Chapter 7
7
It’s Sunday evening and we’re celebrating the end of our sightseeing adventure with a traditional roast dinner. I say traditional, but we’ve had to adapt it slightly to fit with the ingredients we’ve got available. Madame didn’t believe in roast dinners so we haven’t got a joint anywhere, but we do have some poussins, which were on the menu as Poussin à la Proven?ale , so we’re going to roast a couple of those and have them with all the trimmings. Jock has put me to work on making the bread sauce and preparing the pigs in blankets by cutting sausages in half and wrapping thin strips of bacon round them.
‘Which was your favourite activity this week?’ I ask him.
‘I enjoyed all of them, really. Well, that’s not quite true. I could take or leave the National Gallery, but I liked seeing how much pleasure it gave you. The picnic was fun. Hampstead Heath is such an iconic location, isn’t it? It felt like we were in a romcom, and Hugh Grant was going to appear at any moment. What about you?’
‘How could I not say the picnic, when you went to so much trouble with the food?’
‘It was nothing.’
‘I’m never going to be able to eat a supermarket scotch egg again, having tasted the ones you made.’
‘I can’t believe how much I’ve enjoyed cooking this week. It’s been such a relief to cook the food I love and not be tied to Madame’s stuffy ideas.’
He’s right. After our homage to the seventies on Tuesday night, Jock changed tack and we’ve been eating much lighter, more modern fare on the whole. He managed to offload some of the perishable goods to a homeless charity he found on the internet so, despite the fact that our own consumption has barely made a dent in the mountain of food, we haven’t had to throw very much away.
The police haven’t bothered to check up on us again so, apart from the odd moment when the reality of our situation has caused a knot to form in the pit of my stomach, we’ve been able to more or less pretend that we’re on holiday.
‘If I say something cheesy, will you promise not to laugh?’ I ask as we settle ourselves at the table and Jock pours the wine.
‘What level of cheese are we talking? If it’s a light dusting of parmesan, I reckon I can keep a straight face. If you’re going full-on baked camembert, I can’t promise anything.’
‘It’s probably somewhere in between the two.’
‘I’ll do my best to contain myself then.’
‘I was just going to say that I can’t think of anyone I would rather have spent this week with than you. Thank you.’ I raise my glass and chink it against his.
To my surprise, he blushes. ‘I’ve really enjoyed it too,’ he says quietly.
I’ve never felt this connected to anyone after just a few days in their company. I know we’ve been colleagues since I arrived here, but I’ve only really got to know Jock properly this week. I think the only time we haven’t been together is when we’ve been getting dressed in the morning or getting ready for bed. Normally, I’d be feeling a bit stifled if I had to spend that much time with one person, but spending time with Jock is easy. We’ve talked about all kinds of things; he’s told me about his parents and his older brother Fergus, who moved to Tuscany to open a retreat centre with the love of his life, Alberto. In return, I’ve given him the lowdown on my experiences growing up as the only child of hotel owners in Ludlow. I haven’t spoken to Mum since Monday but she won’t think that’s odd. We can often go months without speaking. I’m also still irritated by her volte-face about me coming home, even though I had no intention of taking her up on her original invitation.
‘Are you OK there?’ Jock asks. ‘You look like you popped out for a moment.’
‘Sorry, I was just thinking about what my mother said.’
‘Will you call her tomorrow, once you get your phone back?’
‘ If I get my phone back. It’s doubtful; she probably hasn’t given me another thought.’
‘I’m sure she has,’ he says encouragingly.
‘Have you told your parents? About being arrested, I mean.’
‘God, no! My mother would have been on the first plane or train down here; she’d have gone straight to the police station and given them absolute hell for daring to believe that her son could be mixed up in something like this. Then she’d have come here and ripped into me for not spotting what Madame was up to. I love my mum, but she’s not someone you mess with.’
‘I think I’d rather have that than “Please stay away because we don’t want to be associated with you right now”.’
‘She is quite protective of us. It’s funny because I remember Fergus being really anxious about telling her he was gay. She didn’t give a hoot about that, but she must have grilled poor Alberto for hours before she pronounced him worthy of her boy.’
‘What about your dad? How did he feel?’
Jock grins. ‘Dad would have felt exactly how Mum told him to feel. He knows better than to cross her.’
A thought occurs to me. ‘Wouldn’t she have seen you on the news?’
‘I’d know if she had.’
‘How? She can’t get hold of you on your mobile because the police have it, and she wouldn’t be able to get through on the hotel phone either because it’s off the hook.’
‘Is she here?’
‘No.’
‘Then she doesn’t know. Pudding?’
‘Please.’
Jock tops up our glasses before taking the plates out to the kitchen, returning a minute or so later with two ramekins.
‘It’s the leftover lemon possets from the picnic,’ he explains as he puts one down in front of me. ‘I cut the recipe down as much as I could, but you can’t really do fewer than four as a minimum.’
‘That’s OK.’ I smile. ‘I’m more than happy to have it again. You’ve completely spoiled me, you realise that? I’m never going to be able to have half the things I like again without remembering the way you made them.’
‘I’m glad I’ve made an impression.’ He laughs.
‘God, this is good,’ I groan as I take a mouthful. ‘You’ve basically ruined all lemon-flavoured desserts for ever.’
‘It’s OK,’ he admits. ‘I wouldn’t call it life-changing though.’
‘If I go to prison tomorrow, I want to remember this flavour. In fact, never mind the drugs and all the other stuff you can get smuggled into prisons; I’d be happy with contraband lemon posset once a week.’
