Stockings and Cellulite (20 page)

‘Dove si trova la lavanderia automatica?’

‘That was beautiful,’ I whispered hoarsely.

‘Don’t get too worked up,’ he laughed mischievously, ‘I was only dropping hints about you doing a spot of laundry. Come on, let’s throw some salad together to go with lunch.’

Good natured Joanie was despatched to collect her grandmother from the station and over the next twenty minutes or so a steady troop of youngsters filed into the kitchen two by two, a bit like the animals from Noah’s Ark. Matt introduced them as each slouched past, shoulders hunched in the posture all teenagers seemed to adopt. Four girls were daughters from his second and third marriages and were staying for the weekend. Two lads were boyfriends of two of the daughters. Another two boys were step-sons from the current marriage who wanted to stay put until their mother was properly sorted out in her new home. One was a step-son’s girlfriend and another pair I recognised from earlier that morning as being Petra and Jonas.

‘And I do believe these two are yours,’ concluded Matt as the twins traipsed after the others down the hallway, for all the world as if they lived in this house too.

Matt poured my third glass of wine. It had been a long time since breakfast and I was a little tipsy.

‘I can hear Joanie’s car. Mama has arrived.’ He slung a dishcloth over his shoulder and went off to greet her.

‘What’s her name,’ I called after his departing back.

‘Mia.’

Mia. Mama Mia. I giggled. Here I go again. I snorted into my wine glass. My My. Mama Mia waddled into the kitchen, a formidable sight swathed from head to toe in black widow weeds and clutching a handbag the size of a small suitcase. Introductions were made and then everybody got down to the business of eating.

Lunch was an informal affair with almost everybody dressed in stable gear and smelling absolutely outrageous. Mismatched cutlery was noisily extracted from a drawer, plates were grabbed at lightning speed from cupboards and mountainous servings were heaped into various landscape arrangements across individual platters. What seemed like hundreds of teenagers then scattered and regrouped to various corners of the house to eat – be it prostrated on a floor in front of a handily available television, ensconced on a sofa, reclining in an armchair, or squashed around the kitchen table. I could see the twins found it refreshingly decadent compared to my own ideas of where and how meals should be taken. I was very alive to the fact that not one single person had washed their hands before eating. Indeed, even the twins were sporting filthy hands and black fingernails.

However, no amount of germs or grime could detract from the deliciously aromatic food being forked up by one and all. More wine was brought up from the cellar and I reasoned that a fourth glass was surely permissible now my stomach was full of blotting paper. I gazed blearily around at my fellow luncheon companions and gave a contented sigh. Best not to drink any more though. The brain was ticking over nicely but I suspected it might not fully connect to the mouth.

Despite Mia’s many years in England, she spoke with a heavy accent and I struggled to understand her, although it would be fair to say she battled to comprehend me too.

‘I hava terrib arthrite,’ she was telling me. ‘Needa walk stick anda beega willchair summatime.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Ver pain.’

‘Do you take tablets?’

‘Huh?’

‘Doo yoo take painkillers?’

Mia stared at me in bewilderment. I looked fuzzily at her. Had a nasty feeling I’d actually asked her whether she pained takekillers. No matter.

‘Drugs,’ I tried again.

‘Droogs?’

Might be best to mime. ‘Drugs,’ I repeated carefully. Lest there be any further doubts I leant over the kitchen table and, with an index finger pressed firmly against one nostril, gave a glaringly obvious impression on how to snort a line of cocaine. Mia instantly looked liked she’d swallowed a gobstopper.

‘Droogs!’ she exclaimed, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline as the dawn came up. ‘Nonna my familia tayka droogs, nevair, my chillren are all gooda chillren, my son ees gooda boy.’

I boggled at her. What had her son got to do with prescription drugs for arthritis? Perhaps it was time to change the subject.

‘Are you going on holiday this year?’ I asked politely before taking another sip of wine. Somehow the glass missed my lips and banged painfully against my front teeth.

‘Mebbe,’ Mia glared at me. ‘Mebbe Eeetally.’

‘Oh right. Will Mebbe be very hot?’

Matt appeared to be weeping into his lasagne.

When Joanie drove Mama back to the station I was left with a sneaking suspicion I’d failed to make a good impression. Oh well. It wasn’t like she was going to be my future mother-in-law.

