Recipes for Melissa (20 page)

24

ELEANOR – 1994

Eleanor sat at her dressing table, head hanging forward.
Think, Eleanor. Think.

The choices were now very simple. She either had to confide in Max or take the chance that the result would come through in time.

Shit. Why did it all have to go off piste?

Hugo had spent a long time explaining why he felt she was a candidate for the test and his new research. He didn’t want to alarm her: of course he didn’t. But the truth? Future guidelines were likely to suggest testing a cancer patient as the best first step to try to identify any faulty gene running in a family. So if she wanted true reassurance – for Melissa’s sake – then yes – he would support her having the test as part of his new research. The plan was to write it all up in a new paper which would provide a better pathway to advise women and their consultants in the future.

What was especially difficult for Eleanor was the edge of almost excitement to Dr Palmer’s voice.

‘I’m sorry, Eleanor. I get fired up because we think this may be ground-breaking. Really help people.’

‘I know that.’

‘I didn’t mean to imply that this is not terribly difficult. A decision about this test – even for research. Given your circumstance.’

‘It’s all right. Really. There’s no need to apologise.’

He added, as the sample of blood was taken by a nurse, that he would do his very best to hurry the labs but that side of things was somewhat out of his hands. It was likely to take a few weeks at the very least. Sorry. But he could not give an exact date.

Eleanor looked at her face in the mirror. At the hair – now grown into a very presentable style. At the sunken eyes and the tiny frame which she tried these days to conceal in baggy tops.

Every day she seemed to have less energy. Dr Palmer said this was to be expected. She had been prescribed appalling energy drinks – thick and gruesome milkshakes – and he had bumped up her ‘comfort package’, urging her to spend a few days in hospital for some additional tests. But she was determined – no. She would go into a ward only for the final stint. As few days as possible. It was what she had agreed with Max.

And now for the first time in ages, Eleanor began to cry.
Let it out, Eleanor. Have a good cry. You’ll feel better
. Eleanor listened to the echo of the voice and even as she felt the wetness unchecked on her face, realised that she was not crying over her cancer. Or even for Melissa. She was crying for the first time in years for her mother. The mother who always believed that a good cry was good therapy. Missing her so suddenly, so deeply and so unexpectedly that it completely overwhelmed her. Three years it had been since they lost her and she had thought that she was over it. Stronger. Used to it.

Five, maybe ten minutes passed and then Eleanor pulled four tissues from the box on the dressing table. She was not at all sure her mother was right about the crying and did what she could to patch up her face. Max had phoned to say he would be leaving early and would pick Melissa up from school en route to save Eleanor the drive. He was doing this more and more often – leaving early to spare her driving twice in a day and in truth she was grateful. Though she did not want him to pull out of work completely yet, she did some days get very tired and panicky in the car.

She ran the brush quickly through her hair and made a decision. No. She would not worry Max with this yet. She would wait for the result. She would
not carry the gene
. She would then write in Melissa’s book that it was all fine. Nothing to worry about. And Max would never even need to know.

And then she went downstairs and took ingredients out of the cupboards. Flour and butter and salt and from the fridge the punnets of strawberries bought at the farm shop yesterday, checking also on the large pot of clotted cream.

She made the scones first, adding extra cream of tartar so they rose plump and proud. Then she took down the heavy pan from the shelf above the cooker – shocked at how difficult she found it to manage it, needing to break the move into two; lifting it to a lower shelf to catch her breath and finally back to cooker level.

She made the jam from memory, needing just two saucer tests before the wrinkly skin test confirming that it should be just perfect.

Every now and again she had to pause, to fight the panic. Drumming her fingers on the worktop; stilling herself by imagining a future Melissa making these same moves in a different kitchen. From her book.

Yes.

Two hours later there was the key in the door and she moved the plates on the table, adjusting the cutlery. Their faces were all she hoped.

‘Oh mummy. You’ve done a cream tea.’ Melissa could not contain her excitement, swinging her school bag against the wall. ‘Like Cornwall.’

