Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
Sophie had been up since 6am, getting everything ready for Tamar Brown’s first visit. She was feeling far more nervous than she normally did when starting a new book project. But this was a big deal: her first work since Matt had died, the first in the new house, the new kitchen and the new studio. Plus it was Tamar’s first book, so she wanted to smooth the way for her too.
She whisked through the ground floor rooms one more time, twitching flowers and plumping cushions, feeling strangely self-conscious about a new work collaborator coming to the house. That was the big difference between here and her old studio, she reflected. That had been separate from her home, a purely working space where she’d done so many projects it had built up a wonderful creative hum over the years.
The new house seemed sterile and contrived by comparison and she had her first pang of doubt about the pink kitchen. Had she wasted a lot of money teaching her dead husband a lesson?
For a moment she stood frozen, feeling completely lost, but then told herself to buck up and get on with it. She put on another of Beau’s playlists – this one was called Get Stuff Done – tied on her striped apron and started making a walnut and honey brittle from a recipe on Tamar’s Instagram feed.
She met Tamar at the station and then helped her carry one of those jumbo plaid bags you buy in markets into the house. Sophie hoped it contained lots of the lovely bowls that were in Tamar’s pictures.
‘Sorry about the bag,’ said Tamar as they hauled it in. ‘I’m going to stay down in Hastings for a bit, with a friend.’
‘No problem,’ said Sophie. ‘Come through. Leave it anywhere.’
‘Something smells good,’ Tamar said as they went into the kitchen, and when she saw the cookies cooling on the wire, her face lit up. ‘You made the gozinaki! That’s so lovely, thank you.’
‘It’s a great recipe,’ said Sophie. ‘All the ones I’ve tried from your Instagram are. You’re a great cook, Tamar, I’m really excited to be doing this book with you. Now, what would you like to drink with your sweet? Coffee, tea, herbal...?’
‘Actually, I’ve brought something for you that would go really nicely with them.’
Tamar went back out to the hall, rummaged in the bag and came back with a small packet, which she put on the kitchen island. ‘It’s Georgian white tea,’ she said. ‘Georgia used to be a big tea-producing nation, but after the fall of the Soviet Union, it all got abandoned. Now they’re building it up again. It tastes best out of glass.’
‘Gosh, I didn’t know that,’ said Sophie, already feeling warm towards this young woman. ‘I’ve got some tea glasses – is it better brewed in glass as well?’
Tamar nodded and Sophie went to the studio to get her glass teapot.
‘Come and have a look in here,’ she said, popping her head back into the kitchen. It’s my new studio and prop room.’
‘Wow,’ said Tamar, looking round at the shelves with wide eyes. ‘This is amazing. What incredible things you have. Are we going to shoot the pictures in here?’
Sophie could see she was checking out the light from the two large windows. ‘If you’d like to. It will be my first project here and I’m so glad it’s your book. I think we can do something really great. We can discuss photographers with the publisher once we’ve got to know each other.’
Back in the kitchen, they sat on the stools at the island, sipping the refreshing tea and eating the brittle.
‘This is great,’ said Sophie. ‘Walnuts and honey both feature a lot in Georgian food, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said Tamar. ‘Although these are mostly a New Year thing.’
‘Oops, I should have read the small print. I’m so interested to find out more about all the traditions from you. What is your Georgian heritage? That’s a very British surname you have – and with your lovely first name, I wondered if you’re from Devon. Are you named after the river?’
To her surprise, Tamar’s face fell. ‘Tamar is a traditional Georgian name,’ she said, recovering herself. ‘My mother was Georgian. My father was British, hence good old Brown.’
Her mother ‘was’, her father ‘was’, noted Sophie. Had she lost both of them when still so young? Despite feeling a rush of empathy, Sophie decided it wasn’t the time to pursue it. A working relationship in its early stages was a delicate thing.
Tamar picked up another piece of the nutty treat and examined it closely. ‘It was my grandmother who taught me to make this food,’ she said, after taking a bite and another sip of tea. ‘My recipes are all from her.’
A slew of questions immediately jumped into Sophie’s mind as she pictured this grandmother, a lovely old lady, possibly with long grey plaits, wearing an embroidered peasant blouse. Is she still alive? Does she live in the UK? And can we do a wonderful black and white portrait of the two of you together?
