Chapter Fifteen #2
‘Isaac’s first job was as a delivery driver’s mate, delivering art supplies.
His father told him at seventeen that he needed to get out there and work, that nothing was going to be handed to him.
Isaac was from money, but he did badly at school – dyslexia, I think, although Isaac will deny it.
He’s not that good with money either, despite being born with plenty of the stuff.
’ Leo pulled a face. ‘Anyway, he hated the greasy spoon cafés they had to keep stopping at, so he started making lunches, in the morning, for him and his driver. Healthier food – sandwiches, but on proper bread, with spiced meat, vegetables, salad. He’d never really cooked before, but he got into it.
He tells it that at first his driver wasn’t happy about it, called it “pretentious muck”, but then he really began to enjoy Isaac’s food.
Isaac set up what I suppose would be the equivalent of a pop-up restaurant these days.
A small tent in the car park of the supplies depot, serving upmarket burgers, fancy herby chips and all that.
It all went down a treat. He gave the drivers what they wanted and what they didn’t realise they liked.
Eventually the bosses started coming down to eat from there, too, and Isaac left the delivery driving job when he was twenty to become a chef. ’
‘That’s a great story.’ Olivia took another sip of her Churchill. ‘Why are you calling him Isaac and not Dad?’
‘Because he’s my stepfather.’
‘Oh! You didn’t tell me that before.’
‘Yeah, since I was four years old.’ Leo spoke proudly, but Olivia noticed something. A flicker of sadness, a shadow across his eyes, and suddenly he was not the man she’d met so far, but a little boy, revealed.
‘Who’s your real dad?’
He pulled another face. ‘A loser called John-Timothy Greene.’
‘And he’s where?’
‘In Africa, in India, in a church. Sailing up a lonely river on a driftwood raft . . .’
‘That’s a lot of different options . . .’
‘He’s a missionary. A charismatic one. The sort of charming do-gooder women like my mother, and others, swoon over, until they get to know him. Flaky as fuck. Far more interested in the souls of the good people of Ecuador than his own wife and son . . .’
Leo Greene, she thought, as he lowered his eyes momentarily to the table, then raised them to her, clear and unblinking.
You have a flush of vulnerability to your face.
She had the sudden urge to touch his mouth, his hair, the soft skin of his cheeks and the rough skin of his chin, creeping into five o’clock shadow territory.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not, not really. Good riddance to the sanctimonious prick. And in his meek, mild absence, I got the fantastic Mr Feu.’
Olivia sat back in her chair. The alcohol had oozed into all her bones. She looked at Leo curiously, trying to decide if he had just grinned or grimaced, trying to fathom how good or bad he was going to be for her. ‘How did Isaac and your mum meet?’ she asked.
‘She was newly divorced and took a job as a waitress at one of his first restaurants, reading Erica Jong in the back room between shifts and not taking any shit from him, because she’d had so much from my dad.
Isaac started wandering into the back room to watch old episodes of Columbo between the lunchtime and evening service.
He pursued her until she gave in. Wore her down.
’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Let’s just say, she doesn’t read Erica Jong any more,’ he added.
‘Does your mum cook, too?’
‘Yeah. She’s a fantastic home cook.’ The smile returned to his face.
‘Casseroles and cassoulets, huge steamed puddings, meringues. All the old family favourites, but done really, really well. She spends her days planning and shopping and cooking for these amazing dinner parties – lots of noisy guests; a big, long table that takes hours to set up. She does what she calls a Kitchen Supper most Wednesdays – an open house for whoever is around – and it’s usually about fifteen people from the village all coming in the door and plonking bottles of wine on the table, talking their heads off. ’
Another world, Olivia thought, to her own upbringing. It sounded absolutely fantastic. ‘Was all this catering going on when you were a kid?’
‘Yeah, I’d be told to play in my room. To come down later.
But “later” was always everyone tanked up, flopping around the table, stuffed to the gills.
Stevie Nicks on the stereo. Isaac barking out the most outrageous chef’s kitchen anecdotes.
My mother over-compensating and fluttering about .
. . They’re a bit much, my parents. But I guess they instilled in me a love of food,’ he continued.
‘But I didn’t want to cook it, I wanted to write about it. ’
Olivia nodded. They both sipped at their drinks. A dowager in a fluffy coat came into the bar, shaking her umbrella imperiously before handing it to a serf. A young couple followed, their body language rich and loving.
‘How often do you see Isaac?’ Olivia was interested in what their relationship was like, a living breathing relationship. One with a future. And a home.
‘I see him every Friday at his restaurant. He lets me try something new,’ Leo said absently. ‘I get a free lunch.’
Leo scratched at his forearm. A small abrasion, a paler dash on his wrist. Maybe it was a burn, from taking one of Isaac’s esteemed dishes out of the oven in the between-service kitchen.
Olivia considered it poignant. She reached out and traced it with her finger.
It was smooth and papery. Leo looked up in surprise.
‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked her huskily. She saw his Adam’s apple move down his throat. ‘A little better?’
‘A little better,’ she replied. Truthfully, though, she didn’t want to talk much any more.
She was tired. She wanted to get out of her funeral dress.
But she didn’t want to say goodbye to him just yet.
‘I’m not normally this spontaneous, but my hot water will have just come on and I really want to go home and have a bath,’ she said, gazing at him.
‘Would you come with me?’ She swallowed now, too.
‘I mean, come home with me. Wait while I have a bath. Talk a little more. I have a bottle of limoncello in the fridge, if you need an incentive.’
‘That’s an unusual offer,’ he said.
‘I know. But I don’t want to be on my own tonight. Would you please come home with me?’ She swizzled her drink, but she was staring right into his hazel eyes.
‘I don’t know, Olivia, but I am spontaneous. Which can be dangerous . . .’ He looked at her. Waited a long, slow beat. ‘Is it real limoncello from Italy?’
‘All limoncello is from Italy, isn’t it? I mean, I got it from Tesco – special offer – but I don’t think they make it in Basingstoke . . .’
He smiled a slow smile. ‘Then I’ll come home with you,’ he said.