Thicker Than Soup (4 page)

Suddenly, in a clear minded moment of random thought John discovered the name for his restaurant.
Seagrams
. It seemed so obvious he'd wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Inspirational!

Alain too, had an interest in art and was praising him. “This is good thinking. I think you can sell the art from the restaurant.”

“Yes, it'll make the restaurant different from others; an edge that'll attract custom.” The bank manager had complimented him on this proposition, and John displayed his endorsed business acumen proudly.

“Oui, I can see that,” nodded Alain. “It is a good idea.” He asked for copies of the forecasts and suggested his own accountant should manage the accounts.

The muscle in John's neck pulsed. “I can't do that,” he said, “my mother is doing them and as you see my parents are providing some of the finance. Mum's an experienced bookkeeper and she'd be insulted if I tell her I don't want her.” Alain opened his mouth but John pressed on. “And actually, though I like your offer very much, I see you as an associate more than a partner. The advantages of your financial involvement are clear but I have the greater share as well as being active and therefore a greater involvement.” There. He'd said it. He'd been going to do it without Alain and could still do so.

Alain pursed his lips. “So. You want my money, but not me. Well, I appreciate that control is important to you. But I expect you can also see that if I am to invest thirty thousand pounds, I need to have some say in how it is used.”

“Yes,” John agreed, “that is why we are discussing this so carefully.” He paused. “My mother will do the books, but your accountant should audit them.”

“D'accord. I understand you want less of me in your business than I feel I should have. I think I can help you more than you realise; I have been doing this for a long time. It is important for me to know how my money is used but I can agree to being what you call ‘associate' or perhaps what I would call a sleeping partner. I am less happy about having little say in how the money is spent. However, I admire your determination and I think you are a good risk. So with agreement of quarterly reports, accounts, and forecasts, I will let you use my money. We will meet formerly, quarterly. But, I say again, if you need help, you must not hesitate to talk to me, huh?”

John held out his hand. “I will be happy to take thirty thousand of your pounds and turn it into gold.”

“I would be happy if you do that, but I don't mind if it takes a few weeks!” Alain shook his hand. “You know there are no formal rules for these sorts of business relationships, but I hope you agree that it is a good idea for us to have a written agreement to guide us in our future discussions?” John nodded his assent. “So, I will instruct my solicitor to draw up an agreement around what we have discussed, oui?”

“Oui!” Some clouds, he told himself, had gold linings. “Now I must go and do some work here or you'll be stopping my pay, and as you can see, I need that too.”

*

It was still dark when he stopped the hire-van outside Diane's house but her face was already at the window.

“Phew! Does that heater go any lower?” Diane unfastened her scarf as she clambered into the cab.

“It was cold when I started.” With his eyes glued to the road he twisted the knob a half turn. Frosty grass verges sparkled in the headlights and he'd already felt the tyres slip on the glistening, untreated side road. “You had breakfast?”

“No. You?”

“No. Let's grab a bacon bap at the trucker's place near Keynsham.”

The roads were almost empty and it wasn't long before they were on the Bristol Road. “We're rollin'.” John grinned. “Y'know, I'm looking forward to this, especially now that I can afford pretty much anything I need.”

Diane turned her head. “Go on.”

“Guess what's happened.” His grin widened.

“You've won the football pools?”

“Nope.”

“Your premium bond's come up!”

“Nope.”

“You've inherited a fortune from a long lost uncle?”

“Nope.” He'd been too late to ring Sally the previous evening, and he was bursting with his news. “Ok. I'll tell you. You'll never guess anyway.” He paused for effect. “Alain is putting up thirty grand.” He glanced over quickly, savouring the surprise on Diane's face.

“What?” Her eyes were wide. “Why?”

“Well he thinks I'm going places and wants a piece of the action.” He looked sideways again. “Now all I need is for you to say you'll work with me and I'm on my way.”

Diane shook her head. “Sorry, no can do.” She paused. “Actually, I've got my own piece of luck to tell you about. You'll never guess… no, not that again. I'll just tell you. We're both burgeoning entrepreneurs. I've signed a lease; I'm taking on The Kitchen.” Even in the dark John could see her beaming smile. “I'll be doing a lot of the same stuff as at Black and Emery but for other firms, and even some stuff with Black and Emery too!”

It was hard to feel pleased at Diane's news; he'd been confident she'd join him. “That's great!” He hoped he sounded genuine and wondered if Sally knew. He also wondered who he would now entrust the crucial role to.

