Season to Taste (7 page)

The job wasn't so important as keeping the mind open to options and believing there were some. Even if she didn't get the
job—it wasn't likely, given her appearance, and general demeanor, given what she'd done—she must carry on as normal, and press
on with what life had in store for her this month.

The day dawned dry and calm. There wasn't to be an excuse in the weather. She lay in bed feeling enormous and achy and she
placed her hands on her waist and felt around her hips and thighs. It was all there already, all that meat and fat.

Lynn, who managed the Bird Hotel on the outskirts of Farnham, was a large-breasted tall woman in navy sweatshirt, tailored
trousers, and trainers. She had with her Steven, who'd worked before in video and visual communications in Farnham and held
his hand out round a clipboard. They needed a team member, someone who would smile at the desk.

“Not much of a commute then,” they said in unison, then beamed at each other and laughed. Lynn was probably in her early fifties
too—but she was bouncy, and looked like the sort of woman who kept herself young by plugging in to a younger crowd.

In front of the sliding doors at the entrance, where they'd come to greet her, Lizzie looked down at her shoes. They looked
small and dusty-black against her bobbly, woolly tights. The dog had come with her, and was chained up, whining, while traffic
thundered past.

The hotel had one hundred and fifty rooms. The car park was being redesigned, which was why the Porta­kabin and tarpaulin
were out there. The carpet was lilac and blue and green stripes, thin stripes. It was warm inside, and spacious.

Lynn took them to the circle of tub chairs in the lobby and went off to get some coffee. Steven's task was to make Lizzie
feel relaxed, so he leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs out, smiled, and crossed his ankles. He pointed to the surveillance
camera in the corner. They were putting new ones up in the car park, he said.

“You'll probably miss them, though,” he said, grinning, and Lizzie wasn't sure what he meant. She felt herself retreating.

Then Steven said, “Precisely,” with a finger up in the air, and she wondered what she'd missed in the conversation.

Lizzie chewed the inside of her cheek and felt the sweat slide in beads over her ribs. Her Wellingtons were in the bag beside
her chair.

She lifted her chin to smooth out the saggy bit in her neck. She was still feeling sick.

Lynn came back with a tray of coffee and biscuits, and unwrapped the cling film. The biscuits were chocolate ones, cookies
half dipped in chocolate. She pushed the plate over and then sat back in the tub.

“You've been out of work for a while,” she said.

“Seven years,” said Lizzie. Then she made a point of smiling at them both.

“And how do you feel?”

“I…?”

“How do you feel about having been out of work for seven years?” Lynn was smiling with her whole face. Her lips were softly
crinkled at the corners, her eyes barely there.

Lizzie swallowed. “I feel nervous,” she said. She let some air out through a small circle in her lips.

Steven nodded and wrote something down.

“Is that your dog out there?” said Lynn.

“Yes,” said Lizzie. “Do you like dogs?”

“I do,” said Lynn.

Lizzie closed her eyes, very briefly, and saw in her mind the steel-gray eyes she had loved, and then the stomach contents
lain out on the grass.

“So, you've been busy making…cakes?”

“It's a hobby really. Yes.”

“On your own?”

Lizzie said: “Yes. I'm newly alone.”

“Me too,” said Lynn, and then she bit down on a biscuit and gave Lizzie a cozy little wink.

Lizzie felt herself going a little pale. The stomach had been the only thing she had not been able to save. She had cut through
the waist with the carving knife and managed to puncture it so that its contents slipped out onto the grass. She hadn't expected
to see the meat lumps, and the actual oats. She'd expected to gag, but not like that, not from what had felt like her soul.

“How do you find it so far?” said Lynn. “Living on your own.”

“I think I'll get used to it.”

“I was ambivalent at first,” said Lynn. She brushed some crumbs from her chest. “But now it's fine. Matter of fact, it suits
me well.”

Steven was looking embarrassed, looking down the length of his long legs at his shoes. Lizzie liked the fact that she could
see that in him, when he was animated, when he was bored. She felt she'd not had this skill in the past. Being able to tell
how others felt wasn't something that people without imagination were good at, Jacob had pointed out. She could see now that
it wasn't true, that empathy was as much with her as it was with anyone. She smiled at Steven. He smiled back.

“I think it's all fine,” said Lynn, looking, shrugging, at Steven. “Don't really see the point in our sitting here asking
you all kinds of questions which aren't really relevant to whether you're going to be doing this job, and how. We've had a
run of young ones and they've got restless and bored. Need someone who doesn't mind routine, who wants the job, you know?”
She looked at Steven. “Yvonne wanted to travel and Vicky just sat here at the desk looking at the clock all day and reading
her Facebook page. The hotel's not so busy in the week. We do conferences and weddings at the weekends. We need someone solid,
reliable. And it seems to me that the best thing to do is just offer you the chance to come in for a few days sometime. We're
doing refurbs. So it won't be till May.”

She looked at Steven. “Sound all right?”

“Fine by me,” said Steven, and he smacked his thigh quite gently with his fist. He'd drunk his coffee and seemed to be enjoying
himself. “Thing is, it's a jungle out there,” he went on, pointing a long white finger in the direction of the sliding doors
and the main road.

Lizzie looked at him.

