Cooking the Books (10 page)

Dried and be-gowned I poured myself a drink. Good cognac, to abolish the scent of cheap sweet sherry. Daniel joined me on the couch.

‘Phew,’ he commented.

‘I could not agree more,’ I said. ‘So, what do we know?’

‘Pockets had the papers,’ he said. ‘He must have been a banker or a lawyer before the paranoid schizophrenia got him. Wasn’t that a Gargantua and Pantagruel scene, the drunks reposing on boxes of wine?’

‘I thought it was more Dante’s inferno,’ I said, sipping. Daniel nodded.

‘Perhaps. However, Pockets has filed the papers “in their proper place”.’

‘So that the paperwork will be in order when the Lemurians arrive. But where is the proper place?’

‘There you have me. I shall go back tomorrow and try him again. Perhaps I should tell him that the Lemurians have indeed sent me to spy upon him and check that he is carrying out their wishes.’

‘Who are the Lemurians?’

‘There was a mythical continent called Lemuria,’ said Daniel. ‘Or so I’m told. The Lemurians live in the middle of the hollow earth and rise periodically to see how civilisation is getting on.’

‘If the only thing they saw when they rose was that camp, they’d give up on humans and sink down again,’ I opined.

‘Too true.’

We mused for a while. Outside the dragon’s breath wind tore at the leaves and lashed the side of the building with its burden of filthy dust and valuable topsoil. It was a disgusting night, but here inside it was clean and cool.

We went to bed. It seemed a life-affirming thing to do, and might have even convinced the Lemurians, had they existed and been present, that humanity was worth another few thousand years.

I went back to sleep after suppressing my alarm clock. Lovely.

Then it was really morning again. The big wind had gone. Melbourne was twinkling under a sharp sun which penetrated corners and revealed dust and spider webs. I forced down an urge to start cleaning and decided that I should deal with that backlog of emails while Daniel went out to meet with his client Lena and tell her that he had made a little progress. One of the bank bonds had been sold, we knew that, and it seemed likely that Pockets had sold it and paid for that deluge of wine. The rest must be somewhere. And who knew what a ‘proper place’ was to a man as unhinged as poor Pockets?

Emails. Hundreds of them. Well, not really, but they can build up into a disheartening number if ignored for any length of time. I kissed Daniel goodbye, took my cup of coffee to the desk and called up the messages.

Mostly spam. Pathetic pleas from Nigerian bankers. Appeals for more money from every charity available. Nothing to be done about them. Unsubscribing merely draws attention to the fact that this is a live account. I deleted merrily. People inviting me to buy plants, clothes, fabric, ties, annuities, penis enhancers, Viagra and hampers. I declined. And—aha!—another communication from my errant apprentice.

Fud gud
, he began.
Got jb as cook. Good mny. Mss u
.

And what to reply? I was glad that he had a good job, though he was supposed to be on holiday. I was glad that he was eating well. I replied thus. I missed Jason. But nothing was going to make me text my messages. I didn’t know the conventions. If you are going to insult someone, Grandma Chapman had said, insult them on purpose.

The sunlight continued to stream through the open curtains, revealing every spider web and the thin coating of dust on every surface. I gave in and found the broom. As I swept I wondered what strange turn of mental disorder had brought Pockets to his present situation in life. He had been, like me, a professional accountant. Mental illness owes no one any favours. It is an equal opportunity destroyer. Sane today, awaiting the Lemurians tomorrow. My meditation was making me gloomy. I decided to go up to the roof garden with Horatio and regain my perspective.

When I got there I found Therese Webb sitting under the statue of the goddess, stitching very small beads onto a length of red satin. I offered her a drink but she declined.

‘I really need to get this done,’ she explained, politely removing Horatio’s exploring paw. ‘No, not the satin, dear, it marks so easily. I came up here because daylight is so much better for beading.’

‘Special commission?’ I asked idly.

‘Yes, for a TV show. Something to do with weddings.’

‘
Kiss the Bride
?’ I asked. ‘I’m baking for them.’

‘What a coincidence,’ said Therese, setting a miniscule stitch, knotting it, and breaking off the cotton. ‘There, all finished. What do you think?’ She shook out the cloth. The red satin was studded with tiny red beads. They swirled up from what must be the hem in perfect, graceful curves.

‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘A work of art.’

‘It should be, considering what they are paying for it,’ she answered, folding the satin and putting it into a plastic bag in case Horatio decided that satin was the ideal fabric for exercising the claws. ‘I don’t usually undertake such fine work since my eyes got so bad. But if it will help the girls in their careers, it’s worth a little eye strain. Funny, when I heard the name of the show I thought it would be a wedding dress, and white on white is even harder on the eyes than red on red.’

‘I wish you had made my wedding dress,’ I found myself saying. I had been trying to avoid memories of my wedding to that snake, James. But they had been arising ever since I had started my work on
Kiss the Bride
.

‘I would have been delighted,’ she said. ‘I could fancy a little drink now, Corinna. What was your dress like?’ she asked, as I poured her a gin and tonic.

‘Horrible,’ I said, remembering it. ‘Half a size too small, blinding white satin and very heavy. What with that and the veil I looked like a frosted cake. And I felt like an overstuffed sofa.’

‘With your colouring I would have used ivory and a matt finish. Crepe, perhaps. A belled skirt and a loose bodice, perhaps a sweetheart neckline. Pearl beading . . . Satin is a very unforgiving fabric.’