*

Energised by bacon rolls and coffee, they registered details at the reception desk and entered a maze of multi-tiered rows of fryers and griddles, coffee machines, utensils, and saucepans and skillets of every shape and size. Bar equipment led to glassware, cutlery overflowed into crockery, and baking trays mille-feuilled alongside cloths and clothes. Keeping an eye on potential competitors, John noted lot numbers until just before nine-thirty when they made their way to the auction hall and leaned nonchalantly against a heavy oak dresser behind rows of already seated punters. A clock struck the half hour and platform lights came on, illuminating winter gloom dulled further by dirt smeared windows. Buzzing chatter subsided. The auction was about to begin.

The first lot, a fryer, went quickly, too quickly for John to spot who was bidding against the auctioneer's rat-a-tat patter. More lots went quickly too and before long lot fifteen, his first item, was called.

“Lot number fifteen. A countertop boiler in stainless steel. As seen. What are we bid?” The auctioneer's eyes scanned the room. “Forty? Who'll start us off? Forty pounds. Thank you sir, we have forty pounds. Forty pounds, we have forty. Forty five? Thank you. Fifty? Fifty. We have fifty five? All done then at fifty?”

He'd marked eighty pounds in his catalogue and discreetly nodded his head in the direction of the auctioneer but to his dismay the auctioneer raised the gavel and was calling, Going…going… John's hand shot up before the gavel descended. “Yes!” he waved frantically.

The auctioneer acknowledged him. “We have Fifty-five. Sixty?”

The previous bidder shook his head and John congratulated himself; he was off to a good start.

*

By mid-afternoon he had many of the items he'd wanted. “Good day, eh?”

“You did well, once you got the hang of it.” Diane chuckled.

“I did ok!” he protested. “I only went over my limit on the sideboard – which is fabulous – and the outdoor stuff, but I got everything else for less. On balance I'm up. I stopped bidding when the drop lights went over my head.”

Diane groaned at the pun. “Like I said, you did well. But what about those lights? They'd have been perfect. You need something like that or the place will be dingy.”

“I'll find something.” He should have bid more, he knew it.

*

Along the road, silhouetted trees and stratum of blue-grey clouds backlit slashes of golden winter sun and as they neared Bath, Diane invited him to eat with her and Malik. “It's only spaghetti bolognaise, but if you're on your own….?”

It was tempting, but he had much to tell Sally and was eager to call her. “Thanks, but better not. I need to offload this lot into my parents' garage and get the van back by seven. And go home, have a shower. All that stuff.” John gave his attention to the roundabout he was negotiating before he spoke again. “Y'know, Sally will be really chuffed to hear that you're taking on The Kitchen. You don't mind if I tell her about it, do you?”

Diane turned away and looked out of the side window. “If you want.”

“Right. I'll tell her then.” They stopped at traffic lights and watched whilst a girl crossed in front of the van, her breath misting like speech bubbles on the evening air. “I just wondered if you wanted to tell her yourself.”

“John, it's none of your business.”

“Well, actually Diane, I disagree with you. Sally is more upset about losing you as a friend than you know, and friendship is important. And it is my business because not only do I care about Sally but I value you as a friend too. So in my book that gives me the right to say I think it's gone on for too long. You two were great friends, how can you ignore that?”

“Yes, we were good friends. And as good friends I'd have thought Sally would have let me know I was about to be kicked out of my job. She must have known about it for months. But no, not a word!”

“Well, I hope that I never upset you.” The lights glowed green. “So you're going to stay angry forever are you? Have you any idea how much Sally fought that closure? She agonised over it. Do you think it was easy for her? And, then, after making what was, in her eyes, a difficult but ethically correct decision, she lost her best friend!”

“As a so called ‘best' friend I'd have….”

He cut in. “Diane, I don't want to fall out with you over it. I can see your side too. In fact I think you both had valid points. So the choices are to either accept the differences and move on or end a great friendship.”

“John, you've made your point.” They drove on for a few minutes. “Are you sure about the spaghetti?”

“Y'know what? I'm going to London.” It was a spur of the moment idea, and crazy, but sometimes it was right to be crazy.

“Tonight? You old romantic, you.” They'd arrived at Diane's house. “Malik's here. Are you sure you don't need a hand to offload the stuff?”

Assuring her that he and his father could manage he rejoined the jam of vehicles vying for end of the day space. In urging Diane to make up he'd suddenly yearned to be with Sally. He loved her and wanted to be with her – even at her mother's. He pictured her thick, almost black curly hair that she plaited at night and her prominent cheekbones with the three pinprick scars that twitched when she laughed – the curse of chickenpox in childhood – and her exotic blue eyes inherited from her Pathan grandmother, fringed as they were with rich, dark lashes that didn't need mascara to frame them. He thought too, of her determination, her optimism, even the quick temper that was soon tamed. They were her and he saw and understood them. They were specific, unlike the preciousness, the shared desire that excluded all else when they made love, and the shared intimacy that was so mysterious and fragile. Over the years he'd dared to trust love and worry less that beautiful Sally, one day, might find him wanting.