But Tamar was looking at Sophie and smiling in a way that seemed to imply that – with all due politeness – the subject was closed.
‘Right,’ said Sophie, brightly. ‘The first thing we need to do is see what sort of look and feel we each envisage the book having, to make sure we are on the same page – forgive the pun.’ She led the way over to the bookshelves that covered the whole wall between the studio and the kitchen. ‘As you can see, I’ve got quite a collection of food books.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ said Tamar, standing next to her and studying the spines.
‘It’s a personal obsession – and a professional requirement. I need to see what’s coming out, so I don’t do anything similar. I buy anything which looks interesting, publishers send them to me and friends are always buying me vintage ones they find in charity shops.’
She passed Tamar a 1960s American book that was full of garish, slightly out-of-focus photographs of weird salads made with jelly. Matt had found it in a thrift store in LA.
Tamar laughed. ‘So you have the what not to do, as well as the good stuff,’ she said, turning it round to show a picture to Sophie. ‘Maybe we should use Tupperware in our shoot.’
They laughed.
‘So,’ said Sophie, ‘have a look and pull out whatever books appeal – and some you hate – and I’ll do the same and we can go through them and see what we both think will work for your book.’
‘My book!’ said Tamar, her face lighting up. ‘I still can’t really believe it. A dream come true, all thanks to Instagram.’
‘All thanks to your beautiful pictures and great recipes,’ said Sophie, resisting an urge to give this endearing young woman a hug.
After some time happily browsing the shelves side by side, they carried the piles of books they’d selected to the dining table so they could spread them out with key pages open. Sophie had put a shawl over the Mickey Mouse chair and found it much easier to be in the room without that deafening reminder. Looking at the table piled with books, she felt good.
Trying to bring things into focus, she had gathered books specifically about food from different regions, which meant they were within the same genre as Tamar’s book. She’d pulled out Thai food, Irish food, Andalucian food, Tuscan food, Indian food, Vietnamese street food and many more. Some of them great, some not. She wanted to show how varied and beautiful they could be, but was surprised to see a little frown appear between Tamar’s eyebrows as she looked at them.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Sophie.
‘Yes, fine,’ said Tamar, picking up a book about Icelandic food and leafing through it in a desultory way. ‘Gosh, I don’t think I could eat a puffin.’ Then she picked up the one about Andalucian food and sighed audibly.
‘But I’m getting a slightly bored vibe,’ said Sophie, laughing.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tamar. ‘These books are all very beautiful and I do understand that they’re about food from specific places, as my recipes are, but I have to be honest and tell you I’m hoping we can find a slightly different way into it for my book. I don’t want it to be like a travel guide to Georgia – like this kind of thing...’ She held up the Andalucian book to show a double-page picture of pigs grazing acorns in a wood, tended by a man in a traditional-looking hat, then turned a few pages to show shots of market stalls and old women with wrinkled faces carrying baskets of produce.
‘I suppose that is a bit of a cliché,’ said Sophie, who had already started researching similar shots of Georgian scenes on picture-library websites. ‘And I must admit, I had rather assumed that would be our way in – especially as it’s a less well-known country. Everybody has seen a million photos of Provencal markets and Greek fishermen, but Georgia is still exotic to us.’
Tamar looked thoughtful, flicking through a book about Southern Indian food.
‘The thing is,’ she said quietly, looking up at Sophie, ‘Georgia is exotic for me too. I’ve never been there, so I don’t have any personal reference for the country – it’s just the food I know and love so much. I’ve kept the essence of the recipes on my feed as my bebia – my grandmother – showed me how to make them, but I’ve finessed them very much from my viewpoint as a British cook.’
Sophie took it in. There were some vegan recipes on the Instagram thread, which had surprised her in a cuisine from the region. Now she understood they were Tamar’s own inventions.
‘That’s exactly why the recipes are so good,’ said Sophie, nodding slowly. ‘You have taken the best of traditional Georgian food that works for the modern palate, rather than trying to be painfully authentic.’
‘Exactly!’ said Tamar, looking delighted that Sophie understood her. ‘I’m not an ethnic cook.’
‘I love the sound of this. We can do something really fresh and new.’
‘I’m so glad you get it. I’ve said all this to the publisher repeatedly, but she keeps going back to “your lovely book about Georgian food”. I always say, “my book of recipes inspired by Georgian food” and it’s like she can’t hear me.’