However, I deeply regretted drinking too much and consequently not being able to drive. Matt came to the rescue driving us home in my car with Joanie following behind in her little Renault.

As he drove, Matt gave me a sidelong look. ‘Half term starts tomorrow. Have you got any plans?’

‘As a matter of fact yes. I’ve been toying with the idea of doing some decorating and having some new flooring put down. That should keep me busy while the kids are off school.’

‘That’s nice. Bit boring for the kids though. Why don’t you let Liv and Toby spend the week up the stables giving me a hand and in exchange they can have riding lessons?’

‘Ooh can we Mum?’ Livvy begged.

‘Well I-’

‘Please Mum,’ Toby implored. ‘It will be dead boring at home with you up to your armpits in dustsheets.’

‘They’re more than welcome,’ Matt assured.

‘Well, if you’re sure, that’s very kind of you.’

‘Yay!’ the twins cheered as the car came to a standstill on our drive. The back doors opened and they tumbled out in high spirits.

I turned to face Matt. ‘You are such a nice man. A very, very nice man.’

‘So you keep telling me,’ Matt smiled wryly. He leant across the handbrake and brushed a fleeting kiss against my cheek. ‘Come un raggio di sole hai illuminato la mia vita.’

Heavens. I palpitated a bit before clambering unsteadily from the car.

As the week progressed the temperature soared setting a record for early June. Matt kept his promise providing holiday jobs at the stables for Livvy and Toby. I kept myself busy appointing a carpenter who replaced the worn shagpile with golden floorboards.

To say I felt huge gratitude to Matt was an understatement. I really liked the guy but, confusingly, couldn’t seem to work out my feelings toward him. He was great fun, kind and attractive. So did I fancy him or not?

One late afternoon, after the carpenter had departed, I drove to the stables to collect Liv and Toby. I found them stuffing hay nets and in deep conversation with Petra and Jonas.

‘Aw Mum, give us ten more minutes,’ Toby wheedled.

‘Make it five,’ I smiled and went off in search of Matt. I was aware of Petra staring after me.

‘Why does your mum look so familiar?’ I heard her say.

Matt was in the indoor riding school giving a private dressage lesson. I watched from the seated area until he’d finished, then put up my hand to catch his eye. He immediately waved and strolled over.

‘Sorry if I hum a bit,’ he leant across the wooden divide and planted a kiss on my cheek. Ah good, no lips. But ridiculously I felt disappointed. Why?

‘Now then Mr Harding. You’ve been an absolute brick this week allowing Liv and Toby up here to hang out and get under your feet. I insist on showing you my appreciation and gratitude.’

‘Ooh promises promises. Keep going Cass. This is music to my ears.’

I gave him a light cuff. ‘I want to cook you a really special dinner to say thank you. Something Italian eh?’

‘Right.’ Matt paused and stared down at his riding boots.

‘Oh. Is there a “but” coming up?’

‘No, not as such. It’s a very nice gesture Cass and I’m touched but-’

‘I knew it!’

‘But you really don’t need to do that. And apart from anything else, I know you can’t cook.’

‘Don’t be rid-
ic-
ulous,’ I spluttered, ‘of
course
I can cook – when I want to – and I’m not taking no for an answer.’

Matt raised his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, no problem. In that case I would be delighted to accept your invitation. And when is this veritable feast taking place?’

‘Tomorrow evening. My place.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’

‘Good,’ I grinned, ‘that’s settled then.’ I turned to walk back to the children but Matt caught my arm.

‘Oh and Cass?’

‘Yes?’

‘You can be pudding.’

‘Ha ha!’

In actual fact, the very thought of a sexy close encounter with Matt had me breaking out in a complete muck sweat. But perhaps I was just nervous, after the previous disaster with Euan. Yes, that was probably it.

It was only as I lay languishing in the bath later that evening that I realised what an idiotic suggestion it had been to insist I cook for Matt. I should have suggested a table for two at The Rose and Crown. Nothing wrong with a bit of gastro pub grub. But no. Stupidly I’d led him to believe that, when I had the whim, my culinary skills eclipsed Jamie Oliver. What the hell had I been thinking of? Dolloping Dolmio over a bowl of soggy penne was a no-no. This was a man who’d been raised at his mama’s knee with the finest in home cooking.

