Food Fight (12 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was one of those late summer evenings when she felt like her old self again. She was back in London in a Bermondsey restaurant with Lily, reminiscing about their student days over dinner and a bottle of wine. It was a welcome distraction from the work tensions in DC.

“Who was the one who introduced me to that idiot, what was his name?” Lily said, helping herself to the olive oil and bread on their table.

“Brian! The sociologist? You mean who was the one who stole him from me?” Lily sat back in denial. “He
was
handsome. But he kept some strange company. He used to hang out with those chemical engineers.”

“Oh yes, the chemical engineers. They were the worst. And thick!” The two burst into laughter.

“That moment when you came into my bedroom, and there was Brian on top of me. He was just wiggling!”

“Wiggling. Like a caterpillar,” said Susan.

“Especially with that hairy back! No wonder you shut the door in a hurry.”

“I was giggling so much I had to get out. The sex life of the British male. Ugh!”

Lily feigned hurt. “Well not everybody finds a French lover.”

“I know. God, that was a revelation for me,” said Susan. “Someone who actually knew what to do. Although it must be said that Rod knew how to satisfy a woman, too.”

“That’s why he’s called Rod!” This was getting out of hand. Susan glanced sideways at the table next to them whose diners were staring at their mezze.

“Have you any idea what happened to Brian?”

Lily shook her head. “We didn’t have that much in common, did we? We were pretty innocent then, I suppose. He was into the anti-Thatcher radical politics at uni, and I just wanted to get on with growing up. Do you remember that big scandal when they compiled those files on students with political activities? Brian was in the thick of that. I think he must have been one of those Marxist Trotskyist anarcho-syndicalists. Somebody told me later that he was organizing poll tax riots.”

“Oh, that makes sense. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie -”

“Out, out, out!”

They hadn’t shared the same group of friends in Brighton, although Susan had introduced Lily to Brian who was in her social sciences faculty. After that, Susan had been wrapped up in her relationship with Rod. He told her she reminded him of the pre-Raphaelite portrait of Ophelia, something which had amused both her and Lily.

“It really could have been you,” said Lily. “She posed in the bath!”

She’d disapproved of Susan going out with a married man, of course, and had noted Rod’s lack of candour regarding his wife. But Lily hadn’t been at home much that year: The university silver jubilee had been one long concert.

Lily, who had switched to music after dropping out of law studies, had quite a following. She was known as the ‘flutie cutie’ with her trademark scrunchie tying back her sleek dark hair. Susan, too afraid of the sun to join other friends who took books to the beach, had drunk bottomless cups of coffee on campus with Rod, a former Sussex student who’d set up his own business and drove around in a flashy BMW. Another trait that hadn’t endeared him to Lily.

“Guess what, I’m going to meet Josh tomorrow,” Susan said, lowering her voice.

“The boyfriend? The one who looks like a meerkat? Are you going to the flat?”

No, they were meeting on neutral territory in Vauxhall.

“Well find out the name of the baby, at least. And tell me, how are things at work with slime-bag?”

Susan confided that she’d been seriously considering returning to London.

“But what about Matt from State? He might be The One.”

“He never called me again. Nothing. And there I was thinking we had chemistry. He said I was fat!”

“No. I can’t believe it. Who would do that?”

“Not in so many words, but that’s what he meant.”

“You could always ring him. Or maybe he doesn’t like redheads.”

“Excuse me. Who doesn’t like redheads?”

“But what were you going to say about Barney?” Lily leaned forward.

“I’ve got the impression that he’s fed up with me. What do they say in America? Three strikes and you’re out? Well, I feel as though I’ve got two strikes against me. If I ask to come home, it could save face for us both.”

“Tell me more about him.”

Susan leaned on her hand. “Macho, powerful, intimidates people. Sexist. Racist. Scary. Then again, if he’d been Mister Nice, he probably wouldn’t be where he is today.”

“Sounds charming. Married, presumably.”

