Chapter 29
London, 2015
IT WAS MUNGO ’ S THOUGHTPULNESS that impressed Maggie to begin with. It wasn’t just the book he’d sent her, but the effort that he went to for their first date, picking a new wine bar in Notting Hill, which she’d read about but not visited.
Although he panicked and clapped his hand to his forehead when she arrived. ‘Goodness, I didn’t think. You spend your whole life in a wine bar! Presumably you don’t want to spend your day off in one too? I am sorry.’
‘I can check out the competition,’ she replied with a smile, climbing onto the bar stool. ‘I’ve read about this place, it’s supposed to be good.’
It was a Sunday afternoon, the only time that Maggie allowed herself away from the restaurant. She’d apologetically explained, via text message, that she couldn’t meet him in the evenings because she had to work, and he’d been instantly understanding, sending back messages that had made her smile because they were so English.
Cripes, what a trojan you are!
Enormously chuffed that we will be able to discuss Baron Brisse and his menu further.
Splendid! See you at 2 p.m.
PS. I shall furnish myself with an umbrella in case it looks like rain.
He was so unlike the men that she’d dated before – enthusiastic, funny and charming as well as thoughtful. Not that she’d dated much, admittedly, because work swallowed so much of her time and energy. In the past few years, she’d seen a chef, a meat supplier who’d asked Maggie out every time they’d spoken on the phone, a barman from the Italian restaurant, and an American banker who’d come into the diner she worked in briefly every Friday night, and one week, persuaded her to write down her phone number for him on a napkin. But none of these had really been relationships . More, fleeting flirtations, which had been entertaining for a night, or two nights, or sometimes a month or so, before Maggie ended things on the basis that none of them were going anywhere.
Her mother despaired that she wasn’t married while Phil always encouraged her brief romances (‘you must try them all out, darling!’), but Maggie wanted to concentrate on cooking, and she didn’t understand why everyone was so obsessed with sex when so often it was disappointing.
‘You just haven’t had good enough sex,’ Jamie told her.
‘I have!’ Maggie was nearly twenty-six; it felt embarrassing not to have had good sex by then, given that she read about it in magazines, and saw it on TV and in films all the time.
‘I don’t think you have, babe. These men should be making you scream at the ceiling. How many have done that?’
OK, she admitted, none of them had done that. If she thought back through her sexual experiences, most of them had been late-night fumbles; drunken, tired episodes where she pretended to be satisfied afterwards while lying there thinking that she must have done something wrong, or there must be something wrong with her , for sex not to be as good as it looked in the cinema. But perhaps she wasn’t a screaming-at-the-ceiling type?
Mungo felt different from the start. Less aggressive than men she’d dated previously. Less macho. Maggie smiled at him, sitting on the bar beside her, offering suggestions from the wine list.
‘Would you like a glass of Champagne? Or a white? Or even a light red? It is a Sunday afternoon. Or there’s no reason you have to have wine. You’re probably sick of wine. They might do cocktails.’ He looked up from the list and caught the eye of a waiter behind the bar. ‘Excuse me, yes, hello, do you happen to have a cocktail list? No? Not to worry. My fault, you are a wine bar after all, ha ha!’
He was nervous, she realized, which made him seem more endearing still.
‘I’d love a glass of Champagne, why not?’ Actually, it was empowering, being on a date with a man who was so nervous. Maggie felt more confident than she had sitting beside any other man. Then, she’d often been the one who was nervous; anxious about saying or doing the wrong thing. Now she felt in control.
‘Did you like the book?’ he asked, after they’d ordered.
‘I did. Actually, I was thinking of trying one of the recipes in the restaurant.’
‘Are you? My goodness. Which one? Not the boiled calf’s head?’
‘Nun’s sighs, they’re called: little deep-fried pastries with lemon peel and orange water? I love the name, and we have a cheese trolley in the restaurant but no pudding menu.’
‘Why not?’
Maggie shrugged. ‘I wanted to be French. Cheese for pudding. But now I think I could make those to go with coffee. Anyway …’ she smiled again, ‘thank you, it was very thoughtful.’
‘You’re extremely welcome,’ Mungo replied, before taking a large mouthful of Champagne to bolster his nerves.
‘How come you’re so interested in food?’
‘Ah, well, I was one of those spoiled brats who went to boarding school from the age of eight.’
‘Eight!’
‘Indeed. That’s where I met Charles, as it happens. Charles Burnett. You remember from your launch?’
Maggie nodded. Jamie was still negotiating interview dates for the profile that Charles wanted to run of her in the Telegraph .