The following morning, the moment Stevie had collected the twins for the weekend, I hastened to the kitchen to pour over my cookery books. It turned out to be just the one book –
The Best of Baking
. As I flipped through three hundred pages of buns, breads, pastries, gateaux and cookies, realisation dawned that a starter of fairy cakes followed by Victoria Sponge for mains and pancakes for pud was simply not on. Where was the recipe for Fettuccine Alfredo or Pasta e Fagioli when I needed it? And even if I had those recipes would I know what to do with them?

I reached for the phone and tapped out the number of Carlo and Luigi in Boxleigh High Street.

‘Hello…Carlo? My name is Cassandra Cherry and I wondered if you could possibly help me out of a tight spot?’

At half past six I drew up outside Carlo and Luigi’s restaurant and loaded my boot with several foil trays containing professionally cooked delights. Fifteen minutes later it was carefully transferred to my own oven on a very low heat, as instructed by Carlo, in hardly-ever-used casserole pots. Five minutes later every foil tray had been disposed of in a black sack and dumped in the wheelie bin outside. However, the dustmen had yet to come a-calling and the wheelie bin was bulging with household detritus. But my plans hadn’t come this far to be thwarted at the eleventh hour by an overflowing dustbin. After a thorough pummelling, the topmost bag of garbage had been squashed into the receptacle. Unfortunately the lid remained obstinately raised, but no matter.

Matt arrived with two bottles of red Chianti tucked under each arm.

‘You rather enjoyed this the last time we indulged,’ he smiled and carefully set the bottles on the kitchen table. ‘All we need now is a line of cocaine and the evening will be perfection.’

I winced at the memory. ‘Not funny Mr Harding.’

Matt busied himself looking for a corkscrew and glasses. ‘Mm. Something smells good,’ he sniffed appreciatively.

Feeling terribly smug, I bustled over to the oven and dished up.

‘The evening shall commence,’ I announced, ‘with minestrone verdure con crostini.’

‘Hey not bad pronunciation Cass,’ said Matt sitting down at the table. He dipped his spoon into the hot liquid. ‘Very nice. In fact delicious.’

‘Medaglione di manzo,’ I placed the mains on the table with a little flourish. Matt eyeballed the delicate medallions of beef, wilted spring spinach and just-so creamed mash plus a boat of peppercorn sauce with an expression of incredulity.

‘Cass I take absolutely everything back about you not being a cook. This is seriously impressive.’ He popped a tender medallion in his mouth and rolled his eyes appreciatively. ‘Heaven. You must have been chained to the kitchen all afternoon.’

‘Oh it was nothing,’ I said quite truthfully.

Finally, dessert.

‘A small confession,’ I declared placing a dish of tiramisu upon the table. ‘Pudding is courtesy of Sainsbury’s.’ Well there was no point in lying all the way was there?

Much later, feeling incredibly mellow from so much wine, we sank into the sofa side by side to watch a late night movie. It seemed only natural for Matt to put an arm around me as he flicked through the channels. What was it with men and remote controls?

‘Ooh, naughty channel,’ he commented.

I stiffened.

On screen a bronzed blonde with massive fake breasts woodenly invited viewers to press the red button on their remote control
now.

‘What happens if you press the red button,’ I croaked.

‘The blonde and her female chum will romp in the buff wearing only whipped cream on their bits and pieces,’ Matt laughed.

I shifted uneasily on the sofa.

‘Fancy it?’ whispered Matt pulling me closer. I was enveloped in a bear hug and suddenly on intimate terms with an Aramis scented armpit.

‘Ah well now, don’t let me spoil your fun. I’ll just go and wash up and leave you to it eh? And then I’ll pop back in time for the movie.’

Matt turned his body into mine at exactly the same moment I made to get up. Instead of finding myself released and unfettered I was instead nose to nose with his face, his lips a mere two millimetres from mine. The hazel eyes bore into mine, searching for just the smallest of signals that would indicate the green light and
go, go, go
. I stared back wide-eyed and terrified, hands clasped tightly in my lap, torso stiff and unyielding.

Suddenly Matt released me. There was a pause and then he switched the television off.

‘You know I really would like to get to know you better Cass. Much better. But I truly don’t know how to go about it. One minute we’re larking about, swapping banter, having a laugh and flirty chit-chat. And then suddenly you’re backing off with red flags waving and whistles blowing. To say I’m confused is an understatement.’