“Yes. Grown kids. He and his wife live in Georgetown. Like Frank and June in their little cottage in Cobham. It’s funny to think of these big Americans crammed into such twee places. Barney is like Frank’s evil twin.”

“But what would you do if you came home?”

“I’d get my old job back, of course.”

“Are you sure?” Lily could spot a get-out clause a mile away.

She hadn’t thought that far ahead. But it made sense to her to come home after a year away. And DeKripps had treated her generously until now. Practically like family. In fact, after Serge died, they’d been her lifeline. But from a professional standpoint, now that the Guilty Secrets successful launch was complete, there were fewer reasons to stay in DC.

“Are you emotionally ready to come home?”

“I think of Serge every day. I miss him so much. But yes, I think I’m ready.”

At least she could pronounce his name now without tears stinging her eyes. What’s more, she missed Frank, she missed Lily, and of course she missed her family.

“Anyway, Mimi’s having a baby and I want to be there. I’m fed up of being on my own in Washington.”

“Well can I give you a word of advice?” said Lily. She momentarily stopped drumming her fingers on the table.

“Of course.”

“If I were you, I’d consider hiring a lawyer.”

*

The young man waiting for Susan in the entrance of Mimi’s office building was tall and slim. Rangy. She noticed his sandy goatee which had been hard to distinguish on Skype. From close up he really did look like a meerkat.

“Call me Susie,” she said, as they shook hands and waited by the red, white and blue USAway sign. Mimi, of course, arrived late, running down the stairs. Had she intended to leave the two of them alone for a few minutes?

“Hi Ma. Josh, this is Ma. Ma, Josh,” she said.

“We’ve done the formalities,” Josh said. He gave Mimi a kiss and squeezed her arm. Her daughter’s nose accessory had been replaced by a sparkling ruby-coloured glass stud. Susan wondered whether the future father approved.

She noticed how protective he was with Mimi, as he fussed over her at lunch at a nearby vegetarian café. It reminded her, poignantly, of how Serge had treated her.

“I hear you’ve been doing some research on Serge,” she told him. “That’s really interesting, thanks.”

“It didn’t start out that way. In fact, I’d been reading Camus and started looking up criticism, and that’s when his name came up. I’ll send you the links if you like.”

“That’s kind of you. But actually, Serge kept the hard copies at the house anyway. I found the files in a chest recently. But I must say, I never read them, and they’re in the attic.”

“You must be really proud of him.”

“Yes.” Susan returned to her carrot and chickpea salad. “He was a hoarder, you know. He kept every single letter that I wrote to him.”

“A real Sartre-and-De Beauvoir,” said Mimi. Susan chewed on, then, embarrassed for Josh, changed the subject.

“Mimi, do you remember when we went to Brittany, and it was impossible for you to find anything you could eat? The waiters didn’t understand when you asked for a salad without chicken, and stuff like that. There was that time when you said you were a vegetarian and they brought you a salmon steak.”

“It’s
vegan
by the way. The French just don’t get it. I bet they don’t even have a word for it.”

“The last time we went, you just ate chips and salad.”

Mimi had rarely been to Brittany, part of her ongoing ‘my mother’s life is boring’ phase. But even as a child she was never made welcome by Serge’s family. Susan once overheard Marie-Christine telling a neighbour that she couldn’t understand why she had named her daughter Mimosa after a brand of French loo roll. In pious Brittany, where everyone was named after their saint’s day, the in-laws knew there was no saint Mimosa.

Susan ploughed on. “It’s so much easier in America. But then again, I’ve seen dinners ruined by people being picky about their food in restaurants. It’s embarrassing sometimes.”

Another silence. Josh was stroking Mimi’s arm.

Susan didn’t like to ask him about his job, or lack of one, so she turned to the pregnancy. “I was sick a lot at the beginning, wasn’t I?” Josh nodded as his hand moved to his sparse goatee. “But it’s settled down now.”

