Recipes for Melissa (23 page)

Eleanor took to her bed for days – phoning in sick to school with the excuse of a migraine. Every hour she checked her answerphone. A plea for forgiveness. But it did not come.

She drank too much wine. She spent hours with her closest friends, going over and over the detail of what had so suddenly unravelled. How she had lost the one thing in life that mattered? And was she right? Should she have swallowed her pride? Her principles? Gone for the money? Followed the man?

All the while knowing that she did not want to live in New York. She hated big cities. She had no desire whatsoever to live in a country where anyone and everyone carried a gun, and she hated fat, stinking banks and federal loan companies who were apparently ripping everyone off while caring not a jot for the consequences.

Eleanor ran her finger again over the pages that she had stuck together in the book for Melissa and winced at the paper cut, pulling her finger back sharply to stop the pearl of blood from spoiling the page. She then sucked the finger hard as she dialled Dr Palmer’s secretary yet again – only for her to confirm that
Sorry. The test result was still not back and they were doing everything they possibly could to try to speed things up. Really they were.

28

MELISSA – 2011

That first weekend home from Cyprus, they ended up staying overnight with Sam’s parents to help settle Marcus, and then, once back at the flat, Melissa explained about the cardboard box in the garage and asked Sam to help her.

It took a double espresso before she was ready to face the contents – Sam diplomatically holing up in their bedroom under the pretence of working while she opened it on her own.

Melissa tried to mentally picture the items inside the box from her memory of that quick check a couple of years back when Max had first brought it over. She imagined that this would prepare her.

It didn’t.

This new context, with her mother’s voice in her head, made the first sight of the mixer, as she lifted it from the padding of the towel, almost unbearable. She had expected it to be tough. The uncomfortable familiarity of it. She had expected it to trigger a difficult response, just as it had a couple of years back. Hadn’t she, even before the journal, sealed the box back up immediately to protect herself from this?

But she hadn’t expected it to so completely break her. Sobbing so loudly and uncontrollably that Sam had come straight through from the bedroom.

‘Oh, Melissa. Oh, shit. You want me to pack it all away again? Oh Jesus.’

She just shook her head, sitting on the breakfast bar stool, staring at it. The white and blue of it on her marble counter, picturing it
exactly
on that other worktop in the corner of her mother’s kitchen.

‘No. It’s OK, Sam. I just need a few moments. Sorry. I feel a bit ridiculous.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ He looked helpless and a little guilty, fidgeting and glancing around for a box of tissues – in the end settling for kitchen towel which she accepted gratefully.

‘I’ll be OK. Really. I’ll be all right in a minute. It’s just a bit full on.’

‘Sorry. When I suggested the cooking, I didn’t realise—’

‘It’s fine, Sam. I need to do this. It’s just an adjustment.’ She got control of herself then, letting out little huffs of breath and staring for a moment at the ceiling. Then she stood back up to make them both more strong coffee before bracing herself to check what else was in the box.

‘You sure you’re OK, Melissa?’

‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine now.’

There were a few baking trays which would need to go out – rusted from their time in storage – but also some Tupperware boxes with plastic cutters and piping bags and the like, much of which was fine.

Deeper down there was a much larger Tupperware container with the original instruction manual for the mixer along with all the accessories.

‘Do you think it will still work?’ Sam was clearly intrigued as Melissa began flipping through the manual. She paused then, not sure if she was ready to face the possibility of the motor failing. The mixer being defunct. But Sam could not help himself, wiping down the surface of the machine and cleaning off the flex before plugging it in and turning to Melissa for her approval. She did a little shrug and finally nodded.

Sam flicked the switch and there it was. The familiar noise of the motor and with it the echo of Eleanor raising her voice as she talked over it.

Will you pass me the bag of sugar, honey?

Melissa put her hand up to her mouth.

‘That’s amazing. So how old would you say this is?’ Sam, the engineer, was now in a different gear, impressed by the longevity, muttering about quality build and wanting to try out all the attachments, but Melissa was no longer listening. Inside the shock was now turning into something else entirely. She was thinking – what a relief that she had not sent the box to the charity shop. So relieved – yes; and so pleased that she had this now.

