Cooking the Books (25 page)

‘She’s a bitch, but she’s wonderful,’ commented Daniel. The lounging crew, to a man and woman, nodded.

‘Good script,’ I said. Gordon and Kendall looked pleased. They didn’t get told that very often, I guessed. The young woman came forward with the clapper, the crew leapt into their places, and I went back to the familiar world to help with whatever was going.

I had crumbles to make today. The choppers had already prepared my fruit so all I needed to do was rub in the butter and flour and stuff the whole thing into the oven. Crumbles are an agreeable compromise between making pastry and serving plain stewed fruit. Hot, with cream, they can be delicious.

I noticed that today’s fruit was vastly superior to yesterday’s. Tommy must have put a rocket up that greengrocer. Every apple in the basket appeared to have been individually polished. I began to load the gratin dishes with fruit. Bernie was decorating a large work of art with marzipan. Little balls of the stuff were ready to complete her Simnel cake. We discussed medieval recipes as we worked. It seemed a safe subject.

Then it was all done and I needed to get out. The one advantage of being a contractor is that you can go away when the work is done. I could take a walk in King’s Domain and see if I could find another parchment. I wondered how poor Lena was getting on. There was no prospect of extracting Daniel before filming was complete, so I bade farewell to my fellow workers and sauntered away into the sunlight.

Hot again, which was regrettable but not surprising. I caught a tram instead of undertaking the long slog up St Kilda Road and got off near the art gallery. Where was that statue?

I should have packed myself some lunch. I bought a gelato and licked it as I wandered. The grass was dry and crackled underfoot. Only the Australian trees looked happy. This was their kind of weather.

It wasn’t mine. The park was dreary in this climate; an English garden transplanted unhappily to the Antipodes and pining for the cool moisture of Kent. I did not find any parchment around the foot or in the interstices of the statue of George, King and Emperor. Damn. All that hot for nothing. I idled near the bin and sighted a leaf of pale yellow in it. Retrieved, it was a clue. I unfolded it.

‘
Simple Simon
,’ I read aloud, to the hot air. No one was near me to be offended. I sang it to myself as I walked back along St Kilda Road to the city.

‘Simple Simon met a pieman, going to the fair. Said Simple Simon to the pieman, Let me taste your wares. Said the pieman to Simple Simon, Show me first your money. Said Simple Simon to the pieman, Sir I have not any.’

Again, Mr Google must tell me the background. I had a vague idea that piemen were notorious for tossing people double or nothing for their pies. Probably with their very own double-headed lucky penny. I hoped they were good pies, unlike those served to the Ankh-Morpork populace by Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. But I suspected as much. Pies are deceptive. You can put anything in the filling and the customer only finds out his mistake when he is so unwise as to bite one. I went back to Insula, pleased and hot, for a shower and a drink and a little research. And a rest, if I had to go out tonight. At least the gathering was close. The town hall, no less. I wondered who was catering the event.

Shower, gown, drink, Google. ‘Simple Simon’ had extra verses, relating to fishing for a whale in his mother’s pail and picking figs off a thistle. Which made poor Simon whistle. It was blessedly free from political interpretations, for a change. Just a rhyme to amuse the children. I was not notably amused.

I took the esky, the cat and my current novel up to the roof garden in search of inspiration. Pies? Every cafe in the city sold pies and some made their own, if you stretched the definition. Was there a pie shop called Simple Simon’s? I could not think of one. And Lena’s fate still rested in the balance. Damn Pockets. Though the poor man had effectively damned himself. Why did he like to lie down in front of trams? I supposed it was one way to guarantee attention . . .

The temple was empty, except for the goddess. I set Horatio down and he fell instantly asleep, snared by a patch of sunlight. I poured a drink and sat contemplating the garden. Trudi had done a wonderful job with the waste water. Even the turf was green. It rested the eyes, dried from staring into the hot depths of too many ovens. I closed them. Just for a while. Soon, lounging on the bench, I joined Horatio in dreamland . . .

When I awoke someone was shaking me by the shoulder. I looked hazily up into an angry face, topped with curly blond hair, bleached by sun and salt water. Jason.