*

His father must have been waiting; he was out of the house and opening the van before the engine had been turned off. “Good day was it?”

John pursed his lips as he unlocked the back of the van. “So so.”

“By the way, your mother wants you to sign something for the bank. She told me to tell you.” Michael hovered at John's shoulder as the rear doors opened. “My goodness! You've enough here to start a restaurant.”

*

The icy air chilled and once unloaded John was glad of the warmth of the house and a hot drink. Keen to be on his way, he told his parents quickly of Alain's proposal. “So I think we should formalise the money you've lent me.” Frances started to protest but John shook his head. “It's important Mum. Alain will have a share of the profits so I need to make sure that they're clear of all expenses – including your time and your money. It all needs to be recorded. Properly.”

Frances sliced banana cake. She'd done the books for Neil Jackson, supplier of fruit and vegetables to supermarkets and green grocers, for more than twenty years and was friends with him and his wife, Linda, who had gifted the cake. “We'll sort it out.” She passed cake to John and then Michael. “I wish Neil didn't buy so many bananas!”

*

The winter freeze had emptied the roads and by ten-thirty he'd driven through Bethnal Green and into the supermarket car park. Leaving his car next to night staff cars he walked briskly past the children's playground, empty of even the older kids who usually hung out there until late. The icy wind burned at his ears and covering them with his gloved hands he almost ran along the indistinguishable rows of identical houses. Yes, he was on Coventry Street; he saw the corner shop with Rasheed behind the counter, ready to serve anyone at any hour. Seven doors more and then two brass ‘3's above the letterbox. He knocked gently and waited. His ears stung with cold and he knocked again, harder this time. There was movement and a voice inside.

“Sally. It's me. Let me in.” Bolts grated and a security chain rattled. Pushing through the gap as soon as he could he closed the door quickly, grateful for the warmth in the house.

“Sal. I'm sorry,” he dropped his bag. “I've missed you.” She felt like home and he knew it was alright again.

“I can't believe you're here.” From upstairs Jane's voice called out and Sally told her all was well.

“Can I stay then?”

“Can you sleep in a single bed?”

“With you?”

She nodded.

“No problem!”

A bucket of daffodils, daringly sunny in the April breeze, caught Sally's attention as she passed the flower shop, their cheerful disposition giving hope that Spring was around the corner. Picking out two bunches, then a third, she took them into the shop.

“Haven't seen you for a while.” The florist ripped a sheet of paper from a roll. “You're looking well.”

“Oh! Thanks.” Handing over a pound note, she waited for her change. “It must be the spring air!”

As she left the shop she reflected that she did, indeed, feel particularly well. Her own work had slowed to a manageable pace and John's restaurant would be opening in one more week. It had taken almost four months but from the carnage of renovation, elegance had been forged. And in the process John's excitement had become hers too.

Humming under her breath she snipped the bunched daffodil stems, released them into a vase on the windowsill and added water from a milk-bottle. Thinking how John's mother would have snipped the flowers individually and arranged them with foliage she pushed them around a bit then decided they brightened the day just as they were, defiantly unadorned. She made tea, tuned the radio and settled down to listen to her secret passion, The Archers.

As Peggy's voice faded into the evergreen tune she retuned to Radio Two. John teased her about the ‘everyday story for odd folk' she'd listened to alongside her mother as a child. And, no doubt, her mother would have been listening to this episode too. She dialled the London number.

“Hello, Mum.” Sally listened to news of the big new supermarket and how Mrs Bhatti had to wait for eight months for a hip replacement and the local council were laying new paving slabs. With toes curled against the front door draught she wiped dust from the spider plant fronds between her fingers and flicked pages of her diary. Noticing the red dot on the previous Sunday – the day to expect her period – she frowned. Had she marked the wrong week? Counting back four weeks and then forward again, she shook her head. Her periods came on time; she was on the pill. A thought formed. “Sorry Mum, I've got to go; er…there's someone at the door.” Replacing the receiver she counted the weeks again. Her last period had lasted for only three days and like the one before, she'd put it down to the pressure at work. But she'd not missed a period. From the depths of doubt came worms of fear; the pill, she'd heard, could trigger periods when a woman was pregnant. And some women said they didn't know they were pregnant until they gave birth. Her legs felt weak. “No, please no.” She counted the weeks between the dots again and shivered.

*

Dr. West was running almost an hour late when Sally arrived at the surgery and sitting between a middle-aged woman with swollen legs and an acne-pitted youth she looked at faces resigned to waiting and wondered what brought them to seek advice. A tired young woman, not much more than a child herself, shuffled a baby on her lap and yawned as her neighbour asked the age of the child.

“Two months.”

“Your first?”

“Yes.” The baby started to whimper.