‘Hand wash first, darling.’

‘I just did them.’

‘Well how about you do them again just in case you remembered wrong.’

Melissa pulled a face then ran through towards the cloakroom as Max tilted his head.

‘You are overdoing it, Eleanor.’

‘No lectures please, professor. Not today.’

He kissed her on the top of the head, face changing as he felt the shrinking shape of her shoulder beneath the jumper. She clutched at his arm, hanging on tight for a moment before sitting down as Melissa reappeared, hands dripping.

‘So how about you tell Mummy what you did in school today.’

Melissa shrugged.

‘Let me guess?’ Eleanor pulled a face of mock reflection. ‘Nothing?’

25

MAX – 2011

Max looked at the bed, mortified.

On the duvet lay two discarded shirts – one rejected because it was clearly a tad too small, which these days did him no favours, and the second for a reason he still could not fathom.

This was ridiculous. He was behaving like a teenager.

Max scanned the clothes in his wardrobe – his eye drawn to the turquoise shirt at the end of the row. He glanced at the photograph beside the bed.

God, you look good in that colour, Max.

Eleanor had been very into colour. She had had her ‘colours done’ once – whatever that meant. She came home with a little Filofax type folder with samples of fabric which were allegedly exactly the right shade for her complexion. Max had smiled, dreading to think how much she had paid for such nonsense. Eleanor always looked wonderful.

She had gone through her whole wardrobe then, dividing all the clothes into sections – those she could still, apparently, wear and those which, over time, would need replacement.

So what did he think? Could he see the difference?

Max smiled. He could see no difference whatsoever. He said nothing because what he thought was the fashion industry clearly had it all stitched up rather beautifully.

For himself, Max was quite happy with a uniform – the cliché of jeans or cords –
I am
sorry but I like cords, Eleanor
– a checked shirt and a jumper. Jacket if he really had to.

Eleanor had bought him the turquoise shirt on a whim, holding it up against him in a smart boutique in Oxford, declaring he was an
‘autumn
’. Max always felt this particular sadness when he thought now of these little scenes for he had, back then, learned to tune out the whimsical. The white noise. Now he would give anything in the world to rewind; to be standing back there in that shop.
To listen.

Why precisely it mattered what the hell he looked like for this supper at Anna’s tonight was, of course, the question. This was no date. This was the gesture of a new colleague who was ambitious and wanted, quite reasonably, to settle in and to get on. Sarah – the other lecturer – had worked alongside Max for some three years now and was perfectly good company, if a little on the earnest side. This was no bad thing in terms of Anna’s agenda. It would be a pleasant evening with colleagues. Also – despite his pathetic attempt at jocularity, he very much liked paella.

All he had to do was stop thinking about her lips. Jesus. Were we not supposed now to be equal? Professional? How was it that he could go so long in work without having these feelings stirred and then there was suddenly one face, one body…

Max sat down on the bed and checked his phone. Still no further word from Melissa. He realised he should not feel annoyed about this. And yet he did.

He picked up the picture. What was most disconcerting was he wished very much that he could talk to either Melissa or Eleanor about all this. Which was, of course, ridiculous beyond measure because if he were able to talk to Eleanor, he would not be obsessing about Anna’s lips. Rather he would be teasing Eleanor about it.
Hot new lecturer in the department. Runner.

Should I be worried?

He could hear her voice and was happy to answer.

No.

Back then – you need never have worried, Eleanor.

Max had been faithful. Always.

Which was why this was so weird and still after all these years confusing. He wanted Eleanor back but given that she wasn’t coming back, he wanted to be in love again. It was why he had tried and failed to make a go of the relationship with Deborah.

He had slept with only three women since Eleanor – the regular thing with Sophie plus the disastrous time with Deborah which imploded when he suddenly realised that she wanted to get married. Worse, to have more children which had never occurred to him. Why would he want to have more children? He was middle-aged. He had Melissa. It had never honestly occurred to him that Deborah, a divorcee of 38 with a wonderful and demanding full-time job which she adored would want to have more children. This terrible and belated realisation had led to the most unpleasant unravelling. Deborah had felt that Max had misled her. It had all been terribly upsetting.