‘It’s a curious thing about these schools,’ Mungo rattled on, ‘they’re extremely expensive but almost none of the fees must go to the kitchens because we ate like Victorian orphans. I remember, to this day, a piece of liver that disintegrated in my mouth. And I once chewed a piece of lamb chop for over ten minutes.’
Maggie laughed before sticking her tongue out in disgust.
‘But I knew about good food because my mother was an exceptional cook. Is an exceptional cook, I should say.’
‘Where d’you grow up?’
‘In a little village called Nether Wallop, just outside Andover? But what it meant was that I became interested in the mechanics of cooking and food. What made a school lamb chop so inedible but my mother’s roast lamb such a treat on a Sunday? And then I discovered wine, and learned more about wine and food together, and now, well, I’m afraid I can be rather a bore about it.’
‘You’re safe with me, I can be more boring about it. Did you ever think of working with food?’
Mungo pulled a face. ‘Couldn’t. My father didn’t approve so I fell into property, and now spend much of my time thinking about that instead. Did you come across that Brisse recipe for roast pigeon, by the by? I rather fancied it but I wasn’t sure if I could stroll into a London butcher and ask for a pigeon.’
‘I could ask one of my suppliers?’
Mungo’s eyes became round with wonder. ‘Could you?’
‘’Course.’
‘I can have a crack at it for a second date. I’m not saying there will be a second date,’ he added quickly. ‘Just that it would be lovely to try something medieval. Although it would be quite a daunting prospect, cooking for you.’
Maggie smiled encouragingly because she was charmed by this, and they carried on discussing recipes before he ordered two more glasses of Champagne, then a bottle of Fleurie and a plate of cheese.
‘My aunt has this hotel,’ she said, spreading a thick piece of Brie on a cracker. ‘In the south of France, where she’s the chef, and it was her cooking that made me want to do the same.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Le Figuier? About an hour from Nice. In the hills.’
Mungo frowned. ‘I think I’ve read about it. She restored the place?’
‘Yes! Exactly. She’s called Phil. Phil Hemingway? It’s the most amazing place. I’ve been going since she bought it, since I was nine, and spent most of my summers there.’
‘You have siblings?’
Maggie shook her head, her mouth full of Brie.
‘Ah, an only child like me.’
She swallowed. ‘Did you ever wish you had siblings?’
‘Not really, because I was with all my friends by the time I was eight, when I started boarding. But I used to be rather envious of my friends who had big families. My chum Ralph, he had two brothers and a sister, and whenever I used to stay with them for exeats, they had this big old manor house, I couldn’t get over the noise. But I enjoyed it, all the games they could play, so I’ve always wanted to have more than one child myself. A whole rugby team, ideally.’
He grinned, embarrassed by the admission, but Maggie was touched by his frankness. She hadn’t thought much about children because she’d always been so focused on work. But meeting a man who was so honest about wanting a family felt refreshing, and they carried on discussing the topic as they drank and ate in that sweetly optimistic, unclouded way that two people on a first date could.
‘I’ve never been quite sure when my life would have space for children,’ Maggie ventured, ‘but I imagine, if I fell in love tomorrow, then I would want them.’
‘If you fall in love tomorrow?’ Mungo mused aloud, because he’d also drunk quite a lot of wine. ‘Well, let’s see what we can do about that.’
She blushed and felt a warmth spread across her belly. He made her feel more optimistic than any man she’d met.
They finished the cheese plate, and the wine, and Mungo ordered two glasses of Sauternes before she realized it had turned dark outside and said she should get home.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said outside, as they stood on the pavement, both wondering how close they should stand to the other.
‘Not at all. I’ve had a splendid time. Might we do this again?’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Good,’ Mungo replied, before daring to step closer and briefly press his mouth to hers.
The following weekend, he invited her to his house in Battersea where she discovered that he’d sourced a pigeon from a butcher in Smithfield, and roasted it. Maggie was impressed not only by the effort and his thoughtfulness all over again, but by the cooking and his house. Mungo was a grown-up, who owned a real home, which had bookshelves and a clean bathroom. No flatmates. He even had a decanter, into which he’d poured a bottle of C?tes du Rh?ne.
She was so impressed, in fact, that she went to bed with Mungo after the pigeon. He didn’t make her scream at the ceiling the first time. But the second time was better; more confident, less fumbling. And as she lay there afterwards, her head on his shoulder, she didn’t feel as if there was anything wrong with her. It simply felt very nice. No, more than that; it felt safe . And when Maggie thought back to the promise she’d made herself all those years ago, that she wouldn’t let herself be hurt by a man in the same way that her aunt was consistently hurt, safe didn’t seem such a bad thing.