Dear God.

Her mother’s Kenwood Chef mixer.

Which, amazingly, still worked.

29

MELISSA - 2011

The next day – Sam’s final off work – they cooked the cupcakes together, then the biscuits and finally the butternut squash soup recipe, which was outstanding.

The mixer was going great guns but Melissa was still disorientated and hence very protective of the journal itself. There was no way she was ready to hand it over to Sam to read freely – fearing especially that he would notice and comment on the pages still sealed together. So she used the cookbook stand made of Perspex – designed to slot the journal behind the protective and transparent shield. It meant Sam, who took on the role of commis chef, could not turn the pages. She caught him a few times reading the jottings visible alongside each recipe. His eyes saddening. But he was sensitive enough, especially after her reaction when unpacking the mixer, not to push it and so remained unaware that the later content of the journal was changing in tone.

At least he was right about the cooking itself, which proved surprisingly cathartic. The cupcakes recipe in particular. It was a very generic, pretty basic recipe, but when she was zesting the orange, Melissa felt the strangest, quite overwhelming sensation – her expression of puzzlement immediately noticed by Sam.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m not quite sure.’

‘Is the orange manky?’

‘No. It’s fine. It’s—’

Zest of an orange (crucial – remember?)

Melissa had a new tantalising glimpse – this time of sitting on a stool. Yes. A white, painted stool alongside the kitchen table. There was an orange on a white, porcelain plate in front of her and she had the sense of her own voice whining. She looked up, narrowing her eyes. Trying to remember why she was moaning and what exactly her mother was doing…

‘Just a memory. Something from when I was a kid. I can’t quite place it.’

Sam smiled and then winked. Melissa took a deep breath and turned back to the bowl – today rubbing the flour and butter between her fingertips. She was now also making the cheese straws ready for the following evening. The Wednesday supper with her father.

Max had been bemused at first when she messaged suggesting that they have dinner at her flat. Sam, on his return to work, had a supper invitation that same evening with senior colleagues. He was rather nervously hoping it would be a formal offer to join them as a partner. So Melissa had decided for certain it was the night she would tell Max about the journal. And there was no way she was doing that in public…

Max had phoned and protested: ‘But it’s not a birthday treat for you if you have to cook, Melissa? No. I’ll book us a nice restaurant.’

‘No, Dad. Please. I want to. Come round for 7.30.’

She had been a tad anxious, given her very basic skills, over trying the boeuf bourguignon recipe but Sam came up with the very sensible suggestion of cooking it the day before. Casseroles were apparently always better cooked ahead, allowing the flavours to ‘gel’ before reheating. And if it all went horribly wrong, she could try again.

Melissa had an extra week off work, during which she was supposed to make a decision over the freelance contract, so she had plenty of time in hand. And in fact the recipe worked out just fine.

Eleanor had specified a heavy, quality pot and so Melissa was delighted to find a large Le Creuset casserole dish at the bottom of the cardboard box. Small wonder it had been so heavy.

She could not quite believe the cooking time suggested in the journal. Hours. But the smell which filled the flat was unbelievable. As was the finished dish. Sam, when he sampled it, pulled a face she had never seen in their own kitchen before.

This is seriously good, Melissa. No kidding
.

And now – finally here was Wednesday. Her father looking just a little bit uneasy, evidently wondering what was going on.

‘Cheese straws? Good God, Melissa. I love cheese straws!’

They were sitting on opposite sofas – Melissa trying to appear relaxed, with her shoes kicked off and her feet up, hugging a cushion to her stomach.

‘These are really good. Phooo,’ he took a glug of wine. ‘Hot, mind. Just how I like them.’

‘I made them myself.’

‘You are kidding me?’

‘No. Honestly.’

Max pulled a face.

‘You know your mother used to make these for me. One day she played this trick. Put in practically a whole jar of cayenne. Nearly choked to death.’

Melissa smiled. Max glanced away.

