancy a glass of wine.’ Jack gets up and retrieves a bottle from his holdall. An image of a wine glass stain leaps into my mind. ‘Want one?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer and heads into the kitchen to find the opener. He returns with two glasses and the opened bottle.
‘Not much time to breathe but never mind!’ He pours two glasses carefully. ‘Thanks for today. It’s been great.’
‘My pleasure.’ I accept the glass and take a sip. ‘Nice. What is it?’
‘A Rioja. I like my wines a bit rough and slightly oaky. I thought you’d like it too.’ He rubs his shoulder as he sits next to me.
‘Your old war wound?’
‘Yep.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘So, I know you like Adele, but what other stuff?’
‘I’ll surprise you.’ I go to the shelving units on the wall, switch on a tiny Anker speaker that has twice the power of similar bigger products and sift through my iPod. ‘Ah, here we go.’ I scroll around until I find a JohnOOFleming album. ‘This is an artist recommended by my sister Sophie. I don’t know who got her into it, but this guy makes great ambient dance music. He’s been going for years, and his stuff is brilliant.’
