Perfect Blend: A Novel (33 page)

Friday was parent-teacher evening at Charlie’s school. Amy was due there at half past eight. Lilly was baby-sitting. At five she called to say she couldn’t make it because she had a temperature and was throwing up. Amy told her not to worry and wished her better. Then she started phoning around to find a replacement. It being Friday night, none of Lilly’s baby-sitter friends could make it. Val was away again, this time at a health farm with a couple of girlfriends. Bel wasn’t answering her mobile. Phil had a Rotary meeting, and Brian had a date with Rebecca. She didn’t try Victoria because she knew she would be busy with her kids. Ruby wouldn’t be able to help, either, because she and her husband were due at the parent-teacher evening, too.

Amy realized she had two choices. She could phone the school and make another appointment to see Charlie’s teacher—which she knew wouldn’t go down well because it would make her look like one of those selfish mothers who didn’t put their children’s education first—or she could call Sam, assuming he hadn’t left for Rwanda. She dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring.

“I wasn’t sure you were still in the country,” she said.

“Actually, I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Oh, God, you must have so much to do. I needed a favor, but it doesn’t matter.”

“What is it?”

She explained. “And Charlie will be in bed by the time you get here.”

Sam told her it was no trouble. He would be there by eight.

CHARLIE’S TEACHER
, Mrs. Ogilvy, made no bones about it: Charlie was “an absolute joy to teach.” Moreover, he was polite and helpful, and popular with his classmates. Overall he’d had an excellent academic year, although he did struggle with arithmetic. On the other hand, his verbal and writing skills were well above average, and as for his art, she had to admit that she was at a loss for words. She called over another teacher, who was an art specialist, and the three of them sat discussing what might be best for Charlie. They all agreed that one-on-one tuition was the way forward. The art teacher said she had some contacts and would phone Amy to let her know if any of them could take him on.

Despite all the upset she was going through with Sam, as she made her way home, Amy felt like she was walking on air.

She smelled the burning the second she walked in. “What the—”

As she ran toward the kitchen, there was a terrified scream. Amy charged in. A frying pan was on fire on the stove. The flames were licking the range hood. “Omigod!” Amy grabbed her son and pulled him out of harm’s way. Sam, who could have gotten there only a moment or two before her, was turning the heat off under the pan. Looking frantic and pale as veal, he ran to the sink and wetted a tea towel. He threw it over the frying pan. The flames spit and sizzled before dying. The kitchen was full of acrid smoke. The top of the stove and the range hood were black with soot.

“Charlie, what the bloody hell has been going on?” Amy said.

“I was hungry,” Charlie replied meekly.

“He woke up,” Sam broke in, looking stricken, “and said he fancied a snack. I told him to go into the kitchen and help himself to something.” He took the tea towel off the frying pan and looked inside. “I didn’t say he could come in here and start frying stuff … What were these? Eggs?”

“You let a six-year-old fry his own eggs? What sort of an idiot are you? He could have killed himself!”

“I just told you. I thought he was getting potato chips or some cookies. I had no idea he was messing about with the stove.”

“I knew what to do,” Charlie said to his mother. “I’ve seen you do it. I cracked the eggs into a cup and everything. The oil just got too hot, that’s all.”

She checked his face and arms for burns. There was nothing.

“Charlie, you have been extremely naughty. How many times have I told you not to go near the stove? Now get back to bed. I’ll be in to speak to you in a minute.”

“But Mum, it was an accident …”

“Don’t ‘but mum’ me. Go.”

Charlie loped off.

“I am so sorry,” Sam said. “I was watching the football. It didn’t occur to me for a second that he would start lighting the stove.”

“He’s six, for crying out loud. He needs to be watched. He must have been in the kitchen for ages. Why didn’t you check on him? And how come you didn’t smell burning?”

“I don’t know. I was concentrating on the game.”

“I don’t believe this.” She could feel the fury rising. Then something snapped inside her. “You know what? You really are a manipulative bastard.”

Sam blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You allowed this to happen to prove what a useless father you’d be. Now you’re standing there waiting for me to dump you. If anybody asks, you can say that I ended it. You can tell them that it was me who forced you out of Charlie’s life and that it had nothing to do with you. That way you get not to hate yourself. Very clever.”

