Chapter 4
There were thirteen of us to be seated around the huge oval table in the beautifully decorated dining room just off the kitchen.
Itching to see this fabulous kitchen (fitted out, apparently, with top-of-the-range equipment over which Mum had enthused almost as much as Kamran’s wildflower garden), I managed only a glimpse into its shiny white and metallic interior before being herded into the dining room along with the others.
Although the table had been set with polished cut glass and starched navy linen napkins, the low-ceilinged room I walked into was warm and welcoming, relaxed, comfortable and homely, with any sense of conventional formality broken by the masses of spring flowers and herbs (Mum’s handiwork, presumably) arranged down the centre of the table itself.
There was no seating arrangement but instead, a young boy round about Sorrel’s age was laughingly, but bossily, splitting up the Sattar daughters-in-law who appeared somewhat unhinged once they were separated, directing them towards the places he firmly indicated.
I did begin to relax, knowing at least Kamran and I would be able to talk food.
But then that would obviously morph into the current progress of The White House restaurant and I knew I couldn’t be a part of it.
I just couldn’t don chef whites and be at the helm alongside Kamran and Fabian once the new restaurant opened in a few months’ time.
Couldn’t have sous chefs they’d be poaching from top restaurants shouting Yes, Chef in my direction when I wasn’t actually a chef with any real formal training.
The very idea was utterly ludicrous. I sipped at my glass of water, searching out Robyn down the table who was chatting to Harif, the Sattar brother second in age after Kamran.
Obviously knowing herself under scrutiny, Robyn turned from Harif towards me, mouthing: ‘You OK?’
I was just about to mouth back, ‘No! Can I come and sit with you?’ when my view of Robyn was blocked and the much younger, obnoxious brother who’d cut me free from the restraints of the Sainsbury’s bag sat down beside me on my left.
‘So, what do you do?’ Nerves and the one glass of champagne had obviously given an over-loud voice to my realisation that as a guest here I needed to converse if I was ever to be invited back as a dinner guest in polite society.
(Did I really want to be invited back again?
The desire to be back in my own tiny kitchen, cooking up new recipes while listening to Radio 4 was becoming almost overwhelming.)
George jumped theatrically as he turned in my direction. ‘Goodness, sorry, Mein Kommandant, you spoke?’ He continued to give the appearance of being terrified of me before relenting. ‘What do I do? When, exactly?’
I sighed. This was going to be bloody hard work, I could tell. ‘So, are you part of the great Sattar Fish Finger Empire, or do your interests lie with this new restaurant Kamran is about to open?’
‘I try and get away with doing as little as possible,’ George said, ‘while reaping the rewards that come with being the youngest son of a driven family.’
‘So?’ I sighed inwardly once more. I mean, what was it all about, that some people seemed unable to converse normally and, instead, insisted on trying to play some sort of game that led you round the houses, but told you nothing?
‘So? What else do you want to know?’ George picked up his glass, drained its contents and glanced idly across the table to where the tall sultry blonde – his wife? – was deep in conversation with Dean.
‘How long have you been married? Any children?’ Weren’t these the questions one was supposed to ask?
‘I’ve never been married and, as far as I know, have no children.
’ He reached for the bottle of champagne he’d brought into the dining room with him and refilled his glass, only turning to attend to my own when I raised an eye in his direction.
‘But, I guess, a man can never be totally sure on that score.’ He paused, obviously mulling the conundrum.
‘Whereas you women are able to keep an exact tally…’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I shook my head slightly, realising the man was very drunk.
‘I mean, you’re lucky, aren’t you? Women’s bodies and how they work are very much controlled by yourselves.
You’re in charge of it all… whereas we men, well, we do the…
the deed as it were… in all good faith… you know?
And after that we have no jurisdiction… No choice as to what happens next to what we’ve given away… contributed…’
‘Given away?’ I began to laugh, genuinely amused at the ridiculousness of what he was saying.
Was this man really trying to say what I thought he was saying?
‘So, not your wife across the table, then?’ I asked, not wanting to get into any geopolitical argument of feminist rights versus victimised men.
‘My wife?’
‘The blonde across the table whose chest my husband appears unable to take his eyes off?’
‘Ah, well, you have to admit it is quite a magnificent chest.’
‘But not related to you?’
‘The chest?’
‘The woman!’ I exhaled and was totally cheered when Shirl parked herself with a whoomph of relief in the chair meant for Kamran.
