Recipes for Melissa (21 page)

She shook the pan as the front door slammed shut and then reached into the cupboard above for two wine glasses.

‘Will you have a glass, Max?’

‘Yes. Just one. Red please.’

She poured the wine slowly, her back turned and standing still for a moment.

‘Look. I am sorry about this. Not quite what I planned.’

‘No worry.’

‘I honestly thought Freddie was staying,’ she said finally, turning to hand Max his glass then leaning back against the kitchen cupboards. ‘He’s either up in the cave or out these days.’

‘Pretty normal for the age, I’m afraid.’

‘So everyone tells me.’

‘So this sucking up. I’m very pleased to see it involves seafood. A favourite. Such a shame about Sarah.’

‘Yes.’

They both sipped their wine in silence. A whole minute passed.

‘More food for us. Smells terrific.’

‘She seemed fine this afternoon.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Oh right. Well – these things can come on quite quickly. Probably had something iffy in one of the canteens.’

‘Look. I am really sorry about this, Max. I feel a little awkward, to be honest. Especially – with Freddie. It’s not that he means to be rude.’

‘It’s fine. Like I say. I have the T-shirt.’

‘I’m being too keen, aren’t I?’ Anna turned to the pan again and began to sprinkle the seafood over the top of the paella. ‘With the job. Frightening the horses?’

‘Nonsense. Keen is good.’ And then Max used the cue to talk work. Economics and politics with reference to her plans for the new European economics module she was proposing as a year two option for students. He babbled on about the possibility of a new paper – especially with the topicality. Max could see that she was very savvy – thinking ahead. It could well trigger interest in the PR department, bringing in some media interest; would also be a hit with foreign students where so much of the budget lay these days. But he was struggling to concentrate.

Anna was tonight wearing fitted jersey trousers in a soft grey with a charcoal top – wide on the shoulders with a bright turquoise necklace which, from his recollection of white noise past, was called ‘statement jewellery’. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail and she was wearing flip flops. Max was very glad he had decided against a jacket.

He gave her some feedback on her plans and then brought her up to speed regarding some of the others on the team. Who had the most influence these days. Who to avoid. And who was handling the real maths behind the scenes – particularly vis-à-vis foreign students.

He told the truth also – that for all the politics and the backbiting and the financial pressure of the new ‘marketplace’, he still loved university life.

‘Even the students?’ She was teasing.

‘Yes. Even the students.’

He told her then that she had made a good career move and, on Sarah’s watch, would have excellent prospects – especially if she was pitching for media exposure. Yes. The university would like that very much.

‘You don’t think Sarah was just making an excuse tonight?’ Anna said suddenly. ‘That I overstepped the mark. Too much too soon? You must say, Max. I really would rather know. It’s just I can be a bit full on. I do know that.’

‘Look, Anna. The truth? I’m not very good on the grapevine and I don’t socialise with colleagues as much as some others – perhaps as much as I should. But Sarah, from the snippets I pick up, is very open to getting to know colleagues outside of the treadmill. She’s a really nice person. I’m sure the call was genuine. Not an excuse.’

She seemed pleased with this – smiling and serving the paella with a large green salad. The dish was exactly as it was supposed to be – the seafood not overcooked but the rice with a slightly sticky crust on the bottom. They discussed the differences. Paella and risotto. Both clearly enjoying the food. The company.

And then suddenly, before Max realised, they were on a second coffee and Anna seemed agitated, checking her watch. It was just past ten thirty.

‘Better just send a text.’

He could see then that she was not quite following his conversation as the next fifteen minutes ticked quickly by. No return text. No key in the door.

‘Look. I should probably go, Anna. Unless I can help? Collecting Freddie for you perhaps? I’ve only had the one glass. As I’m driving home.’

‘Well you heard him. Lift is supposed to be sorted, though I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have had that second glass myself now,’ she was now standing to dial her mobile. ‘Would you excuse me, Max?’

‘Hello – Andy? Hi. Sorry to be a nag but just checking that you’re OK to bring Freddie back. I said ten thirty to him. Don’t know if he passed that on.’

And then there was a pause; Anna’s face changed and Max guessed immediately.