The baby was due on March 29th, six months’ time. A month after Mimi’s birthday. They didn’t want to know if was a boy or a girl. “Don’t I have the right to know the sex of my grandchild?” she asked, feeling like an antique. Apparently not. After another silence, she glanced at her watch.

“I’d better go,” she said, before Mimi had a chance to throw any conversational grenades. “I’ve got a train to catch. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Give my love to granny. And tell her we were at Glastonbury, not Glyndebourne.”

Susan found two £20 notes and paid their bill. Oh dear, she thought as she left, dragging her wheelie suitcase behind her, I should have asked about Mimi’s latest project at USAway in case it blows up in my face.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The changing room at the discount clothing store in Washington was one of those communal spaces that Susan despised. She’d never set foot inside, although she had seen its customers on the Metro carrying bags with ‘Grab it while it lasts,’ in big letters.

“Don’t be so snobbish,” Jessica had said, edging Susan into the dress department. “Everyone likes a bargain.”

There was always an unspoken rule in communal fitting rooms: Customers kept their eyes on their own bodies as though in a private fashion show, unless it was to marvel at a friend’s dress.

She undressed self-consciously in front of the wrap-around mirror, in the company of a dozen other women. She stood for a moment studying herself in her bra and knickers before struggling to hoist a grey size 8 dress, which meant size 12 at home, over her head. Her weight gain had produced flab in unexpected places. As well as developing love handles whose blubber protruded like porridge above her knicker elastic, her thighs had coarsened, and she could swear she had the beginnings of a double chin.

She checked the dress size as she shimmied the garment down to her waist. It was definitely an 8. But from there it refused to budge. She couldn’t force it over her hips.

Jessica was standing next to her, trying on a pair of skin tight jeans. Not a trace of cellulite, Susan noticed, as she stole an admiring glance at her olive-skinned friend. She was wearing a sleeveless top that showed off what were known in DC as ‘Michelle Obama arms’.

“That looks great on you,” she said to Jessica. “But I think I need the next size up. At least.”

“Wait, I’ll ask someone to get it for you.”

She forced it backwards and up over her shoulders, and hung it back on the hanger. She tried on a second one, a dusky jersey fabric which was supposed to look slinky. Instead it amplified every bulge.

The sales assistant returned with a size 10. Susan thanked her and tried again. It fitted but the neckline was too low for work, and as she smoothed it over her hips she noticed it was too short anyway. To cap it all, her freckles were standing out even more than usual on her tightless legs. Her ankles were swollen and speckled with mosquito bites.

“This is a disaster,” she said.

“What’s wrong? It’s not that bad. It’s your colour.”

“Not that bad? I just don’t know why I’m getting so fat when I’m watching what I eat.”

They picked up their things and waited at the cash desk with Jessica’s jeans.

“There must be something. Like you can’t just put on weight for no reason,” Jessica said.

“I did start expanding gently after I came to Washington. I was eating too much chocolate. The DeKripps housekeeper leaves bars in the fridge. I ended up throwing them out. Now I’m ballooning and I don’t know why.”

As she followed Jessica out of the store, and they began walking towards the Metro, Susan considered her eating habits in detail. She followed all the rules, never skipped breakfast, and was careful to eat salad for lunch. What could it be?

They took the long escalator down to the platform and waited for a Glenmont train. As the minutes ticked down on the digital screen, she worked through her mental inventory of recent meals. The lights along the platform began to flash slowly, as their train approached. As the doors slid open, Susan said, “Just a second. There’s one thing I’ve been eating that I didn’t before. Guilty Secrets.”

“What’s Guilty Secrets?”

“It’s from DeKripps. Fresh fruit covered in chocolate.”

“Well stop eating it.”

“That’s the whole point. I can’t!”

A couple of evenings later, Susan tackled Ellen again about her weight. They were having an after work drink at a rooftop bar overlooking the White House. “Do you remember me asking you about my putting on weight a bit ago?”