He looked back at her, and smiled. “Ah,” he said. “I thought that would surprise you.” He winked then, and Lizzie felt sure
he'd started to tease. She didn't mind it though. She almost felt like she could tease back.

“Carrie will be working with you on the desk,” said Lynn. “She's got a dog. She lives in Farnham with her Steven.”

“Not me,” said Steven. “He's a ‘ph,' I believe.” Then he spelled it out for her. Lizzie smiled. In ordinary circumstances
she might well have found by now that she was having difficulty breathing. She looked at the light coming through the high
windows and imagined herself in a church with some silent people sitting in the pews. Out on the main road life was hurtling
by. Down in the woods there was a Volvo parked by her house with her husband's smell trapped in the upholstery. There was
a freezer full of pieces of him. In here, though, up at the hotel, she was all right; and even though her heart was thumping
underneath her interview shirt, she was quite safe, and the temperature was just right.

“Do you have a bike?” asked Steven, grinning as he bit into his biscuit.

Lizzie looked at the two of them.

“Steven comes by bike,” said Lynn. “Like most people these days. Which is nice, isn't it? My son works in a bike shop in Farnham.
Been there seven years now. Went to university and studied engineering. Ended up working in a bike shop. Quite happy, though.
Loves it.”

“Same with my mate Tom,” said Steven. “He works at the garden center now. Studied for a degree in biology or something, I
think. But you know that because he put us in touch with you, Lizzie. Said his neighbor was out of work and looking for a
job.”

“Yes. I know the neighbors,” she said quietly.

“Tom's become a nice-looking young man,” said Steven to Lynn in a way that made him sound like an uncle. “He didn't finish
the degree.”

“It was horticulture and garden design,” said Lizzie.

“He didn't finish,” said Steven.

“So working at the garden center to get some experience isn't such a bad idea,” Lynn said.

“Yes, I know him,” Lizzie said, leaning forward. She wasn't going to take the job. She was hot sitting here with the clot
of anxiety in her chest. In a fortnight, or less, she'd be on a train to Scotland.

If she hadn't married a man like the one she did, she might have made better friends. She took a sip of her coffee. People
leaned into life when it felt safe to do so. When life felt warm and inviting people came in to be there. Otherwise they hung
back, waiting, growing pale. Had things been different, she might have gone up to the farm more regularly. Barbara was an
odd woman, but she might have become a friend.

“Good coffee, isn't it?” said Lynn, resting her cup on her breast. She used her free hand to wipe around her face as if it
were a flannel. Then she let out a huge sigh, as if, in almost offering Lizzie the job, she'd tired herself out. “Busy morning
we've had so far, haven't we, Steven?”

“Very,” he said, and nodded vigorously. Lizzie looked at their trainers. They were wearing the same ones: shiny white with
a pale blue stripe running down the side.

“Is there a uniform?” she asked.

Lynn tilted her head over towards the reception desk where a girl was sitting with a headset on.

“Carrie's in,” said Lynn. “See the shirt?”

Lizzie looked. It was a white shirt, with a soft frilly collar.

“What are the hours?” she said. Steven checked his clipboard.

“Varies,” he said. “It's done on a rota. Eight-hour standard, though. Six till two. Eight till four. Ten till six. And so
on.”

“Well,” said Lynn. “Not really ‘so on.' We don't go beyond two in the afternoon till ten at night.”

“No,” said Steven.

They wondered if she'd like to have a think.

“How about we speak again Monday week?” he said.

Lizzie looked at them both and frowned. She was almost being offered a job. They stood up. Lizzie put her coffee cup down
on the table and gathered her things.

“I'll show you over to the desk,” said Lynn, “and you can meet Carrie.”

It
was
remarkable. On Sunday morning, she'd cooked the right foot. With pumpkin. She ate at the table using the fruit knife to take
strips off the bone. She sat perfectly still and upright, not needing to read the newspaper or listen to the radio. The workings
of her mouth, brain and jaw had been in perfect unison. No need for thought. Open. Close. Chew. Swallow. Then the toenails,
the knuckles and the smaller bones had been crushed in a blender with salt, turmeric and cumin. She'd eaten the mush heaped
on a plate with herbs from the garden; she had all sorts, and rosemary gave it character. The ankle she put in the stockpot
and reduced, as before. Then blended again. Reduced, reduced. Then she'd put the stock in a Tupperware container in the fridge.

At the Dog and Duck on the way back from the hotel, Lizzie ordered a glass of white wine and a packet of crisps. Mike, behind
the bar, had a ponytail of dread-locked hair and a black ring in his eyebrow. He said there was a bowl round the back, by
the door to the garden, if Rita needed a drink.

“It's OK,” Lizzie said, catching sight of her face in the mirror behind the bar. Despite her efforts at makeup—enough to cover
the marks and sags—she still looked pale. “What a fright,” she whispered, as her mother would have done, fingering the coins
in her purse.

“It's not busy,” he said. “For a Monday.”

Lizzie gave him a five-pound note. Already this morning she had spoken more words than she'd usually done in a week. It wasn't
hard to find a few more.

“Was it busy at the weekend?”

“Had a guitarist here Saturday night. He was all right. Old Emmett from the farm got stuck at that table in the corner. Had
to give him a fireman's lift to the car and take him home.”