decisions at business, running the city, organizing the country, designing buildings, ministering law, order, justice and peace) so that he could cruise the aisles without incident or irritation. Deftly he swooped and plucked and picked as he breezed along. Under his expertise, his trolley behaved impeccably. Gone were those forever-spinning wheels; it became some kind of miniature hovercraft. Such was his skill and grace at handling corners, the elegant stops and effortless starts, the two of them became the Torvill and Dean of Sainsbury’s. Packed to perfection – frozen goods in one bag, bottles, tins and tubes in a box, fresh produce in another bag – Richard headed home.
It never occurred to him that Married Man is the beast he is because he thinks not only for himself. He has responsibilities to others. Commitment. After all, Richard has had fifteen years to bring his shopping – content and technique – to a fine art for he has bought and thought only for himself. He has been his own man. And nobody else’s.
The few special ingredients, those which would make his meal for Sally a veritable and memorable feast, were brought from Gambini’s, the specialist Italian delicatessen that was, by a useful turn of Fate, Richard’s corner shop. Now here was a place he would browse and deliberate at leisure. Pappardelle or Orecchiette or Gigli del Gargano? Ciabatta or Focaccia? Stuffed olives or those marinating happily in thyme-flavoured cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil? The shop was cramped, the smell almost overpowering as cheese mingled with salami and olives jostled for olfactory recognition against garlic-drenched sauces. From floor to ceiling, the Gambinis had packed the shelves tight with the necessities for maintaining Italian culinary standards in England. All the regions of Italy were represented under this one roof in Notting Hill. From Umbria, Tuscany, Sicily and Pugilia was extra virgin olive oil spanning the spectrum from pale gold to deep khaki. Small pots of Pesto Genovese rubbed shoulders with little jars of capers from Lipari. Jams of wild chestnut and wild fig jostled for space next to jars of chocolate hazelnut cream, and packets of Cantucci biscuits were balanced precariously against a tower of boxed Panforte.
Richard was caught, quite compliantly, in the Gambinis’ web of luxury and tantalizing variety. When it came to vinegar there was Chianti, Balsamic, peach or plum to choose from. Impossibly fat olives vied for attention, gleaming up at him from their bowls of marinades. Although the porcini secchi seemed somewhat ordinaire next to dry morels from Tibet and Fairy Ring Champignons, Richard bought some anyway and Sardinian Saffron proved to be a must-have, despite its imaginative price tag (in fact, because of its price tag).
Signora Gambini, known to the select few (Richard amongst them) as Rosa, watched as he smelt, felt and tasted his way through her wares. His shopping list was at once forgotten as his eyes, nose and mouth traversed the shop. His eyes lingered over the chargrilled baby onions in olive oil, the wild mountain goat pâté and the grilled polenta but his nose pulled him away and positioned him in front of the cheeses where the Taleggio, with its peach rind striated with powder grey, solicited him uncompromisingly. The Torta al Limone proved even harder to resist, glinting up at him wickedly with its creamy golden heart dusted delightfully with icing sugar, the whole encased by crisp, caramel-coloured pastry.
‘Someone special for dinner, Signor?’ cooed Rosa. ‘I give to you my special menu, guaranteed to win her heart. With it, I captured Germano and for forty-three years he is with me.’
Rosa was a clever lady. Her suggestions, made shyly, were each concluded with a question mark. Consequently, Richard bought exactly what she planned he should, but believed himself to have conceived the entire selection. With his wallet pleasurably empty and his bags satisfyingly full, he bade Rosa farewell and promised to tell her how the meal went. With plump arms folded triumphantly across a magnificent bosom encased by straining floral polyester, she sent him on his way with a ‘Ciao’ and a conspiratorial wink.
Back at his flat, Richard took the shopping into the kitchen, simultaneously undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He draped his tie (Hermès) around the bedroom door handle, his shirt (Thomas Pink) he bundled into the washing machine from whose drum stared the crumpled faces of four other white, worn-once shirts (Turbull & Asser, Hilditch & Key, Hawes & Curtis, Lewin). His suit (Hugo Boss) was given a good shake, placed over a thick wooden hanger and hung in the far left section of the wardrobe where it joined a regiment of other finely tailored suits (David Rose, Yves Saint Laurent, Armani – Giorgio, not Emporio). Socks (Ralph Lauren – we already know that) and boxer shorts (Calvin Klein – we would have guessed) were put in the laundry basket (Richard never mixes his washes). Shoes (Church’s?) (Yes) were shoe-treed and placed at the foot of the cupboard. They will of course be polished before they are next worn.
Naked, Richard was heading for the shower when he stopped and philosophized. No, cook first, then clean, then shower.
He jumped into jogging pants and a faded polo shirt (both Timberland) and selected the music for the afternoon’s industry. He’d cook to Mendelssohn’s Italian, he’d clean to the Scottish, then relax and await Sally with Brahms. Più animato, Richard joined the strings of the first movement and skittered around his kitchen, gathering utensils and food stuffs and placing them in rational order according to the menu.
Richard, you could have been a Michelin-starred chef. Just look at you with your Sabatiers, how fast you chop, so evenly and accurately. Why don’t the onions make your eyes water, why do you not subconsciously lick a finger and find it coated with garlic? How can you cook so exquisitely without using every utensil in your kitchen? Why is there no mess on the floor? You remember to preheat the oven, you wash up as you go, you do not splash tomato juice on your shirt, no bits of parsley wedge themselves under your nails. There really is no need for you to wear an apron but you look dinky in one anyway. All is cooked to perfection, you needn’t taste it but you do, with a special spoon for the very purpose because you wouldn’t dream of using the spoon with which you stirred the sauce (à la Marco Pierre White) and with which you were compelled to conduct the fourth movement saltarello. Talking of salt, you even know intuitively what constitutes a definitive pinch.
Finito.
The perfect four hours left for the flavours to mellow and the pungent fumes in the kitchen to subside into provocative wafts.
On with the second task. Cleaning. No Shake ’n’ Vac short cuts for Richard. He glides around the sitting-room, eyes constantly searching out invisible dust, ears tuned to the oboe, serene above the crowded strings of the opening of the Scottish Symphony. Dust first, plump the cushions, straighten the tulips. Hoover. Spick and span.
Bedroom. Change the sheets, open the window. Hoover. Next.
Bathroom. Clean the bath, the sink; disinfect the toilet, change the pot pourri; wash the tiles and the mirror, rinse well. Buff up. Hoover. Done. Next?
Body. ‘Go running’ is next on the Stonehill Schedule. Put on Nikes, put the wine in the fridge, look once round the flat, feel pleased, proud and at ease. Off you go.
Richard’s daily run took him four miles and twenty-six minutes. Usually he thought of nothing, and thinking of nothing ensured he was relaxed and psychologically out of the office by the time he returned. Today, however, his mind was running faster than his feet.
Say she doesn’t turn up? Say she’s a vegetarian? Say my mother rings? Say Bob and Catherine pop round? Shit, did I turn the gas off? Have I got any condoms at home? Shall I buy Beaumes de Venise too? Yes, definitely. But I’d better buy that now so it can chill thoroughly. Wait, work this through. Get home, check condoms … no, check gas first. Then condoms. Shower? No, buy the pudding wine, then shower, then phone Mother. Other way round. Let’s just get home.
Sprint, Richard, sprint!
Home,