“Sure. But don’t get upset about it.”

“Well, I’ve noticed that now I’m getting really fat, at least for me. I’ve gone up a dress size and the only explanation I can think of is that I’ve become addicted to Guilty Secrets.”

Ellen sucked the straw of her gin and tonic. “Are you eating that stuff? I never eat chocolate.”

“But don’t you get the same deliveries I do? Are you throwing them out, or giving them to the kids?”

“No way I’d let Darren and David have any,” said Ellen. “But Jed likes them.”

“And has he put on weight?”

Ellen put down her drink and looked across the crowded bar to the view below. They could see two snipers on the White House roof.

“Do you know, I think he has.”

“Right!” She looked triumphant. “Because with me, it’s like a craving. When I was pregnant with Mimi, I couldn’t stop eating salted peanuts.”

“But what’s different about Guilty Secrets, compared to Buried Treasure and the other DeKripps stuff?”

“I don’t know. Last night I checked the Food Facts on Guilty Secrets, and there was nothing unusual on the list.”

She stirred the ice in her cocktail round and round, knocking the cubes against the glass. “Maybe it’s secret.”

“You mean DeKripps would hide something from the FDA? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I know. It’s certainly unlikely. But Ellen, I’m telling you these Guilty Secrets are literally irresistible.”

“Well, obviously if there were something fishy going on, Barney would know.”

Susan sighed. He was the last person she would challenge.

“What about R and D? You’ve been with the company here for a few years, who do you know there? The developers would know the exact ingredients.”

“No one really.” She ran her finger round the rim of her glass. “Wait. Do you remember that young guy who came to one of the early strategy meetings?”

“The geeky one with glasses? What was his name … Italian sounding.”

“That’s right. Tony. Help me here, his last name was the same as that artist.”

She looked blank. “What artist? Dead or alive?”

“I don’t know if he’s still alive. Frank Stella, that’s it!”

“Tony Stella. The only thing is that he’s left the company. I guess that’s why he never came to any more of the meetings. Look,” she added, checking her watch, “I’d better head home. It’s time I stopped Jed eating any more Guilty Secrets.”

Susan smiled. They took the lift back downstairs and she waved Ellen off. She took out her phone, was about to search for Tony Stella when she felt her stomach rumble.

She walked across the street to the Mustard Grill and peered inside. It was unusually free of tourists. She negotiated a place at the bar and looked at the menu. If only she could track down Tony. But the puzzle was beginning to fall into place. Hadn’t Barney warned her against blabbing to the compliance department when R and D were still working on Guilty Secrets? Something must have been concealed from the FDA.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Be my guest.”

Susan turned sideways to see a shaved head and a pair of glasses. Probably a lobbyist. He looked about the same age as Susan.

“Are you English? Care for a coffee?” He had already detected her accent, so that was to be the chat-up line.

“And you’re a New Yorker.”

“Hey, how do you know? I was supposed to be incognito in this town.”

“Nobody else says cawfee like that,” she said. “And I wouldn’t expect to find many locals in this place.”

“What are you doing here?”

She told him that she’d moved to DC for work after her husband died. Why had she felt the need to introduce Serge and widowhood right at the outset? He expressed sympathy, ordered wine, offered to share some food. They settled on crabcakes.

He was based in New York but worked for a K St lobbying firm and had been meeting with members of the House Banking committee. But their session had run over schedule, so he was staying at the Merchant Hotel and would return to New York the next morning, rather than catch the Acela that night.

“Do you happen to know a guy called Jed Young?”

“Sure I do. All-American straight out of a Polo ad. They have twins, right?”

“Yes. Twin boys. In fact I’ve just had a drink with his wife, maybe you know her?” He shook his head.

The two of them agreed what a village DC was. And yet, after a year, she had yet to meet anyone born and bred in the city.

“I’m John, by the way.” He held out his hand.

“Susie. Pleased to meet you.”