This all followed a very early liaison with a rather nice woman called Charlotte, introduced to him at a dinner party in the days when people were forever trying to pair him off. She was actually very nice and rather good company but it was much too early.

And now?

Max put on a checked red and brown shirt from his wardrobe, glancing again at the photograph beside the bed. Him and Eleanor on holiday for an anniversary. Him in the turquoise shirt.

Max checked his watch. He didn’t want to turn up first. To seem too eager and most of all to have made too much of the invitation.

This is not a date, Maximillian.

Anna’s place was a large maisonette in a small converted block further south in Oxfordshire and hence nearer the river. The downstairs was largely open-plan with a smart stainless steel staircase. His first thought, shamefully, was to wonder how she could afford this; his second – where the hell is Sarah?

‘It’s not as big as it looks,’ Anna smiled as he glanced around. ‘Upstairs is half the size of down here. The reverse next door. But I picked this one for the garden,’ she gestured to show him, pulling back the curtains to French doors onto a modest but beautiful terrace with views to a pretty, small garden and the river beyond.

‘All my life I have wanted to live by water,’ she was gazing out, folding her arms. ‘So I figured that if we had to make such a god-awful change – the divorce, I mean – then at least something good should come out of it.’

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs then.

‘Freddie. Come and say hello to Max.’

See. Not a date.

A tall, slim young man wearing headphones appeared at the bottom of the stairs, eyes narrowing.

‘Max is the head of my new department so I am shamelessly sucking up. Hoping to buy influence with seafood. The good news for you, Freddie, is it is your favourite. Paella.’

Freddie shrugged, apparently hearing nothing on account of the headphones. And then the phone rang.

‘Nice to meet you, Freddie. So I hear you’re in the misery of A levels. So what subjects?’ Max reached out his hand to which there was no response. Freddie studied him and only then slowly removed one earphone.

‘A levels I understand. What subjects?’ Max let his hand fall as Anna picked up the phone and turned away towards the window.

‘The sciences.’ Freddie then looked down at his mobile as a text buzzed in.

‘I hear you run, Freddie.’

‘Oh hi – Sarah. Are you having trouble finding me?’ Anna’s voice across the room sounded agitated now – Max disorientated as he tried to listen in stereo.

‘They’re outside. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to go,’ Freddie was staring at his phone.

‘You’re not staying, Freddie?’ Max glanced across anxiously to Anna who was still on the phone and evidently in blissful ignorance of Freddie’s imminent departure. ‘You’ll probably want to say goodbye to your mother first?’ Max put a hand up to his face, aware this was overstepping the line as Freddie scowled.

‘No. Of course I understand, Sarah. Poor you. No, really. It’s fine. You get yourself off to bed and see how you go. It’s absolutely no problem. We’ll have a glass for you. You take care,’ Anna turning back towards them and pulling a face. ‘She’s got some kind of tummy bug, suddenly. Sarah. Can’t make it.’

‘Look. I’m sorry, Mum. But they’re waiting outside. Gotta go.’

‘What do you mean – gotta go? Freddie. What are you talking about?’

‘Going over to Jack’s? His dad’s outside. I told you.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I did.’

‘Freddie. It’s a school night.’

‘And you arranged guests and I arranged to get out of your hair,’ he was staring right at her. ‘Remember?’

Anna looked across at Max, trying very hard to mask her true response.

‘Look, Mum. Jack’s dad is outside. He’s driven twenty minutes. I can’t ask him to turn around.’

Anna looked down at the ground and back up at her son. ‘And is he OK to bring you home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ten thirty, then, Freddie. No later.’

Freddie rolled his eyes and then turned to Max. ‘Have a nice evening. Was nice to meet you.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Anna now turned to the paella pan which was sizzling for attention. She splashed in more wine, stepping back as it hissed violently and moved to the fridge to fetch a bowl of seafood. Raw prawns, mussels and squid.