‘No. Not your fault. What are they like? I’ll ring around. If you could just check if Jack knows anything. Thanks.’

‘He’s not there?’

Anna just shook her head, the same change in her face that he recognised from that awful time in the office when she had lost it.

‘Right. Don’t panic. Melissa did this to me more than once. You start the calls – to his other friends – and I’ll make more coffee.’

‘You sure? You don’t think I should just ring the police?’

‘Not my call, but – no; I would suggest a ring round first. He’ll turn up.’

‘And you don’t need to get off?’

‘I’m fine.’

And then she had her mobile up to her ear again and was pacing towards the French doors, trying friend after friend, while Max refilled the cafetière. Anna smiled thanks as he put a cup of coffee alongside her which she allowed to go cold, untouched, as she continued to phone and pace.

‘That’s it. I’ve tried everyone. No one has a clue where he is. So what now? Do I just wait? Phone the police. Go out looking?’

Max didn’t want to say it. He had been listening in to the calls. Impossible not to.

‘What about his father? Could he—’

‘He’s in Germany.’

‘Right.’

‘I don’t want to call him about this. Not yet.’

‘Right.’

‘Well it’s not for me, Anna. But I would give it a little bit longer. He’s not replied to your text?’

‘No. Still straight through to answerphone. I’ve left three messages.’

More pacing. More phoning. Another coffee allowed to go cold. And then as she emerged from the cloakroom, eyes clearly red, Max stood up.

‘You don’t think that I might have unintentionally upset him. That he might have the got the wrong end of the stick.’

‘No. I don’t think so. He knew I had invited Sarah. No. At least I certainly hope not. I mean – I explained. I told him yesterday—’

And then suddenly there was the sound of the key in the door and Anna’s whole body changed shape.

Freddie appeared, still wearing his headphones.

‘Nice evening?’ Anna’s face was in transition from relief to fury. It was ten to midnight.

Freddie signalled that he could not hear. Anna signalled that he had better take out his earphones.

‘I asked if you had a nice evening?’

‘Yeah,’ he shrugged. ‘All right.’

‘I’d better go,’ Max was whispering, gathering up his keys from the coffee table. ‘A lovely supper, Anna. And it was good to talk your plans through properly. I’ll see myself out.’

Anna nodded, mouthing ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ before turning back to her son. ‘No, Freddie. No disappearing upstairs. You need to sit down and we need to talk.’

26

MELISSA – 2011

Melissa watched Sam limp his way through customs and started to rehearse an edited version of events for her father. She had decided to tell him about the journal in her own time over a nice, quiet dinner. But not now. Please. No big inquisitions now.

‘What the bloody hell—’ Max’s face at the arrival gate was everything she feared.

Melissa glanced at Sam’s heavily bandaged leg beneath his frayed shorts. ‘It’s all right, Dad. We’re all right. Honestly.’ She hugged her father, regretting the defensive tone.

‘But what’s happened? Why didn’t you ring me? What on earth has happened to you?’

‘Look. It was an accident. Up in the mountains. A motorbike. He’s fine. Just some stiches.’

‘You hired a bike?’

‘No, Dad. Not us. Look. Can we move out of this cramped area and I’ll tell you everything. In the car.’

‘So is this why you didn’t answer my texts. Are you hurt as well, Melissa? Is there something you’re not—’

‘No. Dad. Just Sam.’

‘We’re doing fine, Mr Dance,’ Sam tried to smile. ‘We didn’t want you to worry. Just need to get home now.’

‘Yes. Of course. Right.’

Max insisted on taking the handle of the monster case, frowning at the addition of the bright pink holdall which Melissa was carrying as they all turned towards the exit.

‘I can’t believe you needed an extra bag? With this thing?’

‘Long story. Are you in the short stay, Dad?’

‘Yeah. Just across the way. Follow me.’

‘God it feels cold here.’

On the drive, Melissa provided the bare minimum of details, feigning tiredness. And then on arrival home as Sam moved into the main hall of the block of flats, Melissa stood in the doorway to bar her father’s path.

‘Look. I really don’t mean to be rude, Dad. Or ungrateful. But it’s been a bit exhausting. I’ll tell you everything at dinner. Next Wednesday?’ she was whispering, glancing behind her.

