Chapter 18
It’s Friday today, the day of my lunch at Meredith’s.
I could say that I woke up with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning, but obviously, that would be a lie.
At Christmas, my mother and father would exchange presents for themselves, usually a trinket, like a plastic key ring from the dollar store for him, and a used kitchen mop from the thrift store for her.
My sister might have gotten a sheet of stickers or a plastic hair clip if she was lucky.
I never got anything because as my mother used to say, “You’re too evil, sorry.
Not my fault, don’t look at me like that.
I’m just telling you what Father Christmas said.
No, you can’t have turkey. You can finish the ham sandwich you left half-eaten yesterday.
It’s in the trash. If you can’t see it, that’d be because the ants are crawling all over it. ”
But it occurred to me yesterday how much I enjoyed meeting up with Erin. I’ve never had a friend before—other than my sister—and I’d always assumed I would never have one, despite Deb’s protestations.
It’s Mom, she would say. Don’t listen to her. She’s just nasty and horrible. There’s nothing wrong with you, Jo. One day, you’ll leave this place, and you’ll have lots of friends, you’ll see.
And look at me now… I want to tell her. I had coffee with a friend yesterday, can you believe it?
And today I’m going to lunch with Meredith and Barb and Eileen!
Remember Meredith and Barb and Eileen? And soon, once I’ve dealt with Roy, once he is in jail forever, or dead, depending, Meredith and Barb and Eileen and I will go shopping together, and we’ll go for cocktails, and for coffee and cake, and we’ll swap recipes, and we’ll have conversations like, “I was just telling my friend Erin—you must meet Erin, by the way, you’ll love her—about this new patisserie, have you been there? Oh, but you must!”
It’s going to be amazing, Debs. If only you were here to see it.
Also, the timing of this lunch couldn’t be better.
I have so many questions to ask them. What do they know about the Laurel-Westlake Institute of Plastic Surgery?
Did they know Veronica? They must have, since Roy was seeing her “in the open,” so to speak, after Deb died.
Did they ever see them together while he was still married?
Do they know she’s a whore? Do they know how I can get in touch with her?
So many questions…
Meredith lives next door so I just walk over.
At 10:30 a.m. precisely, I knock on the door.
I didn’t know what to bring so I made a strawberry cheesecake.
It’s one of Roy’s favorites. I also brought a bottle of Taittinger—that’s French champagne—because I know that these ladies love their champagne and I think it would be a nice icebreaker.
Meredith opens the door in her bare feet and a towel around her head.
My heart sinks. “Did I get the wrong day?” I ask.
“Jodie! Not at all. You’re right on time. What have you got there? Champagne? Oh, right. You shouldn’t have. Come this way.”
I’m the first one here. I check my watch.
Ten thirty-one. Perhaps I should have been fashionably late.
I guess I have a lot to learn. Or did I get the time wrong?
Because I do remember thinking ten thirty was very early for lunch, but then I just assumed we’d have cocktails first. For an hour and a half.
Anyway, she hasn’t said I am too early, so I don’t need to worry.
I’ve never been inside Meredith’s house, and it’s as beautiful as you’d imagine, if a little clinical for my taste. Lots of white and beige and pale grays, but the large windows are what draw the eye anyway, and her garden is beautiful.
“Shall I put this in the kitchen?” I say.
“Well, yes, obviously. That’s where we’re going.”
The kitchen is similarly clinical with a large central island made of stainless steel.
It’s not to my taste but at least there’s no risk of food poisoning due to cutting raw chicken on the wooden top, and I appreciate that.
People have no idea how unhygienic those fixed wooden bench tops can be.
On the other hand, the kitchen bench is absolutely covered with food.
Eggs, cartons of them, pots of cream, fruits and vegetables spilling over, little jars of spices and herbs that look like they’re still sealed, bags of flour, blocks of butter…
“Where shall I…” I hold my pie aloft, looking around for a clear space and seeing none.
“What is it again?” She peers under the cake dome.
“Strawberry cheesecake.”
“Oh! You got an early start. Clever you. Now. There’s salmon in the refrigerator, and some dips and those Greek dolmades…
Anyway, you’ll figure it out, I’m sure. Let’s see…
what else do you need? I did consider asking you to bring all the ingredients, I thought you’d know best, but Eileen said…
Anyway, I didn’t. But I ordered everything you need and more, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.