Sophie smiled. She knew the publisher in question and Tamar had done a very good impression of her rather strident tone.
‘Well, I get it,’ she said, ‘and I’m revved up to make it leap as fresh off the page as it does when you talk about it and, of course, one of the things we have to think about is how we will present the food. Do you want to put it in a contemporary context, or do you want to use the lovely vessels you use in your Insta pictures? I think they give just the right amount of Georgian visual flavour to your pictures, without labouring it, because they work in a contemporary aesthetic too, perfect for your second-generation idea... Did you bring some down with you?’
Tamar’s face creased into a stricken expression. ‘I don’t have them anymore,’ she said quietly.
Sophie could immediately see there was some deep hurt involved. Carrying so much around herself made her acutely aware of it in others.
‘Gosh, look at the time,’ she said, glancing at her phone. ‘You must be starving. I thought we’d go out and grab a bite. Do you feel like fish?’
‘Always,’ said Tamar. ‘Especially when I’m by the sea.’
‘Great,’ said Sophie. ‘And down here, you are usually looking at the very bit of sea where the fish you’re eating has come from.’
Sophie led the way down the zig-zag path from her clifftop street to the seafront level. It was a lovely summer day, with bright sunshine and a gentle breeze. They crossed the road to walk along by the beach and Tamar stopped, turning towards the water, spreading her arms out, her face up to the sun.
‘Aaah!’ she said, then turned back to Sophie with a big smile on her face. ‘This is what I need. Lovely sea air and a break from East London’s clamour.’
After a pleasant stroll, they walked down steps leading to the lower promenade, where there was a collection of colourful shacks with the words ‘Goat Ledge’ spelled out along the top.
‘Do they specialise in goat?’ asked Tamar.
‘That’s just the historic name for this spot, apparently,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s all local fish, freshly cooked. I come here a lot.’ To avoid having lunch alone in my sickly pink kitchen .
They ordered food – smiling as they realised they’d chosen the same things – and then found an empty table next to the railing that ran along the side of the pebbly beach. Although it was a weekday, the concrete promenade was busy with people of all ages, strolling along, chatting and laughing, walking dogs, pushing babies, stopping to greet friends.
Sophie sank back in her seat and felt her whole body relax as she surrendered to feeling the sun and the breeze on her skin and watching the colourful passing show with the sound of the waves on the shingle in the background.
But as she relished the moment of peace, she noticed Tamar was busy on her phone, fingers flicking and scrolling, tapping out messages, then going back to the flicking and scrolling. Once she lifted it to her ear, only to bring it down again with a twitch of irritation and go back to the tapping. Her eyes were darting around quite frenetically as she stared at the screen, a frown deepening on her brow.
Just as Sophie began to wonder whether she should say anything, Tamar seemed to realise what she was doing and put her phone down smartly on the table.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘that was very rude of me.’ She sat up straight as she said it, in a way that Sophie found endearing. She’d probably done the same thing herself many times over the past few months without realising it.
‘Is everything alright?’ she asked in a tone she hoped sounded genuine rather than intrusive.
‘Yes... no,’ said Tamar, still sounding a bit flustered. ‘Just a stupid thing. Sorry. What were we talking about?’
Sophie was trying to remember when she heard someone say her name. She looked up to see Charlie walking towards them.
‘Hi, Sophie,’ he was saying, then he turned towards Tamar, holding out his hand. ‘Charles Renton.’
‘Tamar Brown,’ she said, shaking it.
‘Hi, Charlie,’ said Sophie, surprised to see him. ‘Tamar and I are doing a book together. She’s come down from London so we can talk about it.’ She looked back at Tamar. ‘Charlie makes wonderful sparkling wine, just inland from here. Sit down, Charlie, join us for lunch.’
‘I’d love to,’ he said, glancing at his watch, ‘but I’m having a meeting with Mark, who has the wine shop in Norman Road. I do quite a bit of business with him. But let’s catch up soon, I really want you to come and see how we make the pop. Mind you, I’ll probably see you again before we get around to arranging anything.’
‘Really?’ said Sophie, wondering what he meant. Was there a social thing coming up that she’d forgotten about?
