Chapter 29
‘It can’t have been easy for you bringing up Ruby all alone.’
When Henry said nothing, I went on. ‘Without her mother around, I mean?’ I started assembling the ingredients to make the mac and cheese that Henry had passed me from the huge fridge.
To say he was a self-confessed foodie, there was nothing in front of me that suggested we were going to end up with anything other than a bog standard, run-of-the-mill mac and cheese.
I looked at the supermarket packet of macaroni, the huge block of fluorescently orange cheese and the bottle of skimmed milk, and racked my brains.
‘No, it’s not been easy,’ Henry eventually replied, looking terribly sad. ‘She can be a handful. I’ve tried my best with her.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ I said, eager for him to know that bringing up a bolshy eleven-year-old single-handed was bloody hard work.
I should know – I was doing just that. ‘I know how hard it is and I am a woman…’ (Yes, Jess, I berated myself, it’s pretty obvious you’re a woman and, if you don’t stop glancing across at him, he’ll soon realise you’re a woman with the hots for him.)
I turned my back on Henry, attempting to hide my flushed cheeks by making inroads into the cheap block of cheddar he’d given me.
I bought exactly the same block from Aldi solely for Arthur, who couldn’t get enough of the stuff – I’d had to ration him to a couple of pieces a day, but it was a great way to tempt him in from the garden or into his basket at bedtime.
‘I’m actually looking at boarding schools for Ruby at the end of this academic year,’ Henry was now saying. ‘I’m away a lot and Kateryna isn’t perhaps the best person to leave her with.’
‘Oh?’ I turned back at that.
‘A bit… you know…’
‘Not overly motherly?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Oh, out somewhere. She said if I was having guests, she’d keep out of the way.’
‘Right.’ I frowned. ‘I thought that’s what housekeepers did? Stick around to help?’
Henry paused. ‘I wanted to have you all to myself…’ He appeared suddenly shy, uncertain. ‘I’m sorry, that sounds awfully forward of me, Jessica. I just wanted to get to know you.’
‘Oh!’ I didn’t know what else to say, how to react, so out of the loop at being chatted up I didn’t even know if Henry was actually doing just that.
I should have asked for a couple of lessons from Serena over a glass of wine down at The Dog and Duck: How to know when you’re being chatted up, or simply been invited round to make the kids’ tea?
‘Listen, Henry, do you have any other kind of cheese?’ I asked, realising that if not we’d be ending up simply with tired macaroni in a cheap cheese sauce.
‘Erm, hang on.’ Henry turned back to the fridge and I followed.
‘Ah, great,’ I said. ‘You’ve gruyere and some bacon.
Right, a loaf of bread – a sourdough would be good?
No? A white sliced loaf. OK. I can do something with that.
Cream? Yes, here we are.’ I pulled out the said goodies like a conjuror revealing hidden hankies.
‘You see’ – I smiled – ‘you need decent ingredients to make a decent mac and…’
I broke off as a whiplash voice snapped, ‘Mum, what are you doing? What are you doing in Ruby’s fridge?’
‘Oh good, Mrs Butterworth.’ Another voice overrode Lola’s.
‘Are you making supper? I bet you’re a brilliant cook, aren’t you?
Can I do anything to help? Would you like me to grate the cheese?
I love cooking, but Dad’s hopeless. He thinks he’s pretty good, you know,’ she went on in a confidential whisper as she stood at my side at the huge kitchen island, ‘but, honestly, he burns the toast, his scrambled eggs are like rubber, and we never bake… Oh, have you made these? These brownies? Your mum is wonderful, Lola.’ Ruby turned back to Lola, who appeared somewhat bewildered at her mate’s gushing praise.
Or was it sycophancy?
‘Why don’t you two lay the table.’ I smiled.
‘This will be ready in fifteen minutes.’ I offered a matey smile in my daughter’s direction, but she was having none of it.
And I understood, I really did. I tried to imagine, when I’d first fallen so much in love with Dean when I was just sixteen, if Mum had suddenly appeared in Patricia Butterworth’s kitchen (perish the thought: a suspicious Patricia would never have let Mum over the doorstep, never mind take over her kitchen), delving into Patricia’s cupboards and fridge, taking over the cooking and getting Dean on to her side when he was mine?
Was it any different for poor old Lola that her mother had appeared on the scene, pushing her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, getting Lola’s new best friend on her side?
Taking her off me! would, I was sure, be the clarion call that would go up in our house once I got Lola home.
I could see the comments if I were to post on Mumsnet:
AIBU to start taking over, dressed in my best skirt, showing off my cooking skills at my – bolshy – eleven-year-old’s new best friend’s house when, in truth, I fancy said new best friend’s single and rather gorgeous dad…?
