Recipes for Melissa (14 page)

First things first, Melissa. Ignore all the recipes that say 2lbs of meat will feed six people. Who are they feeding? Sparrows? This is your father’s favourite recipe in all the world and I make it for him every birthday – and trust me; when a guy likes a dish, he wants a proper, gorgeous, steaming plateful, not some dainty, little restaurant portion. So what if there are leftovers? Trust me on this. At least 3lbs of meat. In fact – as much as you can get in a good casserole dish. (I always recommend Le Creuset. Definitely worth the investment. Maybe Dad will have passed some of mine on?) But; no. I am not going to think of that as I write. Not today.

Because – do you know what, Melissa?

Even writing this recipe down is making me beam from ear to ear. I am thinking BIRTHDAYS. Your father’s. Mine.
Yours especially
. Oh, but I do so love birthdays, my darling.

Your father laughs at me. Reckons I go over the top. But – I just can’t help myself. Means I get three very, very special days across the year – and that’s before we even think about Easter and Christmas.

I first discovered your father’s passion for this dish on a trip to France. My parents used to take me for the whole summer pretty much every year so I have always loved the food. Your dad prefers holidays to be booked well ahead, bless him (and preferably Cornwall), but on this occasion I persuaded him to be brave. Just a ferry ticket and the Michelin guide.

We had such a ball, Melissa. Just moving from place to place, according to mood and how much we liked the area. And during that holiday we had some of the best food I can remember. There was this fish soup at the most unpromising looking cafe, right by the roadside. Unbelievable!

But I digress.

For the highlight of the trip was finding this wonderful, completely unpretentious hotel with a tiny restaurant which seemed to have a pot of boeuf bourguignon cooking on the stove from first light. Seriously. The smell began to seep from the kitchen even as we ate our breakfast.

Oh, I wish I had a picture of your father’s face – that first mouthful! I have never forgotten it.

He tells me that mine is as good now as that hotel restaurant’s and though that is definitely a lie, I will say that I think my version now comes pretty close. I’ve tweaked it myself from trial and error, using classic versions over the years. And this is the fail-safe one your dad loves. (You may need to thicken the sauce a bit at the end, by the way. Varies so much. Either bubble on stove top or add a bit of flour and butter paste or cornflour + water – whisking in furiously.)

Birthdays!

It is my top tip in all the world that it is impossible to make too much fuss. Yeah, yeah. Your dad says I am like a child about them – but for me that sums up everything that love and relationships of all kinds are about, Melissa.

I promised bits of advice through this journal, my darling. And when it comes to the people that you really love, it’s actually quite simple. You get back what you put in.

And if you put something special into a birthday for a person that you love – well; there is just no better feeling in the world than their face when the surprise comes good. And it is just those sort of special memories – the anchors, if you like – which see you through the more difficult times. The ups and downs that all relationships will inevitably have.

Do you remember your sixth birthday, my honey? One of my favourites – though what a blessed kerfuffle I had that year over the tide tables! You were a complete water baby by this time – spending all day every day during our trips to Cornwall in your wetsuit. Rain. Shine.

I’m amazed you didn’t shrink.

Your birthday being in the autumn, we had already had our week on the Lizard so Dad and I organised an extra weekend to a hotel overlooking the most amazing sandy beach.

Bear with me. This was key.

You had seen some film in which a person wrote a message in the sand – I think it may have been a marriage proposal. Something like that; can’t remember exactly. Anyway. You had become a bit obsessed with it.

The hotel gave us a family suite, with you sleeping on a sofa bed in the dressing area adjacent to our bedroom. My biggest fear was that you would wake much too early in the excitement – and sure enough you did. So I played mean and said it was much too early to get up, even for a birthday girl, and that I needed to go to the gym before breakfast and presents.

I even put on my gym clothes! Is this ringing bells?

Then I set off to sort the surprise while Dad continued to play bad cop – insisting you try to sleep until a respectable hour.

I came back – around 8 a.m., terrified that the bloody tide was coming in so fast!

Then we drew back the curtains and took you onto the balcony.

It looked even better from the third floor than I dared hope.
Happy Birthday, Melissa
written in the fresh sand… beyond our balcony.

Other people were stirring by this time – and I remember looking across at them all smiling from their own balconies as you started jumping up and down with the excitement.

And then everyone started waving across at you and we all ended up singing happy birthday to you together from all the balconies.

Do you remember this? Please tell me you remember.

Eleanor sat back in the chair, enjoying the smile on her face. She reached into the top drawer of her dresser to find her boasting book. A small flip-style photo album of favourite shots.

There was one of the message in the sand, just as the tide was coming in to wash it away. Another of the wall and moat they built to try to divert the water for a bit. And then pictures of Melissa at the party organised for that sixth birthday once they returned home.

Eleanor shook her head, smiling, at the shot of Max with the whistle in his mouth.

We will be sued, Eleanor!

She remembered the panic on his face as she roared with laughter at him – waving his arms in frustration and blowing on his whistle – ‘Six at a time! This is not funny,’ as all of Melissa’s friends piled onto the bouncy castle at once.

They had hired a hall so that Melissa could invite the whole class. When they booked the inflatable – the only size which would fit the hall in question – they had imagined, naively that the supplier would stay and supervise.

But no.
Not in the contract, mate.

Instead he handed over a clipboard with a large and alarming sheet of ‘rules’. No more than six on the castle at once. Be careful they don’t bite their tongues. Bang their heads. Get concussion.

How she remembered the alarm on Max’s face as the man then handed over a large whistle and put it around Max’s neck. ‘
You will be needing this.’

Poor Daddy.