‘Just want you to know,’ he was saying.

‘Know what?’ I mumbled.

‘I got another job.’

‘Good,’ I said cautiously. ‘What are you doing, which baker?’

‘No baker,’ he snapped. ‘Chicken shop.’

We had often joked about that chicken shop. A franchise, it made fairly tasty chicken dishes for the populace. Like all such establishments it was staffed by students who were probably younger than the produce. The wages were low and the tenure uncertain. But because of this turnover there was always a job there. The idea that my skilled Jason would be making roadkill chicken was a depressing one.

‘Ah, the chicken shop,’ I temporised.

‘Yair, so I don’t need you anymore!’ he snarled. Oh, Jason.

‘Well, if you change your mind, remember that I need you,’ I told him firmly. ‘I will always need you.’

‘Hah!’ he replied.

At this juncture Horatio woke and demanded to know why his peaceful and rightful nap had been disturbed by angry voices. Then he noticed Jason and got to his paws to greet him.

‘H’lo, Horatio,’ muttered Jason, putting out a hand for Horatio to rub his chin against. ‘Lookin’ good.’

Horatio purred an agreement. Then Jason remembed his grudge and straightened up.

‘Keep in mind,’ I told him urgently, ‘that this is a misunderstanding. I still want you. I still need you. No one makes muffins like you do, Jason.’

‘So you only want me for my muffins?’ he demanded.

‘Among other things,’ I told him, suppressing a giggle. ‘Think about it.’

Jason gave me a glare and flung himself out of the roof garden. But I had managed to insert a few ideas into that curly head and maybe he would reconsider after a few days working in the fug, steam and grease of the chicken shop.

Cheered, I collected Horatio and went back to my apartment for a rest until it was time for the Caterers’ Association dinner. Which meant, at least, that I would not be cooking it.

Daniel came in as I was sorting out some clothes to wear. The invitation said ‘black tie’, which meant that I would have to glam up several notches from my usual loose kurta, black trousers and wrap. The trouble was that I didn’t really have any sparkly clothes. Not since I had given up the world of accounting and donned the baker’s overall. I did find a couple of kaftans which had been sent to me from far-flung places by Jon and Kepler and one of those would do. I was pondering whether to wear the dark-blue floaty one or the bright crimson with—yes—sequins, decided on the red, and turned to kiss Daniel.

I told him about Simple Simon as he showered and dressed in his own gown and accepted a gin and tonic as an intro- duction to a peaceful interlude before we had to go out and confront the food industry. Daniel in a kaftan is unbelievably gorgeous. He decorated my couch as he sat on it. He sipped and listened.

‘Simple Simon,’ he said. ‘Never heard of it. Him. I got a call from Lena. She’s on sick leave for two weeks, which gives us a bit of time. No further bonds have been cashed, so Pockets has clearly put them somewhere safe. I’ve been working on Pockets, too. Perhaps we can predict where he might stash the stuff.’

‘And the joker at Harbour Studios?’

‘Nothing further. No tricks since I started. That might be a hopeful sign. You’re looking a little shell-shocked, Corinna.’

I told him about the angry encounter with Jason on the roof. He chuckled.

‘If he thought he was working hard here, just wait until he does a few shifts at the chicken shop,’ he said. ‘Now, since the air-conditioning is on again, let’s snuggle down and relax. We don’t have to cook and we’ve got an hour or so before we have to get dressed and go and schmooze with the foodies. Let’s have a look at that
Doctor Who
episode you wanted to show the Prof. And I could do with a hug,’ he confessed. ‘My emotions are feeling a bit bruised.’

So were mine. I complied.

The undercroft of the town hall was adorned with a lot of flowers, wilting in the heat (as was I) and it smelt wonderful. The flowers had been arranged by one of those stem-twisters (bane of Beverley Nichols’ life) into unnatural shapes. They looked vaguely alien, as though they might, if not watched carefully, shoot out like triffids and dine on the guests. Daniel was summoned across the room by a large florid cook. I recognised the TV cook, Antonio Domenico. Daniel did not take me with him—he always has a reason for this; possibly he knew how much I detested Tony since he used to come into Pagliacci’s when I was an apprentice—so I grabbed a glass of wine from a server and found a cool place near a fan outlet to look at the room.