It had taken me ages to work out exactly what AIBU actually stood for.
And was I actually being unreasonable? More than likely, in Lola’s eyes.
‘Yes, why don’t you do that, Ruby?’ Henry asked, bringing me back to the present, opening a bottle of Merlot and sniffing at the cork before leaving the bottle to breathe and reaching into a cupboard for red wine glasses.
‘You can see how much Ruby is in need of a mother figure,’ Henry said, stroking my arm briefly before moving to look out of the window into the garden. ‘Someone to, you know, bake with her? I suppose that’s why she’s so badly behaved at school.’
‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘So, Lola tells me Ruby’s mother died at birth. I’m so sorry.’
Henry hesitated. ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it, Jessica? Ruby pretends not to, but she gets awfully upset if she knows we’re talking about her mother. Usually ends in a bout of bad behaviour, taking it out on me and the teachers at school.’
‘Of course, of course,’ I said hurriedly, embarrassed at my jumping in with two great feet. Had I no sense of propriety?
The conversation moved somewhat aimlessly onto schedules and balancing everyday home life with work and eventually, as I made a dressing for a desultory-looking cos lettuce and a couple of ageing tomatoes, moved on to Fabian.
‘Must be amazing going into business with such a clever bloke.’ Henry smiled. ‘I followed the court case of the Soho Slasher. Shame he felt he had to give up on defending Rupert Henderson-Smith.’
‘Rupert Henderson-Smith has become as infamous as the Yorkshire Ripper. Everyone remembers the name Peter Sutcliffe, even now, almost fifty years on. Fabian,’ I went on, ‘realised he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if the man went scot-free after doing what he did to those poor women in Soho.
But you’re right, Fabian is clever. Very clever. ’
‘And is he continuing to use his remarkable defence skills?’ Henry swirled his glass of wine, still sniffing and appreciating the bouquet, obviously more interested in the Merlot’s, rather than Fabian’s, inherent qualities.
‘Oh no, no,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘He’s had enough of all that.
He wants to be known as a great chef, at the forefront of a fabulous new restaurant rather than always being associated with a serial killer.
He just wants to be up here in Yorkshire with my sister; wants to make a success of The White House.
He’s a very talented cook,’ I added proudly, suddenly realising I could talk about Fabian simply with pride and affection rather than wishful thinking.
Fabian Mansfield Carrington was simply the lovely man who adored my sister, the man I was lucky enough to be working with.
I smiled at the little crush I’d developed on Fabian, realising it was little, not a bit important and well and truly over.
‘Something’s amusing you?’ Henry folded his arms, smiling himself, concentrating now on what I was saying.
‘Oh.’ I shook my head, still smiling. ‘Just remembering something…’
‘About Fabian?’
‘About myself.’
‘So, he’s not defending in court any more?’
‘He did take on one case as a favour to my sister…’ I broke off, not wanting to bring Joel into the conversation.
Joel was doing well now: back at school, being the almost perfect house guest and, as much as I liked a good gossip as the next person, I’d been warned by Andy Somerville not to talk too much about him.
‘Oh?’ Henry sipped at the wine. ‘Do have a glass of this, Jessica. It’s quite sublime.’
‘Better not.’ I smiled, adding the macaroni to boiling water. ‘I’ve to drive home.’
‘There’s always a taxi.’ Henry returned the smile, catching my eye so that I found myself having to look away as my pulse raced at the very thought of what I might be letting myself in for with this man. ‘And I believe the plan is for… for… Layla…’
‘Lola,’ I corrected.
‘For Lola to stay for a sleepover with Ruby?’
‘That’s the plan,’ I agreed.
‘And what about you?’ Henry asked, pouring me a glass of wine anyway and moving to my side with it. ‘How are you finding life without your husband? If that’s not too personal, I mean.’
‘Oh, I’m just concentrating on Lola and my new venture at The White House,’ I said. ‘It was a huge mistake taking Dean back. Only did it for Lola, really.’ I started grating the gruyere. ‘Do you have a frying pan?’
‘A frying pan?’
‘Yes, you know, one of those things to fry bacon in?’ I laughed. No way was this man interested in food or cookery. ‘You’re not really into cooking, are you?’
‘That obvious?’
‘Er, yes, somewhat.’ I laughed again.
‘Kateryna does most of the cooking. All right, all of the cooking. I have to eat out a lot – clients, you know…?’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I’d love a proper family life for Ruby…’ Henry trailed off. ‘You know, as you have for Lena…’
‘Lola,’ I corrected again as I moved to drain the macaroni.