Miss Cecily's Recipes for Exceptional Ladies, page 1
Also By Vicky Zimmerman, Writing As Stella Newman
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Seven Steps to Happiness
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Vicky Zimmerman
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Alexandra Allden
Cover image © Biscuit by Biscuiteers Ltd.
Cover photography by Johnny Ring
Title type created by Morgan Beck, Julie A. Felton/Shutterstock, nattha99/Shutterstock
Internal design by Danielle McNaughton
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Originally published as The Woman Who Wanted More in 2019 in the United Kingdom by Zaffre, an imprint of Bonnier Books UK.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Zimmerman, Vicky, author.
Title: Miss Cecily’s recipes for exceptional ladies / Vicky Zimmerman.
Other titles: Woman who wanted more
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2020] | Originally published as The Woman Who Wanted More in 2019 in the United Kingdom by Zaffre, an imprint of Bonnier Books UK.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019032994 | (trade paperback)
Classification: LCC PR6126.I55 W66 2020 | DDC 823/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032994
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Part Two
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Part Three
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Part Four
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Part Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
In loving memory of Matt Janes, an exceptional friend
Prologue
Cecily Finn is ninety-seven-and-a-half years old. Her hair is as stiff and bright as a firmly beaten egg white, and her dark eyes hold the look of a permanently unimpressed owl. She claims that all she wants is death—because boredom and institutional fish pie are worse than dying—but Cecily has endured far greater horrors than overcooked haddock.
Over the many weeks Kate Parker has been coming to visit her at Lauderdale House for Exceptional Ladies, Cecily has shared a smorgasbord of tales of love and rebellion, triumphs and travels. Kate used to wonder about embellishments, fabrications, memories warped by time—but not anymore. Cecily’s mind and tongue are sharp as lime juice on an ulcer.
Cecily often tries to pass off Shakespeare quotes as her own. She talks in metaphors that take an age to decode. Nothing’s ever good enough for her: no cracker crisp enough, no custard set right. She never holds back, and if there’s a choice between bitter and sweet, she’ll take bitter every time. Still, Cecily has taught Kate several valuable lessons—not least the perfect menu for what Kate craves most in the world.
Kate turns forty today. Last night she cooked for friends—the meal was delicious, everyone had fun—and tonight she’ll be celebrating with Nick, gentle, handsome Nick. He’s taking her to an amazing restaurant, and if there’s one thing Cecily and Kate can agree on, it’s that good food matters. In a few weeks’ time, Kate and Nick will move in together—it is happening—and all the doubts Cecily has scattered in Kate’s mind will be brushed away like black pepper spilled on a pristine tablecloth. Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re always right about everything. There are many ways to find happiness in this world, to beat loneliness, to live well.
So why does Kate feel, as she stands outside Cecily’s door, that in spite of all the barbs and bristle that come with the package, Cecily is the one person who can help rid her of this gnawing ache that’s lodged itself deep in the pit of her stomach? That if she doesn’t speak to Cecily right now she might lose herself completely?
Kate takes a deep breath and knocks on the door, waiting for that familiar haughty voice to tell her to come in.
Come in.
Part One
Hunger is never delicate.
—Samuel Johnson
One
Five months earlier…
Kate Parker is ravenous. She sits on a deck chair in Nick Sullivan’s tiny patch of North London garden, gazing contentedly at his back as he stands by the barbecue. The smell of grilled meat is making her stomach audibly rumble, but there’s no point hurrying him. This man does things in his own sweet time.
Dinner’s a prime example. Tonight it’s taken forty minutes, but in real terms it’s taken a whole year. Nick embarked on Project Burger last July. Nick’s a database engineer (Kate still can’t explain fully what that means), and he’s applied his intellectual rigor and ceaseless enthusiasm to honing every element of the American classic. Kate’s never seen a face light up the way Nick’s had the night he mastered the Order of the Seven Layers.
He was a solitary eater before they started dating, relying on takeout and the occasional chili. Kate had been saddened by the loneliness this seemed to imply, and the missed culinary opportunities. She’d offered to teach him some favorite recipes, he’d accepted, and over the last eighteen months he has emerged from his culinary shell—slowly at first but with increasing confidence. Kate isn’t the greatest cook, but her mother, Rita, is such a dire one that Kate learned to fend for her stomach from an early age.