“You’re suggesting I put Charlie’s well-being at risk to stop myself from feeling guilty?”

“At some level I think you did. Well, you’ve done what you set out to do. Now get out.”

After he’d gone, she threw herself onto her bed and sobbed.

“Mum, I’m sorry for touching the stove,” Charlie called out from his bedroom. “I’m really sorry.”

Chapter 15

THE NEXT MORNING
, Amy had a long talk with Charlie about how dangerous it was to light the stove and made him promise faithfully not to go near it again. She decided not to punish him on the grounds that he’d had a severe fright, which was probably punishment enough.

“You and Sam had a fight because of me,” Charlie said. He was sprawled out on the living room rug, penciling over the same spot on his drawing pad. He finally made a hole in the paper. “Now you’re not friends anymore, and it’s all my fault.”

Amy sat down beside him and pulled him onto her lap. “Now, then, look at me.”

He looked.

“It is absolutely not your fault that Sam and I are cross with each other. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but the fight we had was only partly about him not watching you. We were also arguing about other grown-up stuff.”

“K. So will you ever be friends again?”

“I don’t know.”

“You look sad.”

“I am sad right now, but I’ll get better.”

He hugged her and said he would look after her and stop her from being sad. “I could make us some hot chocolate with marshmallows,” he said. “That always stops me from being sad.”

That made her smile. “Charlie, you just promised me you wouldn’t go near the stove again.” She ruffled his hair. “Tell you what, why don’t I go and make us some hot chocolate?”

While she was waiting for the chocolate to melt, she found herself thinking, not for the first time that morning, how cruel she had been to Sam. He had neglected Charlie, no doubt about that, and she had every right to be furious with him, but only a mad psycho would have manipulated last night’s events to suit his own agenda. She loathed herself for having suggested it. All that she could come up with in her defense was that there must have been so much adrenaline pumping through her body that she wasn’t thinking straight.

She had to call him to apologize. After everything that had gone on between them—not just last night—she had precious little hope for their relationship, but she couldn’t let it end with him thinking she was a first-class bitch.

She added some milk to the melted chocolate. As she stirred the mixture, she dialed his number. She thought she might catch him at the airport, but the call went straight to voice mail. Leaving a message—however heartfelt—seemed cowardly. It meant he had no chance to say his piece. She owed him that. She guessed he would be flying for twelve hours or so. She would phone again tomorrow.

Her instinct was to spend the weekend in bed, curled up in a fetal ball, crying her heart out, but she couldn’t because she had Charlie to think about. When Victoria rang to say that she was going to Wimbledon Common with Arthur and two yellow Labrador puppies they had just bought and would Amy and Charlie like to join them, she jumped at the chance.

“Bloody hell, you look rough,” Victoria said by way of greeting.

“Huge fight with Sam,” Amy said.

She strapped Charlie in next to his cousin in the back of the car and climbed in beside Victoria. Bert and Ernie, the Hallmark-cute puppies, yelped from behind the dog guard. The boys knelt on the backseat to watch the animals.

“Hey, boys,” Victoria said, looking at them in the driver’s mirror. “Put your seat belts back on. We’re going now.” She turned to Amy. “So, what happened?”

Amy whispered that she didn’t want Charlie to hear and said she’d explain when they got to the park.

The boys ran ahead with Bert and Ernie. “Don’t go where we can’t see you,” Victoria called out. “And be gentle with those poor animals. They’re only babies.”

“You know, a dog would be so good for Charlie,” Amy said. “It would be a companion for him. And maybe it would stop him banging on about wanting a snake.”

“I’d rather have a snake any day,” Victoria said. “These things poop all over the carpets and scratch the furniture.”

“So why did you get them?”

“My shrink says I have to stop being so controlling and demanding of the children and have more fun with them.”

“Is it working?”

“Well, I hate clearing up after the dogs, but on the upside, I don’t think I have ever been more popular with Arthur and Lila.”

Amy asked Victoria how the therapy was going.

“The sessions have gone up to two a week. Simon now comes to one, and we have couples counseling. I think we’re making progress. Slowly. So what’s going on with you and Sam?”

Amy brought her sister up to speed. “So we’ve done the DNA test. The results should be back in a couple of weeks.”