‘No,’ George said, almost bleakly, turning away. ‘I’ve never married.’
‘Have you been having a good chat with my boy, love?’ Shirl patted my arm, frowning as George took his phone from his trouser pocket, before standing and removing himself from the table.
‘I wouldn’t exactly call it good, Shirl.’ I gave a slight smile.
‘Ah, he’s not a happy boy,’ Shirley murmured.
‘Boy? He’s a man.’ Acting like a spoilt boy. I left the words unsaid.
‘He’s my youngest, you know. Almost twenty years younger than Kamran. And, yes, I know I shouldn’t have favourites, but I can’t help it.’
‘I’m glad I’ve only had one then.’ I smiled again. ‘I can’t imagine ever favouring one child over another.’
‘He was my afterthought. My last chance of a girl after having three boys.’
‘But another boy?’ I smiled sympathetically. Having been brought up in a household of women, I wouldn’t have known what to do with one male child, let alone four. ‘So, what’s his problem?’
‘Disappointed in love. You know, the old, old story. And disappointment with how his career turned out. You see—’
‘Think I’d have been a bit fed up spending my whole working life with frozen Turkey Twizzlers and sausage rolls.
’ I laughed, cutting Shirl off as she attempted to excuse her youngest son’s rudeness.
‘Mind you, I worked in Frozen’s fish fingers and battered cod department when I was first married, you know.
I was working my way up to sausage rolls.
Can’t say it was the most riveting time of my life. ’
‘Hey, there’s nowt wrong with a sausage roll.
And they’re excellent, are Frozen’s sausage rolls.
Almost as good as what I make myself.’ Shirley laughed, elbowing me comfortably to show no offence had been taken at my dissing the Sattars’ frozen food company.
‘I bet it was no worse than working in the bloody mill like I did,’ Shirley went on.
‘That’s where I met Imran. Right good-looking, he was.
Proper swept me off my feet when I was just nineteen.
Mind you, it wasn’t the done thing to be seen or to go out with one of them.
Y’know what I mean?’ Shirley smiled. ‘But even though my dad was wild, said I was nothing better than a common little slapper for mixing with that lot, we got married and it all worked out. It wasn’t easy, as you can imagine; the world was a very different place fifty years or so ago.
Imran and his brother, Farid, had come to Yorkshire from Mirpur – in Pakistan…
?’ Shirley paused and raised an eye in my direction in order, seemingly, to ascertain my geographical knowledge.
‘Anyway, they were jolly hard workers. Determined to succeed in their adopted country. They saw how well Malcolm Walker had done with Iceland – he’s from Yorkshire as well.
Anyhow, at the end of the seventies, they went for it.
Eventually, Imran’s brother sold out to him – he wanted to retire to fish.
Fishing? Can you imagine? Fish fingers to fishing?
’ Shirley interrupted her monologue to laugh uproariously at the very thought, before continuing.
‘Imran made sure all our boys came into the business once they’d finished university and followed their own careers elsewhere for a while. ’
‘Kamran was a pilot with BA, I believe, before he took over at the Frozen helm?’
‘He was that,’ Shirley said proudly. ‘And Harif and Asher were in banking and finance before they came into the business.’
‘Interesting that you gave Asian names to your first three boys,’ I said, smiling, ‘and yet George can’t be a more solid English name.’
‘They’ve become Harry and Ash,’ Shirley said pointedly, trailing off as Beau appeared behind us offering a choice of two starters.
‘A tartlet of duck paté with fig and almond, or roasted scallops with truffle and parmesan emulsion,’ he announced proudly.
‘Have you made these, Beau?’ Shirley asked, patting his arm.
‘Helped put them together. I want a job at this new restaurant once it’s up and running. Uncle Kamran says I can.’
‘You get yourself finished at school first,’ his grandmother admonished. ‘Your dad’s determined to get you to that there Oxford or Cambridge.’
My mouth watered at the sight of the starters and I physically dithered, wanting to try both.
Kamran, finally coming in from the kitchen and sitting down, grinned in my direction.
‘Tell you what, Jess, I’ll go halves with you.
Half of each for us?’ He began carefully cutting up the tart in front of him, passing down one half, past Shirley to me.
‘Let’s see if Fabian’s up to scratch? We can be a bit like Jay Rayner on MasterChef. ’