chef who spent hours poring over recipe books and watching television cookery shows. He didn’t approve of leaving food. You took what you wanted and ate it all. Unless you didn’t like it–in which case, you shouldn’t have taken so much in the first place.
Katie’s mother, Lynda, who was more than happy to let her husband do all the work in the kitchen, had been brought up by parents who had struggled to make ends meet, and she didn’t approve of waste. And Katie was a pig, who couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t eat every single mouthful of her father’s delicious food, then go back for more.
By the end of the weekend, Adam had partially overcome their distrust of a man who could leave food on a plate, and had charmed them. His major Brownie points had been accrued when he had praised a painting in the dining room, which he had correctly identified as a posy of peonies. It had been executed by Lynda during her artist phase, and derided by her family as reminiscent of the rear view of a family of baboons with their heads down a well.
‘Mum is what we call, a keen…erm…trier,’ Katie explained, as Adam admired a pottery vase in the kitchen while they were making coffee. ‘That was originally a milk jug but, as you can see, its handle melted in the kiln. If you look closely, you’ll also notice a small hole in the bottom where she failed to supply enough clay. Hence the dried flowers. It’s like living with an overgrown primary-school child.’
‘Oi,’ said her mother, coming up behind them as they considered her creation. ‘I’ll have you know that was modelled on one by a famous arts-and-crafts exponent.’
‘Called Slipshod,’ said Katie.
Her mother smiled. ‘I’ve left it to you in my will,’ she said.
‘Gee, thanks, Mum. Just what I’ve always wanted. Do hope you’ve left Baboon Anuses on a Summer’s Day to me as well. Or does anus become ami in the plural?’
‘You are a rude and ungrateful girl. If I were you, Adam, I’d have nothing more to do with her.’
He nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right. No one could ask for more than a beautiful painting of peonies and an homage vase,’ he said, rhyming homage with fromage.
‘Homage vase!’ puffed Katie. ‘What are you like? It’s a piece of clutter.’
‘My daughter, as I’m sure you’re aware by now, considers everything to be clutter,’ said Lynda. ‘She would probably live in a sterile lab, given the choice. Every home she’s had, you feel like you’re sitting in a show house. Can’t put your tea down without her tidying it away. And never anything in the fridge. Prisoners make their cells more homely.’
‘Hey, Mum,’ said Katie, a bit hurt by her mother’s comments. ‘I’m not that bad. Honestly. Just because I can’t be doing with all the dust. Do you know, we shed an entire outer layer of skin every two days? That’s a whole human. This vase has probably got one of Mum’s legs and Dad’s ears on it.’
Adam smiled. ‘Actually, I’m afraid I have to blot my copybook and confess that I, too, live a slightly minimalist life.’ He made a face of apology.
Lynda harrumphed and put the vase back on the windowsill. ‘Shall we have coffee in the garden since it’s such a nice day?’
They took the tray out to where lack was pinning back some of the trailing roses, which were threatening to swamp, rather than cascade over, a small wall near the greenhouse.
‘It looks lovely out here, Dad,’ said Katie, gazing about her and sniffing appreciatively. She loved coming home to the grey-stone house, even if her mother did sometimes make her feel unwelcome by using her old bedroom as a repository for the detritus from her discarded hobbies. ‘Incidentally, Mum,’ she said, pouring milk into her coffee, ‘I think Hercules may have rolled in some fox poo. He was smelling very ripe when I passed him.’
Hercules was their ageing Labrador.
‘Wretched dog,’ said her mother, without heat. She took her coffee, raised her voice and, without looking round, said, ‘lack. Your dog has been rolling in fox poo.’
He was lost in contemplation of a hollyhock and didn’t respond.
‘lack. Hercules smells,’ she said, louder this time.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on to it. Excellent. Coffee. Have you poured me one?’
Katie passed him his cup and he took a big gulp. ‘Your mother’s turning into a right old cantankerous trout,’ he said quietly, but with feeling.
‘Was she ever different?’ asked Katie, who had always had a difficult relationship with her.
He didn’t answer but put his cup back on the table and went off to get some secateurs.
‘Are you going to wash the dog, Jack?’ asked Lynda, annoyed.
‘I’ll do it in a minute,’ he responded curtly.
Later, when Katie phoned to let them know they had got back to London safely, her father told her that he had taken up fishing to get out of the house more. And, in passing, he mentioned that Bob was a frequent companion.
She hadn’t said anything at the time, but that night, lying between crisp sheets and reading Private Eye, Katie acknowledged a twinge as she thought of her father and the handsome landscape gardener casting their lines into the cool waters of the river.
All her friends loved Adam, but Dee had expressed reservations. ‘He seems just a teensy-weensy bit self-obsessed,’ she told Katie, during a drunken night out with the girls.
Now, eight months on, Katie had to confess that she was beginning to feel she came a poor second to his business. He was expanding Wolf Days Productions, and they were taking on new staff. He did invite her to some of the business dinners, but they were dull, involving talk of editing suites and cabling. She had tried to lighten one up by brightly announcing that coconuts killed 150 people a year. Adam had had the temerity to tell her to be quiet. In front of everyone. It had taken her so much by surprise that she had immediately phoned her friends to discuss the state of her relationship.
She met her perennially single friend Kathy at their favourite budget café, its gay plastic tablecloths covered with garish pictures of vegetables. They ordered enormous frothy cappuccinos. Katie took all the foam and chocolate sprinkle off the top of hers and ate it before she addressed the matter in hand. ‘He seems really keen one minute, then cools off the next,’ she said. ‘I know he’s busy businessing at the moment, but it’s making me feel needy. And I hate feeling needy.’
‘Maybe it’s because you don’t have a job,’ said Kathy, who was juggling two, and still not earning enough to make ends meet.
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Well, you are what you do, and you’ve done bugger-all of any consequence for rather a long time.’
Katie had been limping along by writing for newspapers and magazines, hosting awards ceremonies and standing in for people on local radio. ‘There’s not much about,’ she said ruefully. ‘I was offered Celebrity Masterchef, but I hate cooking anything that’s not vegetable soup. And I couldn’t do the meat thing. A mate of mine, who was training to be a chef, gave it all up after he had to debone a whole pig. Apparently shot the