This was going to be a buffet, and long tables against one wall were already laid with a profusion of edibles. Behind them, servers in eye-catching overalls of blue and white striped cotton were doing things with spoons. I debated grabbing a plate and tucking in—I had my eye on some very attractive prawns—when someone bobbed up and said, ‘Corinna! Lovely kaftan!’ and I turned to talk to my new friend, who had discriminating taste.

It was in fact an old friend: Irena, who ran a Russian restaurant and—now I thought of it—catered for weddings. She might be a valuable source of information, so I steered her towards the prawns and exchanged the usual amenities as we loaded our plates. She informed me that she had finally cut her ties with her irritating layabout husband, Ivan, who, she said, gave Russian men a bad name just by existing.

‘Since he’s no longer hanging about in the kitchen annoying the workers, we’ve been going well. And the young women have stopped quitting. He was monstering them. They never told me. I should have thought more about why they were always quitting without notice. Men! Predators all. How about you, Corinna? Heard you had a partner.’

‘Him.’ I pointed out Daniel, who was talking to Domenico near the Martian flower arrangements.

‘What, Antonio? Surely not!’

‘No, the dark one. Daniel.’

‘Wow,’ she whistled. ‘You must have hidden charms, Corinna! He’s gorgeous! But handsome is as handsome does.’

‘Both is and does,’ I assured her. ‘I’ve been working for Tommy of Maitresse, feeding a TV crew. How about you?’

‘Orthodox weddings,’ she said. ‘Lavish. Sour cream. Borscht like Babushka made. You know. As long as everyone leaves the wedding stuffed to the gills and no more than pleasantly tiddly, it’s a great success. “I couldn’t eat another bite” is what we want to hear. These prawns are very good.’

‘I’m new to the catering industry,’ I said to Irena. ‘Tell me about the main players.’

‘Most of us are niche,’ she told me, snapping up another prawn. For someone so small and thin she eats like a truckie. ‘Like you, as well. You just do bread. Very fine bread, I might say. I buy your sourdough rye. Perfect for my soups.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Well, let me see. There are those who run halal feasts for Muslim weddings or kosher banquets for bar mitzvahs; you can tell them by the way they cluster at the kosher end of the buffet over there. Catered by Uncle Solly of the New York Deli—do you know him?’

‘Certainly do. He is my honorary uncle.’

‘Isn’t he a darling?’ she agreed. ‘Then there is Terry Patel, who caters for those massive five-day festival-type Indian weddings, where you have to feed three thousand guests. I expect that he supplied the Indian treats. There is Renee Dubois, who does elegant French dinner parties for the middle class.’

For the first time I noticed that the banquet was divided into several sections. One was this side, with the striped overalls. A discreet sign informed me that this was
Special Events
. Another was the specialist one, staffed by women in very stylish headscarves and several of Uncle Solly’s nephews. The third was attended by young people in deepest green, with ostler’s aprons to their ankles. Irena followed my gaze.

‘Oh, yes. Well, there was a huge fight about who was going to do the catering for our night of nights. Eventually, we compromised. The two people who had been doing the most yelling got to split the event. This pleased neither of them, of course. Here we have Simply Simon, who really has cornered the huge end of the wedding market. Distinctive overalls, dark green. Run by Simon Gregson. Over there we have Special Events. You jumped. Why? Do you know Tricia Wendemere?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Just a twitch.’

‘Should I introduce you to anyone?’ she asked.

‘To Simon,’ I requested.

Irena gave an ‘if you insist’ shrug and conducted me through the gossiping throng to a tall man with the kind of figure which spoke of thousands of really good dinners and very little exercise. He must have weighed two hundred kilos, most of it belly. There are fat men and fat men. Some are just so delightful that you want to take them home and cuddle them. Some are mere slobs, and some remind you that Attila the Hun was a man of imposing corpulence. I found myself addressing his straining waistcoat buttons.