‘Look I’ll come in. At least help you with the heavy stuff.’

‘No. It’s OK, Dad. We’re fine. I’ll see you Wednesday.’

‘And you won’t cancel on me?’

‘No. I promise. In fact I’ve had an idea. I’ll text you about it,’ she turned again, staring into the large hallway as Sam wheeled the case behind him. ‘Just a long journey. We’re exhausted.’

Max fidgeted with the keys now in his pocket.

‘Well. If you’re absolutely sure you’re OK?’

‘We’re fine.’

By the time she joined Sam in the sitting room, he was already phoning home. Melissa was not surprised. He had put on a brave face the last couple of days but was obviously more worried about his brother than he was letting on. He would no doubt want to go straight over there and it was now dawning that, if so, he would need a lift. The leg still not safe to drive.

Melissa began sorting through the pile of letters in her hand and sighed. Her mother was right. It was so much easier to go with the gut; to justify an opt-out than to do the right thing. Be kind.

She went through to the kitchen to make coffee and looked around the room. There was that strange and momentary frisson of adjustment that returning home always brought. The shift from the picture of the work surface on holiday to this one. Supposedly so familiar and yet for just a few seconds – strange. She had completely forgotten quite how dark this marble was.

And then she was thinking of something else. The cardboard box in the garage. Melissa paused and pushed the thought away. No. Not today. She would let Sam rest, visit his brother and then check out the box when everything had settled down a bit.

‘I’ll pop to Waitrose, shall I? Get us some steaks and salad and some basics,’ Melissa picked up her own car keys ready, calling through to Sam who had just finished on the phone. ‘And when we’ve had supper, I’ll drive you over to Marcus if you like.’

He came through now to check her face. ‘I thought you’d be too tired?’

‘I don’t mind. But I’d like to pop to the shop and eat first.’

‘Are you really sure you don’t mind driving me later?’ He was looking right into her eyes. ‘It can wait until tomorrow.’

‘No. I don’t mind. He’ll be pleased to see you.’

They drank their coffee, sorting through the post and then Melissa moved through to the bedroom to recover the grey silk bag with her mother’s book from the case. She placed it in a striped raffia shopping basket, before kissing Sam briefly and setting off.

At Waitrose she went straight to the cafe, ordered a large cappuccino and, heart pounding, placed the book on the table.

Roasted squash and spinach soup with feta

Whole butternut squash – peeled, de-seeded and cubed

Half bag of washed baby spinach

Two red onions – chopped in large chunks

Small pack of good feta

Two big springs of rosemary – chopped

Good olive oil

Several cloves of crushed garlic

Two to three pints of good stock (vegetable or chicken)

Toss the butternut squash and onions in a few glugs of olive oil, sprinkle over sea salt, crushed garlic and chopped rosemary and roast for 45 mins to an hour until soft and gorgeous. Put the veg with half the bag of spinach and simmer for just a few minutes in the stock. Add the feta and allow to melt. Season to taste and blitz in a processor or with a hand blitzer. You can adjust the amount of stock to make a thinner or thicker soup to taste. Ditto the amount of spinach you use is trial and error. The colour of this is a bit dark but I absolutely love it.

I have chosen this as what I rather think may have to be the final recipe for you, Melissa. A real favourite. Simple but more delicious than it deserves to be for the work involved. It was an accidental discovery, as so many good recipes are. A friend gave me a recipe for a roasted squash and feta salad on a bed of baby spinach and one day I made too much. Loads left over. So I threw it in a pan with some stock for soup and, of course, everyone RAVED about it. So now I make this soup more often than I make the salad.

And I’m rambling.

Which I always do when I’m nervous.

The truth?

I want to ramble on for ever, my darling girl, as we are running out of time and I am finding it difficult to hold things together here, trying to work out how to end this when I still have so much that I want to say to you.

I am not done here, Melissa, but I am getting weaker. And you have noticed. Your eight-year-old self, I mean. The truth is I am quite sure you have realised for a good while than I am unwell. You are a clever little girl and children miss very little. I have said it is just ladies’ tummy trouble and you do not seem to want to ask many questions. I write this not to upset you but because I wonder how much you will remember and how much I may have misunderstood.