Kate loves cooking with Nick and has watched him flourish with gentle pride. Normally, she chooses the recipe, he the music, and whatever they’re cooking, they both agree: the more butter used the better. They have compatible styles—he’s hardworking and patient and can chop a dozen onions without making the slightest fuss about eyes watering or hands smelling; she’s more chaotic but can juggle multiple tasks, and although he’s smarter, she’s always two steps ahead. Nothing’s ever burned on her watch.
It’s a beautiful summer’s evening, the warm breeze scented with jasmine, the sky only now fading from blue, and Kate savors a moment of sheer happiness. She closes her eyes and thinks about tomorrow. It’s been a long time since she’s been in a relationship where she’s felt relaxed enough to think about tomorrow. Tomorrow, Nick will wake up early and pop out to buy the ingredients for breakfast burritos. They’ll cook together, go for a walk, and in the afternoon, if the weather stays fine, they’ll sit back out here, Kate devouring a novel, Nick reading one of his incomprehensible coding books. Their life is not lavish but it’s full of priceless treats: lemonade poured into glasses he keeps in the freezer for extra coldness; box sets and BLTs on rainy Wednesday nights; elaborately competitive games of cards, with M&Ms used for gambling chips.
When she opens her eyes, Nick has turned to give her the Mustard, now! look—one brow raised in mock severity. She springs up with a smile and hands him the French’s Classic like a scalpel to a surgeon, watching intently as he traces parallel lines of acid yellow onto the meat, the finishing touch.
This burger has taken time, but it’s worth the wait: six ounces of minced steak, crowned with bacon and a perfect square of melting, tangy cheddar; delicate concentric bangles of red onion, tomato, and lettuce; and Magic Sauce—a mixture of Tabasco, mayo, and ketchup, to add heat, creaminess, and tang. Then the bun: Kate and Nick have spent more time researching this bun than some couples spend choosing a car.
Initially, Nick inquired whether the buns they sold at Fletchers, the supermarket chain where Kate works, were any good. She’d laughed a mournful response. Fletchers’s buns were cheap but flavorless and papery, and though they claimed to be brioche, on the back of the pack was the ominous phrase brioche style. After much trial and error, they’d found perfection at a bakery near Kate’s flat in Kilburn. And the final ingredient—one sour dill pickle for added crunch.
Kate is not religious, but looking down at her plate makes her want to say grace: thank you, Universe, for this man who has a lovely flat with a reasonably clean bathroom; who has restored my faith, after several years of late-thirtysomething dating starvation, that there are kind, clever, decent men in London. Thank you for a man who puts so much effort into making my dinner, into making me happy.
She picks up her burger—oh, such heft—and holds on for dear life. Once in motion there’s no stopping—hesitate or show fear, and it’ll fall apart in every direction. Nick looks at her tenderly. It’s impossible not to love him. Not only does he cook her spaghetti with meatballs if she’s having a bad day, but she can eat them with full abandon and he won’t judge her as greedy or unfeminine. He relishes her appetite almost as much as she does.
Sated after their last bites, Kate reaches to wipe a smudge of mustard from the faint stubble on Nick’s jaw. He has such a sweet face, handsome in an unassuming way, a button nose that enhances his boyishness. His brown, curly hair is thinning, but the short cut suits him well. That old blue Atari T-shirt makes his eyes even greener, and when their eyes meet, he flashes her that smile of his that rarely falters, no matter what’s thrown at him. She’s so impressed with how he’s handled these last three months of unemployment; his optimism is extraordinary.
“Not long now till France!” says Kate, moving to clear away the plates.
“I can’t wait—think of all the baguettes,” says Nick, his eyes lighting up. “Are you positive Kavita doesn’t want any money for letting us use her holiday house?”
“She had a fit when I even suggested it.” Kate hasn’t told Nick she’s bought Kavita a case of good wine as a thank-you. He’d offer to pay half even though he’s broke, and the thought of embarrassing him when he’s always so generous is intolerable.
