Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
Sophie woke up late after another good sleep and had a couple of beats of glorious nothingness before it all came rushing back. Knowing there were two lovely young people in the house speeded her recovery from the morning memory tsunami.
Dressing quickly, she went downstairs to find Beau and Tamar sitting side by side on the stools at the kitchen island. She was briefly furious with herself for not setting the alarm, so she would have been on hand to stop anything cosy like this happening, but then she noticed how Beau was sitting, slightly skewed away from Tamar, like he had deliberately moved the stool over a few inches.
It looked like he really was making an effort.
‘Morning all,’ she said, putting the coffee machine into action. ‘What are you two up to?’
Her son looked sheepish. ‘Tamar was very kindly showing me the shots you’ve done and I just wanted to compare them with her Instagram feed, because...’
Sophie batted away a twinge of irritation that he was intruding in their work. ‘Because they aren’t quite as good?’ she said, knowing it was the truth.
‘Well,’ said Beau, ‘it’s not a quality issue...’
‘I know, you don’t need to tell me. That’s what we’ve been struggling with, isn’t it, Tamar?’
She nodded.
‘We’ve got the same wonderful food,’ continued Sophie, ‘and the same brilliant photographer – and by the way, Tamar, I’m going to tell the publisher I want you to do the pictures for the book. It’s your aesthetic and no one could do it better than you.’
Tamar gaped at her. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, her eyes open wide, ‘that would be amazing.’
‘And you’ll get more money,’ said Beau, holding up his hand to high five her.
Sophie was distracted now, standing between them, comparing the pictures. She knew why the ones they’d taken didn’t have the same atmosphere as Tamar’s originals, but she didn’t want to be the one to say it. She was wondering how to frame the words when Beau spoke.
‘You need those lovely bowls from the Insta shots,’ he said. ‘That’s what’s missing.’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have access to them anymore,’ said Tamar.
Sophie reached across and squeezed Tamar’s hand.
‘Could you get some more sent over from Georgia?’ asked Beau.
‘I did look into that,’ said Tamar, ‘but you’d really need to go there to find some old ones, because they need to have the patina – new ones just aren’t the same – and then you’d have to ship them back here and I don’t have the resources for that.’
‘I did ask my agent to see if we could get a trip out there,’ said Sophie, ‘but the publisher didn’t go for it.’
Beau was studying the Instagram shot that was on the phone’s screen. It featured an old-looking pot with a lustrous black glaze. ‘So perhaps what you need instead,’ he said, ‘is an art potter to make them for you with the effect of this patina already on them.’
Sophie stared at him. It was so obvious.
‘Do you know anyone?’
Sophie laughed. ‘Funnily enough, I do. Come with me.’
‘Olive?’ called Sophie from the hall in the house next door and then up the stairs, but there was no reply. She walked into the kitchen, calling Olive’s name as she went, but there was still no answer, so she went through the kitchen and out the back door, where she saw Olive on her knees in her vegetable patch – naked.
‘Oh!’ said Sophie. ‘Sorry!’
Olive roared with laughter. ‘Sorry, Sophes, didn’t mean to frighten you. Just getting some vitamin D. I’ll run up and get some dacks on.’
‘Hold on a second, Olive,’ said Sophie, starting to giggle, ‘I’ve brought some people with me and they’re in your hallway.’
‘No worries,’ said Olive, coming into the kitchen and grabbing her kitchen apron and a tea towel, then waltzing up the stairs past Tamar and Beau.
She was down again in no time, clad in her customary Breton top and dungarees.
‘Right,’ she said, striding into the room. ‘Who have we got here?’
‘This is my friend Tamar, we’re doing a book together, and this is my older son, Beau.’
‘Good to meet you,’ said Olive, shaking their hands firmly, then her attention turned to the lidded pot that Tamar had brought with her.
‘That’s a nice little thing you’ve got there, darling,’ she said.
‘Can I have a look?’
Tamar handed it over and Olive examined it, taking off the lid to look inside before turning it upside down.
‘This is beautiful. Where did you get it?’
‘It was my grandmother’s,’ said Tamar.
‘Eastern European?’
‘From Georgia, in the Caucasus. She brought a lot of her old pots over with her when she moved here because that’s what she felt comfortable cooking with.’
‘Have you got any more?’ Olive asked. ‘I’d love to see them. I’m a potter myself.’ She gestured to the row of vessels of different heights lined up along the mantlepiece and shelves on either side.
‘These are beautiful,’ said Beau, going over to examine them.
‘That’s why we’ve come to see you, Olive,’ said Sophie. ‘You see, the book we’re doing is food inspired by Tamar’s grandmother’s cooking and we would love to use traditional Georgian-style pots in it, but unfortunately we can’t access any at the, er, moment.’
‘So do you want me to make some?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Sophie. ‘That’s pretty much it. We can show you lots of examples of the pots on Tamar’s Instagram thread. So we were hoping perhaps you could have a look and see if you could make something similar.’
‘I’m sure I can. I spent a couple of months with a potter in Tbilisi thirty years ago.’
‘Really?’ said Tamar, amazed. ‘You’ve been to Georgia?’
‘Sure,’ said Olive. ‘I travelled all over when I was younger, working with different potters, picking up ideas for my own work. They do interesting stuff there with smoke firing... it’s all very ancient. I’ve done a bit of that and I’d like to try it again. So you’re on, kids. When do you want to start?’
‘We’d love you to come for dinner tonight,’ said Sophie.
‘We’re going to ask Agata too. Charlie’s coming and my friend Rey – so perhaps you could nip over a bit earlier and Tamar could show you her pictures to give you the feel we’re hoping to recreate with your pots.’
‘Sounds good. I’ll come at six.’ Then she turned to Beau, reaching for his hand. ‘Nice rings you’ve got there, mate,’ she said.
‘I make them,’ he said, holding out both hands so she could see them all.
Olive looked at each one carefully and then up at him, smiling. ‘It’s good work. Where did you learn to do that?’
‘Well, I studied jewellery making at the Royal College of Art, but then I kind of re-taught myself.’
‘Best way,’ said Olive, smiling. ‘See you guys later.’