‘You can stay over, you know, Dad. If you fancy. I mean, I’m assuming you’ve spent ridiculous money on good wine. Shame for you not to enjoy it.’

‘I’m fine. Will get a taxi if need be. See how we go.’

Max always picked good wine. The two bottles he had brought sported impressive mesh covers. It would be wasted on Melissa but she was pleased to see him savouring each mouthful.

‘So what’s going on here, Melissa? I thought you didn’t much like to cook?’

‘On holiday we had such terrific food, Sam and I decided it was high time to make more effort. We’ve made a pact to do better. Might even go on a course.’

Max pulled a face of both surprise and approval. ‘Very good idea. I’ll drink to that. Something is certainly smelling good in the kitchen tonight,’ he reached forward for another cheese straw.

‘So come on then, Dad. What was all that stuff when we were away.
Am I sexist
? You’re not in any kind of trouble at work, are you?’

‘No. Anyway. It doesn’t matter now…’

‘Yes, it does. Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it up. Sent that text.’

‘You could have phoned if you were that interested?’

‘Sorry,’ she was blushing. ‘You know what I’m like. Especially on holiday. And we got a bit distracted with the accident nonsense.’

Max took a deep breath and leant back. ‘OK, then. So here it is. I married a beautiful woman. I like beautiful women. I am beginning to worry what that says about me.’

‘It says that you are a normal, hot-blooded male and that in marriage, you got lucky,’ Melissa poured them both water from a large jug in the centre of the coffee table. ‘Seriously. What’s this about, Dad?’

‘Oh. Eggshells at work. Political correctness. I don’t know.’

‘So you are in some kind of trouble? Put your foot in it?’

‘No, not exactly. But think about it. I spent your whole childhood telling you that you are beautiful.’

‘Which was lovely, but not actually true.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘No it isn’t, actually. On a good day and with the wind behind me I do OK. But I’m not beautiful.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Look, Dad. Liking beautiful women and thinking your daughter is beautiful is one thing, but from where I’m sitting, you don’t judge all women by what they look like all of the time. When it’s not relevant. In their jobs, I mean. In everyday life.’

‘No of course not.’

‘There. You said –
of course not
. But the fact is some men do, Dad. Some men grade all women all the time entirely by what they look like. Work and play. And if they don’t like the look of them, you sort of see their eyes scanning the room to find someone better looking to talk to.’

‘Oh don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not. That’s what sexism really is. Deciding that women don’t count, not even for conversation, unless they’re pretty. It’s completely different from finding someone attractive and wanting to date them. Or marry them. Or – you know,’ she managed not to say it.

Max pulled a face.

‘You OK, Dad? Really?’

‘Oh. I don’t know. Mid-life crisis probably. It’s just so difficult these days being a guy and worrying about saying the wrong thing. You know – everything so politically correct. In the workplace. Bloody minefield.’

‘But we need –
politically correct
. Keep the gropers in their place. We only just got the vote remember.’ Her tone was teasing.

Max pulled another face. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have brought this up.’

‘Anyway. Never mind. So long as you’re not in trouble at work,’ she clinked his wine glass and then disappeared into the kitchen, calling him through soon afterward to serve the boeuf bourguignon with dauphinoise potatoes and a green salad.

He was genuinely stunned by the meal. Repeated over and over how amazing it was. That it was the best decision ever for she and Sam to get more serious about the kitchen.
Unbelievable, Melissa. The best I have tasted since
…

A few times she caught him staring at the casserole dish and frowning but he didn’t say anything about it.

She hadn’t bothered with a pud, offering cheese instead which he said he might try later. Needing a break. And so they moved back into the sitting room with the second bottle of wine.

‘And now my turn to ask you something, Dad.’ A pause. ‘Was there ever anything between you and Mum that you didn’t tell me about, Dad? Anything difficult. A blip when you were first together.’

Melissa had not read the stuck pages. Not yet. She had got up early to go swimming every single day since their arrival back from Cyprus. She had enjoyed the cooking. She had felt more hopeful about that. More connected to her mother and her past. But she had decided that she would not read the sealed pages until she had spoken to her father. Still a bit scared.