‘That might be difficult.’
‘Why?’
‘If they’ve found enough to convict you, then I’ll be in prison as well. Who will you get to make it? Anyway, we’re not going to prison, so you don’t need to worry about it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘We haven’t done anything wrong. You need to hold on to that, Beatrice. How can they find evidence to convict you if you haven’t broken the law? This isn’t some banana republic where they just lock you up anyway. They have to prove you’re guilty, remember?’
‘You’re right. I know you’re right, but I still have these wobbles from time to time. I do try to imagine putting all this behind me and getting my life back on track, but it’s hard.’
‘That’s normal. I have wobbles too. The trick is not to let them take hold. Think of it this way: by this time tomorrow, it will all be over.’
I sigh. ‘I wish I could look at it like that. All I can think about is that this might be my last night of freedom. Tonight: roast chicken, lemon posset and wine. Tomorrow: prison uniform, gruel, dry bread and water with a dead cockroach in it.’
He laughs. ‘I think you’ll find things have moved on since the Victorian era.’
‘Yeah, but one thing hasn’t. If we go to prison, that’s a criminal record and nobody will ever hire us again. I love this job, Jock. I can’t even think about doing something else.’
‘That’s true but, as I keep saying, it’s not going to go that way. Here’s the deal. I will meet you in the bar at seven tomorrow night. Wear your best dress because we’re going to be celebrating. How does that sound?’
I sigh. ‘Fine. If we’re cleared tomorrow, I’ll be here. What if it’s neither?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just thought. They don’t have to convict or release. They could keep us on bail for another week.’
‘If they do that, I’m sure we can find more sights to see.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘What?’
‘Remain so positive about everything.’
‘The way I look at life is this. There are things I can control and things I can’t. There’s no point in worrying about the things I can control, because I should be able to change them if I don’t like them. Equally, there’s no point in worrying about the things I can’t control, because there’s nothing I can do to influence the outcome. Tell me something: do you worry about dying?’
‘OK, that’s not where I was expecting this to go. Bit dark, Jock.’
‘I’m not trying to be depressing; I’m just making a point. Do you?’
‘It’s not something I think about, no.’
‘But you could die tomorrow. You might get run over by a bus, or shot by a terrorist, or a piano might fall on your head. Equally, you might live until you’re 103 and die peacefully at home surrounded by your great grandchildren. You can’t control it, so why worry about it? Do you see where I’m coming from?’
‘I guess so. You could have picked a different analogy though.’
‘It’s a good one for this. So, you might die tomorrow or you might not. You might go to prison tomorrow or you might not. You have no control over either of those things, so don’t waste time stressing about them.’
‘Ah, but that’s where your analogy falls down.’
‘How?’
‘If I don’t die tomorrow then it will just be another day, because I’m not expecting to die. But I’m definitely going to the police station, and something is going to happen one way or another. It’s an actual event that could have life-changing consequences, and therefore I’m worried about it.’ I think for a moment. ‘A better analogy would be waiting for the results of a biopsy. It might be benign, or it might be malignant, but it’s going to have a big impact either way.’
‘Ah well. I tried. But I don’t think it hurts to be optimistic.’
‘I’m not so sure. Haven’t you ever heard the proverb?’
‘Which one?’
‘Blessed are the pessimists, for they shall never be disappointed.’
He laughs, and the sound of it fills the empty room.
‘I’ll have to remember that one for Fergus. He’ll love it. Shall we clear up and have a nightcap before bed?’
‘You’re a terrible influence on me. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk as much as I have this week.’
‘Me neither, but we’re on holiday, aren’t we?’
It’s accepted now that I’ll be spending the night in Jock’s room, and I no longer bother to remove my pillow each morning. We’ve also given up trying to work out which of us is the phantom spooner; as soon as we’re both in bed, I nestle into him and he puts his arm around me. Normally, I’m asleep within minutes, but I can’t stop my brain churning tonight.
‘I can hear you,’ Jock murmurs sleepily.
‘What?’
‘You’re thinking. I can hear the cogs in your head.’
I roll over to face him. He hasn’t moved his arm, so our noses are practically touching.
‘I’m scared, Jock. I’ve tried the not-worrying-about-stuff-I-can’t-control thing, but it’s not working. What if I go to prison tomorrow for a really long time? I’ll never see the things I want to see, do the things I want to do, love the people I want to love.’
He brings his hand up and strokes my cheek. ‘You will do all of those things.’
He’s so close that I can’t focus on him, but I don’t need to. Something powerful is stirring deep inside me, and I’m both energised and terrified by it.
‘Jock?’ I whisper.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think I’m attractive?’
His eyes snap open. ‘Is that a trick question?’
‘No.’
‘Of course I do. You’re beautiful. Why?’
‘Kiss me.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve realised that you’re right. I can’t control what happens to me tomorrow, but I need to seize everything today. I want to feel alive. I want to feel powerful. I want to feel desired. I want…’ I tail off.
He stares at me for the longest time without moving and I’m on the verge of fleeing to my room in humiliation when he inches forwards until his lips brush against mine. We lie there for what feels like an age, our lips just touching, and I can feel the heat building up inside me until I’m fizzing. Just when I think I can’t take any more, he pulls me against him and deepens the kiss, lifting my sleep shirt and slipping his hand underneath. I sigh with pleasure at the sensation. There is no doubt where this is going and, although a tiny part of me questions the wisdom of it, given that we’ll be separated in a day or two whatever happens tomorrow, I want this. In fact, it’s more primitive than that; I need this.