* * *
“That was a perfect dinner,” says Kate as they stand contentedly at the sink, washing up. “Those were particularly fine burger accoutrements.”
“Burger Accoutrements…one for our list?” he says. It’s one of their running jokes—ridiculous names for their future children.
“Burger Accoutrements Parker-Sullivan? Fine, but you can pick him up from the school playground when the other kids beat him up.”
“If we have twins, please can we call the other one Pickleholic?”
“I’m not sure a pickle addiction is a sound aspiration for our firstborn,” says Kate, laughing. She gazes at him standing there in his T-shirt and Levi’s, with his forty-four-year-old burger-lover’s slight potbelly, and feels a sudden throb of love so intense it makes her heart hurt. He catches her look and returns it with a smile, suddenly self-conscious. He pauses, then reaches for the spatula she’s washing. “You’ve got a wider one of these at home, right?”
“Yup,” she says, reaching for it as he moves it slightly out of reach.
“We need yours here—for the barbecue.”
“I’ll pick you one up from Tesco during the week.”
“Kate,” he says, putting down the spatula as he turns to face her. “I think we need all your utensils here.”
“All of them?”
He nods decisively.
“Why?”
“And your clothes. And shoes,” he says, tenderly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “And your three hundred cookbooks and seven million novels…”
“Two hundred at most,” she says, struggling to contain the burst of joy blossoming in her chest.
“Oh, and one other very important thing that Tesco doesn’t sell.”
“Which is what?”
“Which is you, Kate, you,” he says, his smile as big as the world.
Thank you, Universe, thank you. Finally: a man she loves who loves her too. He’s been worth the wait.
* * *
The following night, Kate stretches out in her bed, her normal Sunday-night blues replaced by excitement. She and Nick are off to France in two weeks. She’ll move into Nick’s the weekend they return.
She’d been anxious about breaking the news to her flatmate, but then the thought of never again having to clean Melanie’s fish fat from the splashback had given Kate a surge of courage. Nick has his flaws, but passive-aggressive, slovenly, and light-fingered with other people’s special-occasions-only olive oil are not among them.
Melanie had been surprisingly encouraging and had even suggested Kate start moving her stuff before France. Their conversation had gone far better than Kate had anticipated.
It’s always the things you worry about most that turn out fine.
And vice versa.
Two
Kate fastens her seat belt and turns to Nick, who is already engrossed in the Listener, a cryptic crossword so fiendishly difficult it makes Kate’s brain ache. Week in, week out, Nick sits absorbed for hours, chip-chipping away. He’s obsessed. If he ever reveals a kinky side, she suspects he’ll make her dress up as a complex puzzle.
“Four solved already,” he says, holding it out to her proudly. She glances at the grid and shakes her head: How on earth does that word fit that clue?
She settles back in her seat and closes her eyes, tired from a 3:00 a.m. alarm but excited. This will be their first proper holiday together, and if she’s honest with herself—which sometimes she isn’t—she’d have liked to go somewhere with Nick before now. There are legitimate reasons why it’s taken eighteen months to get Nick on this plane. Until he lost his job in April he was a workaholic, often choosing to work weekends (so not Kate’s style). Then recently he’s had no income. And finally, Nick is s-l-o-w moving. She’s analyzed this a lot, and her mother, Rita, has put in her two pennies’ worth too: “children of dysfunctional parents always need to feel in control.” Well, who doesn’t?
Nick had entered into their relationship so cautiously that it had triggered Kate’s commitment-phobe alarm after one month, so she’d asked him straight out: What do you want? He’d told her he didn’t know how to do relationships; he’d only had a short one in his twenties and another failed interlude in his thirties. A tiny red flag had waved in Kate’s head, so she’d offered him an out before anyone (anyone named Kate) got hurt. He’d looked at her for so long she’d blushed, then he’d held her tight and said, “I want this. I want you.”
From then on, they’d gone for it, albeit at a measured pace—one bite, one meal, one day at a time. In the last few months she’s felt him move ever closer. Even so, the moment the offer of cohabitation was on the table, Kate had felt a pressing need to take something significant and heavy around to his flat as a precautionary measure: a couple of boxes of cookbooks and her hardback copy of The Goldfinch had done the trick.