‘Small-town life, Sophie,’ he replied. ‘You can bump into ten people you know just going to buy a loaf of bread. It can get quite exhausting. Sometimes I drive all the way to the Waitrose in Tenterden just to have a break from the Hastings and St Leonards impromptu social rush.’ He laughed and Sophie smiled at him, taking it in. She had bumped into Lorraine, that ghastly felting woman, a couple of times, just out and about. She’d felt a bit stalked, but this explained it.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘let’s not rely on that. I want to thank you properly for your help setting up my props. I’ll invite you for dinner.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said, and as he turned to say goodbye to Tamar, Sophie looked over at her too. She was on her phone again, tapping even more furiously and starting to look very stressed.
‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, raising his eyebrows at Sophie in a way that conveyed he could see she had something to sort out with Tamar and was going to leave her to it.
Sophie nodded in acknowledgement and, after he left, turned to Tamar, putting her hand gently on her arm. ‘Are you sure, you’re okay?’
Tamar’s head shot up and she looked almost surprised to see Sophie. She groaned. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You must think I’m a nut job, but I have got a bit of a situation on. I don’t want to bother you with it, because I’m down here to work.’
‘While we’re working together, Tamar,’ said Sophie, ‘we’re a team. Tell me what’s worrying you.’
Tamar looked back at her and then started talking very fast. ‘It’s the friend I’m supposed to be staying with down here, she’s not replying to any of my messages. I’ve tried her on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok and she hasn’t replied on any of them. I don’t understand it. She said I could stay...’
‘Have you tried calling her?’ asked Sophie quietly, trying to calm her down.
‘I don’t have her number,’ said Tamar. ‘She’s someone I met on Instagram and we’ve always chatted on there. When we made this date for me to come down I messaged her to ask if I could stay and she said yes, that would be great, and now I can’t make contact with her.’‘
‘Do you know where she lives? I could take you there after this. Maybe she’s had her phone stolen.’ She knew it sounded farfetched as she said it.
Tamar closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know the address,’ she said and dropped her head into her hands, her elbows on the table.
Sophie kept quiet, but then she saw a tear slide off Tamar’s cheek and drop onto her lap, closely followed by another one. It seemed a dramatic reaction to the situation, it was only ninety minutes on the train back to London, after all. There had to be more to it.
She stood up and went round the table, sitting down next to Tamar and putting her arm across her shoulder.
‘Hey, Tamar,’ she said, softly. ‘Tell me what’s up. I know it can be hard to form the words in these situations, but you will feel better when you tell me, I promise you.’
Tamar sat up and wiped her eyes with each hand. ‘The problem is, now I don’t have anywhere to stay down here tonight and I don’t have anywhere in London either. I’m homeless. I don’t have anywhere to live or anyone I can stay with.’
‘Well, you do now,’ said Sophie, without hesitating. ‘You can stay with me tonight and the night after that and so on, whatever you need, until you get things sorted. I’m living in a stupidly big house on my own and I would be delighted to have you.’
Tamar gazed at her, blinking, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. ‘Are you sure? You’ve only just met me. It would be amazing if I could stay tonight, thank you, but I can go in the morning—’
Sophie raised one finger and smiled. ‘It would be lovely for me if you stayed. I lost my husband just this January. My sons are grown up and gone – one of them’s in Australia – and I’m living on my own for the first time in my life, in a town where I hardly know anyone. You would be doing me a favour.’
‘I’m so sorry about your husband.’
Sophie noted that was her first reaction – to sympathise with her. She was a nice girl.
‘You’re much too young to be a widow,’ Tamar continued, ‘and it must be so hard to be going through that in a new place.’
‘Thank you for understanding. It has been really tough, but it seemed easier to come down here and have a completely fresh start than trying to get over him where we’d spent our life together.’
‘I can see that,’ said Tamar. ‘But it would be tough wherever you are.’
She knows , thought Sophie.
‘So are you going to stay?’
‘I would love to,’ said Tamar. ‘It’s so kind of you, but it won’t be for long, because I will be getting the advance on the book soon and then I’ll be able to set myself up, but it would be amazing if I could stay tonight.’
‘See how it goes,’ said Sophie. ‘With you on site, we can really get cracking on the book.’ She smiled fondly at the young woman, happy to see that her face had brightened again, and was then pleased to hear the number being called for their order.