Now. In this drawer here, you’ll find all the utensils…
” She opens a large white drawer, the type that you tug and it slides out in a soft whoosh.
“Did you bring an apron? No? Let me see… There should be one somewhere…” She rummages in a cupboard and comes out with a crumpled square of linen.
She shakes it loose. “Is that an apron? Yes.” She hands it to me, one arm outstretched.
And only then does it dawn on me, with a slow sinking of my stomach, that Meredith didn’t invite me to join her friends for my scintillating conversation or to mine my creative ideas to raise money for a good cause.
She wants me to make lunch.
“That should be everything, then. You’re all right, Jodie?
You look a bit red.” She checks her watch.
“I better get a move on. I still have to style my hair and the luncheon is at 12:30. My friends—by the way there will be twelve of us, I don’t remember if I mentioned—are very punctual so you should probably get a move on too… Oh, here’s Dolores.”
A short woman with curly dark hair and a narrow face walks in. She’s wearing a light blue blouse that goes down to her knees.
“Dolores, this is Mrs. Davies. Remember how I told you? No? Maybe I didn’t.
Anyway. I’m sure you two will get on perfectly.
” She taps my shoulder lightly. “I’ll leave you with Dolores.
You’re in good hands. Just ask if you need anything.
Ask Dolores, I mean. Please do your magic, Jodie.
I promised my friends a very special luncheon so I’m counting on you. ”
I’m still holding the cake, staring at Meredith’s smooth, unlined face, and I am reminded of a book of medieval feasts I found in a yard sale once.
The front cover had a picture of a pig’s head with an apple in its mouth.
For a moment, I can see myself as if from above as I put the cake down to pick up that big, sharp knife over there, and then, in the next moment, I am serving cheesecake with Meredith’s head on top of it, a strawberry stuck between her teeth.
“Well then. I’ll see you at 12:15 for the hors d’oeuvres,” she says, breaking the spell.
“Everything all right, Mrs. Davies?” Dolores asks after she’s gone.
Dolores looks worried. I’m about to say that no, nothing is all right so I’m going home, but then I think about Deborah. If I want to figure out what really happened to her, I need to speak with the people who knew her, even if they’re horrible, horrible people.
I put down the cake on the sideboard, smooth my hair with the palm of my hand. I’m here, so I may as well make lemonade out of lemons.
Also, I love cooking.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you. And please call me Jodie.” I tie on the apron. “Do you like cooking, Dolores?”
An hour later, the strangest thing happens. I’m laughing. In fact, I’m laughing so much I’m crying. And as someone who never laughs and never cries, this is quite the surprise.
Dolores is telling me stories of growing up (picture-book family, lots of siblings getting up to lots of mischief) and I’m telling her my stories of growing up, and she thinks I’m making it all up.
(In the cellar? You are throwing me Chinese tales!
You are inventing me a film!) And the best part?
Dolores is an amazing cook. She and I are like two chefs in a five-star restaurant.
We are so in tune with each other’s movements, you’d think we’d been working together for years. And then she brings up her son, Mikey.
“You have a son? That’s so sweet. How old is he?” I ask, putting sliced spring onions on a canapé.
“He’s eleven. He’s a good boy.”
“I bet he is. Where is he now?”
She flicks her head toward the ceiling. “In our rooms.”
“He’s here?”
“Yes. We live here.”
“Oh, right. And does he go to school around here?”
Her face darkens. “He doesn’t go to school. It’s complicated.”
“Oh?”
“He’s deaf,” she says. “It’s hard to find a school for him around here, so I teach him.”
“You homeschool him? Here?”
“Yes.”
“That’s amazing. And is he a good student?”
She smiles while trying not to, and her face is awash with pride. “Very. He’s a very good student. He knows all about math, and history, and geography, and literature…”
We don’t stop talking. Not for one minute.
Another hour later, we have prepared a spread incredible enough to make a French chef eat his hat and cry into his velouté de champignons.
By the time we are done, we have a large plate of poached salmon filet with dill crème fra?che, a million different salads, each more succulent than the other, fresh fruit platters, freshly made dips and God knows what else.
And then, something occurs to me.
“Dolores, did you know Deborah? The first Mrs. Davies?”
She nods, and her eyes water. “Yes. She was very kind. A very kind person. She was very fond of Mikey, too.”
I nod. “I can imagine that.”
She gives me an odd look, a tilt of the head.
“I mean, the way everyone talks about her. Did you know her well?”