Two hours later, they walked, almost leaning on each other, out of the restaurant. Red wine after a gin and tonic had given her a slight headache.

“I’d better get back.” She half-turned towards G Street. “But thanks for a nice evening.”

“Hey, it’s not over yet,” he said. “The night is yet young.” Is it? She glanced at her watch. “At least come up for a nightcap.”

“I believe I’ve heard that line before,” she said with a smile which she hadn’t intended to be so flirtatious. “Just a quick one, then.”

She followed him slightly unsteadily the few yards down 15th St and into his hotel, where she tried to adopt a casual air of a guest returning to her own room.

The heavy door closed with a click behind them, and they fell onto the bed fully clothed. There was no longer any pretence of a nightcap. He hadn’t even offered to open the minibar.

“Don’t rush,” she said. He began undressing her while his mouth found hers. His eyes, behind his glasses, were hard and dark.

She interrupted him again to point at the harsh glare of the bedroom lamps. “Do you mind?” He reached across her, and the room turned dark as though by magic. She was excited to feel her layers of clothing being removed one by one and dropped onto the carpet.

She managed to cover them both with the heavy bed covers while she still had her underwear on. She was now the one in a hurry.

“Aah, wait a second,” he said. Susan realised he was reaching for a condom without being asked. She took off his glasses.

“Hey, lady, now I
really
can’t see what I’m doing,” he protested, kissing her again. She liked it. She felt good. What’s more, she felt appreciated.

“That was nice,” she said afterwards. “Thank you. I don’t mind if you switch the lights on again now.”

She had taken the precaution of pulling the duvet up to her chin.

“Thank
you
, Susie. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Sure, go ahead.” It was the first thing that had reminded her of Serge. “I think you’re the first person I’ve met in DC who smokes.”

He put on his glasses before lighting up. “I don’t really. But there are times like this when I enjoy it.”

“Do you know you’re the first American I’ve ever slept with?”

“And you’re the first Brit.” He put one arm around her as he puffed on his cigarette with his other hand.

“So, you’re married, right?” He nodded.

“I thought you must be.”

Consenting adults. Casual sex. Strangely, she didn’t feel guilty. It was the first time she’d wanted sex since Serge’s death and she’d enjoyed it. Did that make her a scarlet woman? In the Merchant, of all places? This hotel must have seen a few clandestine trysts in its time.

“You’re still wearing your wedding ring.”

“Yes, I often wonder when I should take it off. It’s a big moment.”

“Maybe you should now.”

“Yes, maybe I should.”

She waited until he fell into a doze before slipping to the side of the large double bed and silently pulling on her knickers and skirt. She was creeping to the door with her shoes in one hand, and jacket over her arm, when she heard a growl.

“Hey, Freckles, where are you going?”

John switched on the bedside light. “You can stay if you like. We can have breakfast in the morning before I catch the Acela.”

She turned, like a thief caught in the act. “No, really. I have to go. This wasn’t a good idea.”

“Buyer’s remorse?”

He jumped out of bed and held her hand. “Look, it was a good idea. You’re an impressive lady. I know what you must have gone through. I’m glad I met you.”

Still naked, he performed an elaborate bow with a sweep of his left arm and led her to the door. A notice was displayed on it threatening legal action if guests smoked in the room.

“Shall I call you a cab?”

“No, it’s fine. I only live a few minutes away. I can walk home.”

“At this time of night?” She glanced at the time on the giant TV set. It was 11.16 p.m.

“Good night, John. You’re nice,” was all she could think of to say, as she gave him a light peck on the cheek. His shaven head was as smooth as polished mahogany.

He squeezed her hand. She put on her shoes and the heels sank into the thick pile carpet as she walked down the corridor towards what she hoped was the lift.

She headed straight for the shower as soon as she got home. She felt a mix of elation and relief. Gratitude, even.

John was right, she shouldn’t feel guilty. She hadn’t been unfaithful to Serge. In fact as long as she’d known him, she’d never been attracted to another man.