Victoria didn’t say a word. Instead she stopped walking and closed her eyes.

“What?” Amy said.

“I’m reciting my mantra.”

“Your mantra? You sound like Trevor.”

“I know it sounds a bit hippie-dippy, but my therapist says I have to work on my need to be so judgmental. Instead of saying ‘I told you so,’ I have to recite this mantra: ‘Mistakes are human. I am human. I must not judge myself or others.’ And don’t ask if it’s made me think about picking up the phone to Joyce. It hasn’t. I am nowhere near doing that yet.”

“That’s okay. You might feel different in time. But the mantra helps?”

“The words make me feel like I’m just one of the herd. I hate that. I’ve spent my entire life trying to rise above the herd.”

“I know.” Amy smiled. “It was never going to be easy.”

“I was going to tell you how I always knew your relationship with Sam would end in tears and that men rarely take on women with children. What I actually want to say is that I understand why you decided to have Charlie. You were very brave, braver than I would have been. And I’m so sorry you have struggled with relationships and that it didn’t work out with Sam.”

Amy’s eyes were wide with delight. “Good God. I cannot believe you just said all that.”

“Hey, meet the new nonjudgmental me.”

“Thanks,” Amy said, putting an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Hearing you say that means so much to me.”

In the distance they could see the boys dressing Bert, or it might have been Ernie, in Arthur’s fleece and Charlie’s baseball cap.

“Hey, boys,” Amy called out, “stop that. You’re upsetting that poor animal.”

“You know,” Victoria said to her sister, “you really shouldn’t let Charlie wear baseball caps. It’s so common.”

ON SUNDAY
, Amy kept trying Sam’s number, but each time his phone went to voice mail. Then she remembered that the village where he was building the school was in the middle of nowhere and unlikely to have a mobile phone signal. She decided to call his office the next morning. His colleagues were bound to have a number for him.

She had just decided to have an early night when Bel rang.

She was kvetching about her James Bond satnav audition, which was first thing on Monday morning.

“Okay, this is the deep sexy, purr: ‘At the roundabout, darling, take the third exit.’”

“Bel, a satnav wouldn’t call its owner ‘darling.’ Not even if its owner was James Bond.”

“I know, but I thought it might be fun to make the satnav a real character. Nobody else will have thought of it.”

“I guess not.”

“Amy, you okay? You sound a bit down.”

She told Bel about the kitchen fire.

“Omigod, is Charlie all right?”

Amy assured her that he was. “Oh, then I called Sam a manipulative bastard.”

“That must have gone down well. And you called him that because …?”

Amy explained her thinking. “I didn’t mean it. I was just high on adrenaline. I know I’ve blown it with him, but to tell you the truth, I’m pretty certain it was blown already. I just want to apologize, that’s all, but I can’t reach him ’cos he’s in Rwanda.”

Bel offered to come over and keep her company.

“Thanks, hon, but I think I’ll just have an early night.”

“
AMY, YOU
okay?” Brian said the moment she arrived at the café. “Bel called me last night and told me what happened.”

“Oh … you know … licking my wounds. Feeling like a complete bitch.”

“Hey, c’mon. You didn’t mean to call him that.”

“I know. It’s just so frustrating not being able to reach him.”

“Listen, if there’s anything you need … time off …”

“Thanks, Bri, but I’ll be fine. Honest. Thanks for being there. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Hey, my pleasure.”

She left it until ten o’clock before phoning Sam’s office. Once she’d explained who she was, one of his colleagues gave her the number of the school. Rwanda was only an hour ahead, so she dialed the number right away. She must have tried half a dozen times, but all she got was a continuous bleak tone. She was about to try again when her phone rang. It was a very apologetic technician from the food lab calling to say they finally had the results of the coffee bean analysis. Amy’s heart started to race. While the technician broke off to deal with a call that had just come in on his mobile, Amy dashed over to the counter, where Brian was grinding beans. “Quick, turn off the grinder. The results are in.”

He flicked the switch.

“Okay,” the technician said, back on the line now. “The bottom line is, your coffee beans contain a chemical called Texapene.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s used in fertilizer. Or it was, years ago.”

“Go on.”