‘No, children, I mean it. Six at a time. Absolutely a maximum of six,’ blowing his whistle and waving his arms in horror as the boys and girls, hyper from all the sugar intake, took not a blind bit of notice.

Of course no one got hurt. They all ate too much cake. They all drank too much Coke. One was sick in the toilets. But no one bit their tongue. Or got concussion. Or sued.

And one very tired little birthday girl was put to bed that night, looking so very happy.

‘It was you who did the message on the beach back in Cornwall, wasn’t it Mummy?’

‘No. I have absolutely no idea how that happened. Some kind of magic,’ Eleanor had kissed her daughter on the forehead, running her hand through her hair.

‘I love you, Mummy.’

18

MELISSA – 2011

Melissa allowed Sam to read the first few pages of the journal only, which, she guessed, would be enough.

‘Jesus Christ, Melissa,’ fidgeting and then putting his hand on hers as they sat at the too-orange, too-lacquered pine table – his face white. ‘You take as long as you need with this. You hear me?’

She nodded her head very rapidly. ‘Thank you, Sam.’

‘God. I feel like a complete arse now. Picking a fight with you.’

‘Don’t be silly. My fault.’

He had stood up and was pacing towards the balcony, looking out towards the pool with his hands on his hips.

‘There are some really tough bits, Sam. Like the opening. And to start with, I just couldn’t take it. That’s why I didn’t say anything. But there are some really lovely memories in there too. And some of the writing is triggering things I had completely forgotten about. I’m getting used to that now.’

He turned to face her but the sun behind him was so bright that she could not quite see his expression. And for this she was glad.

‘In fact, I had this dream, Sam. The first night I was on the sofa bed. It was a recurring dream I used to have about my mother when I was a kid.’

‘You’ve never told me this…’

‘I know. I never told anyone. I didn’t used to like it. I know that sounds odd but it really upset me. Then it came back when I was reading the book and I think now that I remember what it was. In the dream I was holding her hand on the beach. My mother. I think it was some birthday surprise or something.’

‘Oh, Melissa.’

She smiled at his silhouette. Hands on hips against the bright blue sky – the picture broken only by the black railings of the balcony behind. Her mobile then vibrated on the table.

‘Shit. Bet that’s my dad. I have no idea how I’m going to tell him, Sam. It’s going to be such a shock.’

Melissa picked up the phone to check the text, glancing at the journal.
Glad OK. Wish you answered all my texts! Have fun xxx Ps Would you say I’m sexist?

She pulled a face, twisting her mouth
and turned the phone to show Sam.

‘Sexist? Your father? What’s all that about?’

‘God knows. I hope he’s not in some kind of trouble at work,’ Melissa sighed. ‘Shit. He’s done that so I’ll ring him to find out what’s going on. But I can’t talk to him on the phone at the moment. I just can’t.’

‘OK. So what do you want to do then, Melissa? Today – I mean. Swim? Read. Lunch? Walk?’

‘Do you mind, awfully, if I take the journal to the beach cafe? Read on a bit by myself for a while. I’ll text my dad, calm him down and get my head together.’

‘If that’s what you want?’

‘And then join me there for lunch? Say 12.30? How’s that sound?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

She picked up her bag, put the journal in the side pocket and then gathered her sunglasses and straw hat, him all the while watching and pretending this was not awkward, glancing instead to watch the families down by the pool through the open sliding doors to the balcony.

‘I get nervous too, Sam.’

‘Sorry?’

‘About what’s going to happen. To us. And in the journal. Every new bit I read, I get really nervous. About what it’s going to say next.’

He limped across the room to kiss her on the forehead and she held onto his arm. ‘I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you before.’

‘It’s OK. I do understand, Melissa. So long as you ring me if you need me? And you try not to shut me out so much?’

She nodded.

‘And what about your dad, then?’

‘Oh I’ll text him something bland. Talk to him properly when we get home. Face to face, I mean.’

He hugged her tightly then and watched from the balcony as she emerged from the stairwell below and walked past the pool, waving as she turned onto the track which led to the beach.

Melissa was surprised that she felt so much better that he now knew. Lighter. And unexpectedly calmer. That slightly detached sense of recovery after being shaken.

The route to the beach meandered through a small, wooded area within which locals and tourists on a budget were camping. It was a relaxed, rather hippy scene with laundry hanging on lines between trees and a range of mostly small tents with tables and chairs set up randomly in the open spaces. Melissa felt a smile on her face, wishing she was the kind of person who could cope with sleeping in a tent in that heat.

The beach cafe, being midweek, had plenty of free tables under shade, with reggae playing quietly from the bar area. Bob Marley mostly. She ordered a Coke, which they didn’t have – happily settling for Pepsi instead. Melissa had always wondered at people who saw the difference.

There were several sets of young Cypriot friends playing cards at different tables – impossibly beautiful girls with perfect figures in tiny bikinis. Bronzed men. All having a wonderful time.

Melissa envied their relaxed smiles. The noise and the laughter. She imagined them having hot and very sweaty sex in their tiny tents between the trees and felt herself blushing as the waiter interrupted this thought – appearing suddenly with her drink.

She and Sam had made love precisely once on this holiday. Then she had a tummy bug. The accident. The journal…

Melissa checked reception on her phone. She watched the ocean in the distance. She watched small children covered in filthy, wet sand playing football on a stretch of beach to her right. She found her mind wandering to that moment when she was first handed her mother’s book. The stretch of mahogany and the padded envelope. The stress of standing in front of the airline woman with the bloody case on the scales; to the accident. The scream of the bike. Sam’s face in the car during the fight on the way back from Paphos.