‘Especially to the fleshy. I hated it. I gave it to the op shop the day it came back from the dry cleaners. Weddings! Impossible to believe that they are still so important. Your degree, your PhD, the publication of your first book, your Nobel Prize—minor events compared to your wedding day.’

‘Princess for a day,’ mused Therese.

‘Happiest day of your life,’ I said. ‘A terrible expectation.’

‘So it is, dear, but humans are like that. Have you seen the girls? How are they managing?’

‘They seem fine. I even caught them eating a little.’

The conversation wandered into less depressing channels. I finished my drink and took Horatio home. My mood continued gloomy. I could not see how Daniel was going to bribe or persuade Pockets to tell him where he had filed the documents. And I really did not want to remember my wedding—a fiasco—but I seemed stuck with it. Nasty.

So I constructed a very elaborate roasted chicken with lemon, honey and brown rice stuffing for dinner. Cooking is a great comforter. Eating might make Daniel feel better, too. It always worked for me.

And it did, too. By the time we reached cheese-and-port we were merry together and contented. I raised the question which had been weighing on my mind.

‘What do you think about marriage, Daniel?’

‘Is this a proposal?’ He raised his glass and quirked an eyebrow over it.

‘No,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Not at this present time,’ I temporised. Who knew? I might want to marry Daniel at some future time. In an ivory crepe dress with a belled skirt and pearl beading. ‘No, it’s this soap.
Kiss the Bride
is a wedding planner and it’s a huge business. Flowers, venue hire, dresses, presents, invitations. I’m wondering how it is that getting married is suddenly the finest thing any woman can do.’

‘I don’t think it’s sudden,’ said Daniel. ‘I think it’s always been seen that way. The seventies was just a blip. Walking barefoot through the buttercups to the celebrant. Picnics on the grass. People have always made a big deal out of weddings. My cousin . . .’

‘Your cousin?’ Daniel seldom talks about his family.

‘My cousin Sara,’ he continued, ‘decided to marry the man her parents had picked out for her. She liked him. Still does, as far as I know. She planned a nice quiet ceremony and a little gathering at a restaurant for a few close friends. But by the time her mother had finished with it, Sara was hosting the feeding of the five thousand and a spectacle which would have staggered Heliogabalus, and she didn’t speak to her mother for six months. Her relatives, of course, were all fighting among themselves and several lifelong feuds were started. Her mother required medical treatment for shrieking-induced throat injuries and her father retreated to a kibbutz and picked melons. He said he liked the melons because they didn’t scream at him. So,’ said Daniel.

‘So, indeed,’ I agreed.

‘Sometimes it is the only way that a girl can exert control over her life,’ he commented. ‘Not in Sara’s case, of course. Some young women feel helpless to resist the zeitgeist. Once they have declared that they are getting married, they become “brides” and are swept away in a flurry of confetti.’

‘Yes, I can see how that would happen. The same thing as happens to people who are elected politicians and become politicians overnight. More’s the pity.’ I picked at a little more King Island Cheddar.

‘My own wedding,’ he told me, ‘would have been perfect in its way. We were both soldiers on active service so we would both wear uniform. Only parents could attend. It would have been charming,’ he reminisced. He did not often mention his prospective marriage to a fellow soldier who had been killed shortly before the ceremony. I didn’t know what Jewish marriages were like, anyway. I vaguely recalled something about a canopy, a smashed glass . . . I held his hand as he endured a wave of sadness. Poor Daniel. Almost a widower so young. He caught my line of thought and smiled at me. ‘But now I have you,’ he said, and kissed me. He tasted of cheese and port and was altogether delightful. I shelved the topic of marriage and sank into his arms. Horatio, who was sitting on my knee, was affronted, but you can’t please everyone.

Kiss the Bride
’s set was buzzing when Bernie and I arrived (the driver was whistling ‘Moon River’, which I quite liked). I could not put my finger on it but there was a heightened sense of anticipation. Tommy rushed over while we were still unloading bread, wiping her forehead with a red handkerchief. It was a hot day, but not that hot.

‘Bernie working out?’ she demanded.

‘She’s very good,’ I assured her.

‘Filming today so our timetable is altered. Lots of snacks for delays. People always get hungry when there are delays. Lots of little pies and tarts, the list’s posted,’ she said, and hurried away. I looked at Bernie, who was already looking at me.

‘Pies,’ she said.

‘And tarts. Let’s get started.’ I led the way into the kitchen, which was loud with blasphemy because the white sauce had curdled and once that happens there is no resurrection. The disgusted cook was about to begin again and was screaming for the fine flour, the butter, and some peace and quiet. Well, she got the flour and the butter, at least. Everyone was on edge. Bernie and I aimed to create an oasis of calm in which to work and largely managed it, because no one was paying any attention to us. Also, the kitchen was full of actors and crew, requiring special breakfasts or accompanying someone who did, and getting in the way. It was like trying to cook in the middle of a herd of cross, uncooperative cows who were about to haul off and let the milkmaid have a hoof in the centre of her apron.

Tommy finally took charge and banished all but the actual workers. To massed complaints the extraneous removed themselves and we got on with constructing the required comest- ibles. Bernie had an inspired hand with pastry. Hers was better than mine. I was not jealous. I made better bread than anyone I knew.

Pies filled with chicken and leek, beef burgundy, cheese and spinach, and tarts made of everything except cement. They went into the oven pallid and came out of the oven golden and the sight of this growing array gladdened my heart. Savoury scents enfolded us. Bernie smelt spicy, due to rather specialising in apple pies. Breakfast was being set out as we came to the end of the fillings and decided that we deserved a cup of coffee and a little sit-down.