Chapter 17
‘Fabian? Where’ve you been? What on earth’s the matter?’ Robyn was visibly upset. ‘Look at your hands! They’re filthy. And you’ve a hole in your jeans.’
‘I was trying to change a flat tyre,’ Fabian said. ‘I’m never very good at that sort of thing to begin with…’
Dean, always the mechanic, snorted derisively in Fabian’s direction, while Pat offered a knowing glance towards her son.
‘…and then,’ Fabian went on, ‘I realised the Porsche doesn’t even carry a spare. And even if it did carry one, I still wouldn’t have been able to drive here.’
‘Why?’ Joel spoke almost for the first time and Fabian turned in obvious surprise to see the kid he’d defended in court sitting at the table.
Fabian paused. ‘I’d have needed four.’
‘Four what?’ The whole of the table was now listening, apart from Pat Butterworth who, now the conversation didn’t involve herself or her son, was tucking into her dish of microwaved peas and helping herself to more than her fair share of the Hasselback potatoes.
‘All four tyres were flat.’
‘Had you gone over some glass? Some nails? It is a building site up at The White House, you know,’ Kamran said.
‘Look, your food’s going cold.’ Fabian frowned. ‘Please carry on,’ he added. ‘Nothing worse than cold food. I’m so sorry, Jess.’
‘Come and sit down, Fabian,’ Mum encouraged. ‘Kamran, pour Fabian a glass of wine. He looks like he needs it.’
‘Please, carry on,’ Fabian said again as I moved to fetch the last of the warm plates from the oven. ‘Just let me go and wash my hands.’
‘Upstairs,’ Lola instructed, reaching for the peas that Pat had left her. ‘We’re not posh enough to have a downstairs crapper.’
‘Lola!’ Both Mum and I glared at her.
‘What? We’re doing Victorians at school.
Thomas Crapper invented the loo.’ Lola had a silly smirk on her face, and I realised my lovely little girl was playing up, still furious with me for throwing Dean out.
And, let’s face it, Lola wasn’t little any more.
At eleven, Lola, having inherited both Dean’s and my own somewhat stocky genes, was already developing a chest that had outgrown the little crop tops all the pre-pubescent girls wore these days.
Oh golly! A trip down to M so well organised.
I’ve seen her running Hudson House like a military campaign, and the residents there adore her.
And caring; what a great mum to Lola…’ Fabian trailed off, not because he was embarrassed at standing up and toasting me, but because I was so patently flustered, not sure where to put myself except back at the fridge where my puddings waited.
Mum came to the rescue, standing with her glass of wine. ‘A toast please to this clever, talented and utterly gorgeous daughter of mine. You will be absolutely perfect up at The White House, my darling. A new future, a new career… To Jess…’
‘To Jess.’
‘Well.’ Fabian grinned, moving to help me at the fridge and worktop. ‘That shut the old biddy up.’
‘Did you have to go so over the top?’
‘That was nothing,’ he said almost seriously. ‘You should have heard me in court when I was defending an alleged murderer – extravagant in the extreme.’
‘I’ve not murdered anyone,’ I protested, laughing now.
‘You must have come pretty close with that nasty woman for a mother-in-law, Jess. I sometimes think my own mother has an evil tongue, but she’s at the bottom of the class compared to that one over there.
’ He nodded his head slightly back towards the table where Pat was now holding forth that she was terrified to go out, down her own street, in her own town, for fear of being mugged, mauled and molested by gangs of foreigners who shouldn’t be allowed here in the first place…
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ I shook my head. ‘Who the hell would want to molest Pat Butterworth?’
‘So, all hands on deck in the next few weeks then, Jess?’ We stood side by side, working almost in synchrony sorting puddings in the tiny space.
I was aware of every movement of Fabian’s hands and, not for the first time, realised that, in my current single state, I was probably a little bit in love with my sister’s partner myself. Well, we all need a bit of a fantasy to get us through the day, don’t we?
Pushing these daft thoughts to one side, I nodded, pouring jugs of vanilla-infused custard and thick cream as well as reaching for the dishes of chocolate and ginger home-made ice cream.
‘No more of this thinking you can’t do it. Jess, I need you…’
‘Everything OK?’ Robyn asked, appearing behind us. ‘Can I help? Oh yum, those look good. What are they? They look like little nests, Jess. You are clever!’
‘Good. That’s the intention. You know, Easter nests?’ I bent to put the finishing touches to my dessert, immediately feeling the loss of Fabian’s attention on myself for the one he so patently loved and adored.
‘What’s in them, Jess?’ Fabian was back at my side once more. ‘A Kataifi pastry nest…?’ he asked, breaking one open and popping a morsel into his mouth.
‘Speak English, will you?’ Robyn laughed.
‘Ginger marmalade steamed sponge pudding,’ I said, moving to the steamer that was rolling merrily on the hob and wiping at my forehead. ‘That English enough for you, Robyn?’
‘…and there’s both dark and white chocolate mousse with, hang on, a hint of rhubarb…?’ Fabian was savouring every morsel of the Easter nest.
‘Forced from Wakefield.’ I smiled.
‘Forced to leave Wakefield?’ Robyn frowned. ‘I rather like Wakefield: the Hepworth Gallery, the Yorkshire Sculpture Park; Sandal Castle, the fabulous little cathedral…’
‘Forced rhubarb, you daft thing, Robyn: Wakefield’s biggest claim to fame.’ Fabian laughed, scooping Robyn up into his arms before feeding her the remains of the nest. ‘She’s no idea, has she, Jess?’
‘No!’ I smiled. ‘Where food’s concerned, no idea at all.’