“Just after the war, scientists were anxious to boost food production. Early research indicated that Texapene added to fertilizer made crops sprout like heck. And according to reports from the time, it did wonders for the taste, particularly of fruit and veg. But there was a problem with Texapene. Once ingested, it acts like the female hormone estrogen. Test subjects of the scientists experimenting with it started to grow breasts, and the chemical was banned.”

“They did? It was? Omigod.” Amy was giving Brian the thumbs-up. He started doing a dance and punching the air.

“I’m just wondering,” the technician continued, “if these coffee beans of yours could be connected to this outbreak of men growing breasts. If some unscrupulous coffee grower has gotten hold of this chemical, it could be very dangerous. I don’t even know where you would find it these days. So if you would let me have the name of the coffee, I can inform the appropriate authorities.”

“Of course,” Amy said, knowing that if the technician informed the Department of Health, it would be weeks or months before the civil servants got their act together and issued an alert. Her newspaper story, on the other hand, could be out in days.

“The coffee is Crema Crema Crema. It’s imported from Indonesia.”

“I’ve heard of that. It’s very expensive. Isn’t it the one all the Hollywood stars are supposed to be drinking?”

“I think it is,” Amy said. She thanked the technician for all his help and asked if he would mind sending an e-mail summarizing everything he had just said.

“No problem. I’ll do it right now.”

Amy turned to Brian.

“The lab is on to the story. The bloke there is going to report this to the Department of Health, which isn’t a problem because they move so slowly. On the other hand, I’m totally screwed if he gets to the newspapers before me.” She asked Brian if he could phone Melissa, his doctor friend in New York, to see if there was any news from the American food lab. They had been dragging their feet, too, owing to an outbreak of toxic pretzels among street vendors in Manhattan.

Meanwhile Amy kept trying the school in Rwanda. Mostly she got the continuous tone, but once or twice it rang, so she knew she didn’t have the wrong number. She gave up at around four, assuming that by then the school had closed for the day.

The next morning Brian got an e-mail from Melissa in New York. The American lab had discovered Texapene in the coffee beans. What was more, the technicians had put two and two together and she didn’t think it would be long before one of them went to the newspapers.

Amy knew she had to move fast if she wanted to get the story out before anybody else. She thought about which newspaper to contact.
The Daily Post
was the obvious choice, simply because she had a relationship with it. Boadicea had treated her pretty shabbily over the school lunches story, but she had come across in the end by getting her such a generous kill fee. She could be wrong, but Amy felt she could trust her.

“Features,” Boadicea answered in that jaded, pass-the-joint voice of hers.

“Hi, Boadicea, Amy Walker here.”

“Amy who?”

“Walker. You remember my school lunches story … the one you got Jamie Oliver to do instead of me.”

“Oh, yeah. Hi …”

“Look, I’ve uncovered an amazing story, but I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”

“Okay, but I’ve got some lunch thing with Kylie Minogue, would you believe, at one.” She made it sound like she was being forced to attend a local council refuse committee meeting.

“I’ll be there at twelve.”

AMY ARRIVED
ten minutes early. One of the news desk interns, a pretty, studious-looking girl called Ellie, was dispatched to collect her from reception. She took her up to the third floor and led her into the newsroom. This was a large, noisy open-plan office with journalists on the phone scribbling notes while others sat drinking coffee with their feet up. Two or three, no more, were sitting in front of their computer screens, bashing away at their keyboards as if their careers depended on it.

Ellie pointed out Boadicea, and the two said their goodbyes.

Boadicea, a tall, rather lumpy twenty-something in a baggy beige shift that looked like it had been left over from the Peasants’ Revolt but probably cost five hundred quid at Harvey Nichols, was on the phone. From time to time she drew on a dummy cigarette. A couple of nicotine patches were hanging off her upper arm.

Not wishing to eavesdrop, Amy kept her distance. Boadicea caught sight of her and beckoned her over.

“Amy?” she said, covering the phone mouthpiece with her hand.

Amy nodded.

“Be with you in a sec. I’m hanging for somebody at Kabbalah Centre. There’s a rumor that Madonna’s been trying to recruit Sarah Palin.” She suggested that Amy go over to the coffee machine and help herself to “some of our lousy office cappuccino.”