all this… stuff. Where’s it all supposed to go?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ June says. ‘Would it make you feel better to yell at her grave? I’d go with you, so at least we’d both look deranged.’
That’s a true friend. We both laugh at the idea. It feels good.
She glances at her phone as it vibrates on the table. ‘Please tell me you’re seeing Callum soon,’ I say. I can tell by her smile that it’s his text. ‘When are you going to stop torturing the poor bloke?’
She giggles. ‘Believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts him. I’d jump on him every second of every day if I could.’
‘You can,’ I remind her. ‘Speaking as someone who hasn’t done any jumping in ages, why wouldn’t you?’
It’s a rhetorical question. We’ve been over June’s entire strategy a million times, but I let her tell me anyway. ‘Because the more I keep him at arm’s-length, the keener he seems to be. I can’t suddenly throw myself at him now. He’d run a mile.’
‘But June, don’t you want someone who throws himself back at you when you do that? If he’s only interested because you’re acting like you don’t care, then that’s not an honest relationship. Don’t look at me like that,’ I say at her hurt expression. ‘I’m not saying that’s why he likes you. I’m saying he’d probably be insanely nuts about you anyway so you don’t have to pretend. Then again, I’m the last person who should be giving you relationship advice.’
‘It does no good to keep beating yourself up, you know,’ she says. ‘You made one error in judgment. Nick’s not holding a grudge, so you shouldn’t, either.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I mean a grudge against yourself, and you are. Let it go. You’re just as close as you ever were and I’m sure he doesn’t even think about it now.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sure he does still think about it and it wasn’t an error in judgment. It was a massive foul-up.’
‘What about dinner, two courses only, in a public place,’ Davey says. ‘And since you’re one of those feminists, I’ll even let you pay.’
Anyone who objects to sexual harassment is ‘one of those feminists’, in Davey’s mind. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. ‘Sorry, no.’
‘Okay, I’ll pay, and we’ll skip starters. Main course only and you can pick the restaurant.’ He punctuates his proposal with a head-shimmy chest-rub combo.
His Morrison’s green uniform doesn’t look horrible on him, but he must know it’s not his best look. I’ve got to give him credit for persevering with his seduction attempts every time he makes a delivery.
‘No.’
Especially when he always gets the same answer.
‘Drinks? One drink?’
‘Davey, don’t you have other deliveries to get on with?’ I don’t feel like humouring him today. I forgot to defrost the lamb last night and now I’ve got to come up with something else for lunch. We had quiche yesterday. The women went for second helpings, but I can’t do it two days in a row.
‘You’re a tough one, Phoebes, but I love a challenge.’
That must be why he never gives up. June is right. The more a woman plays hard to get, the more the bloke tries hard to get.
And I hate when he calls me Phoebes. ‘Davey, really. You’re wasting energy on something you don’t even really want.’ I tuck a lock of hair back into my ponytail, catching a whiff of minty shampoo as I do. It makes a nice change from the usual pina colada scent of my dry shampoo. ‘You should aim higher,’ I tell him. ‘There must be better options around.’ Davey deserves someone who’s actually interested in him.
‘Not in my delivery area,’ Davey says. ‘Besides, I don’t mind a fuller-figured woman,’ he says. ‘And you’re not bad-looking, Phoebes. You might look hot if you made any effort.’
‘Thanks, I think, but I’m happy with the effort I make.’ I might not look like I’ve stepped from the pages of a magazine, unless that magazine is Foodservice Equipment Monthly. But I’m generally tidy and mostly clean. It’s not my fault that beauty standards are over the top. Perhaps expectations should tone down instead of expecting us to step up. Not everyone wants false lashes and statement lipstick, or to be filled, plucked, tucked, straightened, glossed or buffed.
He stacks his plastic boxes to carry back to the truck. ‘Same time on Thursday?’
‘Yeah, thanks, Davey. See you later.’
I know. I’ll do pizza. I was going to use the basil for a pesto pasta, but I can roast some vegetables and use it with the goat’s cheese. Maybe toast some pine nuts. Though Sophie won’t like the carbs in the base and she’s already told me off twice this week. The butter in my home-made granola offended her and she hasn’t had enough purple in her diet.
The aubergines take just a minute to slice and throw into a roasting tray filled with cold salty water. She’ll probably kick off about that too, but it’s what makes them taste so good when they’re roasted. There’s your damn purple food, Sophie.
I quickly knock up a dough and set it in the old boiler cabinet to prove.
I love it when I get a few minutes like this to relax and think about what I want to cook next. That used to be my favourite part of my job at the bistro. I usually designed my menus on Monday, when we were closed. Sitting at the table in the window with my notebooks and all the old menus, I got to let my imagination run loose. What was in season? Was the brown crab in yet at the fishmonger, or the pheasant at the butcher? Did the apricots look good at Peter Pepper’s or were there English strawberries at the fruit stall? Sometimes I foraged in the countryside for wild herbs like sorrel for a sauce to use over mackerel, or mint or bay for home-made ice creams. There were always elderflowers in summer to make cordial, and velvety oyster mushrooms for my stir-fries.
I still forage when I’ve got time, but I’m a little more restricted now with the other ingredients. Everything has to come through Davey’s supermarket deliveries and the budget is a lot tighter. Max would lose his mind if I blew the week’s shopping budget on beautiful Brixham crabs in summer or the Gower salt marsh lamb in the autumn.
But I like that challenge too, to make the best dishes I can with what I’ve got.
June pops her head around the corner. ‘Max wants to see us.’
‘What, now?’ It’s 10 a.m. in the middle of the week. He’s supposed to be at work.
The home is a side business for Max. He followed his father into accountancy, for some firm down in Ipswich. That’s why he usually leaves us alone, except on Saturdays, when he likes to play Lord of the Manor in front of the residents’ families. ‘Did he ring first?’
June shakes her head.
That’s