“Boy?”

The mum nodded.

Sally picked up a
Woman's Own
and opened it from the back, looking for the problems page. What advice, she wondered, would Marje have for her circumstances?

Finally her number was called and feeling the bulge in her handbag that was a small sample bottle she went to Dr. West's surgery.

“Good afternoon Miss Lancing, and how are we today?”

Usually the doctor's greeting made her want to giggle. But not today. Today, a dip of paper into her bottle and there was the evidence.

“Congratulations Mrs…er Miss Lancing.” Her doctor glanced at his buff record folder then peered over his glasses. His smile had disappeared. “Er, yes. Miss Lancing.”

“Thank you.” Her inner woman mutinied. Thank you? How dare he look down his nose at her! But the inner girl felt the last slither of hope melt into trepidation that far outweighed indignation and clutching the leaflet he gave her, she left him to his rightousness.

*

She was pregnant, she didn't know who the father was; why, she wondered, did she feel nothing. Pulling John's baggy sweater round her shoulders she wondered why she wasn't angry, or frightened, or weeping? Then she realised what she was. She was numb. She'd left the surgery crushed by Dr. West's confirmation as well as by his judgement and now, with arms folded on the kitchen table she cursed her lying periods that hadn't warned her and lowered her head to her folded arms. A draught from the future chilled and she pulled the sweater tighter; what was she going to tell John? How would he take it? And if he knew…. what happened. She thought of the child he'd already fathered… and rejected. Sitting at the table like a child a primary school refrain echoed;
forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation…
And then
…if I die before I wake…

The clunk of the front door roused her and John appeared, his cheerful voice discordant in her ears.

“Hi Sal. Oh good, you haven't eaten yet. I'm starving. What do you fancy?”

Grateful for once at his single-mindedness she saw how happy he was; happier than she'd ever known him. And she made an instant decision to postpone telling him about the baby until Seagrams had opened and was under way. Forcing a smile she didn't feel she put her arms round him and kissed him on the cheek. “Things gone well?”

“Yep!” He looked at her. “You ok? You look bushed.”

“Mmm, I'm fine. Just a bit tired. I'd dozed off to sleep. How's today gone?”

“Great. The decorator's almost finished, the blinds are up, and I've rearranged some of the tables. It looks fab. And almost all the people I invited to the opening night have replied.” Cupboards were being opened and closed as he searched through them. “Jack from Radio Bath is coming and Alex Manning from Homewood Park Hotel is bringing his boss.” A long, blue wrapped pack of spaghetti appeared in his hand and he thrust it towards Sally. “Pasta alla Putanesca? Fast and easy or hot and spicy?”

Sally turned away then remembered she had to be her happy, worry-free self. “Oh, fast and spicy.” Did John give her a questioning look? “I'll er, set the table.” His enthusiasm was all-embracing and as he regaled her with plans for wine and food and people she began to believe she'd get through the week without him knowing something was amiss.

*

Standing by his side outside Seagrams Sally both felt and shared John's elation. She, too, had cleaned and scrubbed and polished and set tables but it was his achievement and the pulse in his temple, his clenched hand in hers, and the brightness in his eyes gave evidence to the palpable excitement that almost overcame her one little cloud of apprehension; Diane would be coming. She'd sent a card, a white flag of peace, when she'd heard Diane had taken on The Kitchen, but it seemed there was to be no reconciliation.

Facing them immediately as they entered the restaurant was the painting John had commissioned. She liked the colours well enough but preferred almost any of the other pictures that now created a gallery of the walls. These, and the candlelit glasses and cutlery and flowers arranged by his mother were, thought Sally, what brought the room alive.

“It's wonderful, John!”

Misinterpreting her meaning, John pulled a chair toward his painting. “Yeah.” Climbing up, he draped a muslin cloth from the frame, replaced the chair in its perfectly aligned position and headed for the kitchen. But not before she'd seen apprehension behind the shine of his eyes and she knew that withholding her news had been the right thing to do.

Leaving him to his kitchen she went to the bar, flicked the switch on the new hi-fi system and found Billy Bang's
Sweet Space;
lazy Jazz was perfect. Leaning against the bar she let the music wash over her until, hearing the door open, she turned with a warm smile.

Diane spoke first. “Sally.”

“Diane.” She turned the music down. “It's been a while.”

“Hasn't it.”

Separated by more than the room Sally longed for the old friendship. “I, er, you…”

“Oh God. This is so stupid!” It was Diane who came forward. “I've missed you Sally, and life's too short for this rubbish.”

“Oh Diane! It is!” The women hugged and laughed. “I've missed you. And wonderful things are happening – you've started a business too?”

“Yes! And Black and Emery are paying more than they used to too!”

“Ha! I told them they would. Serves them right.”

Diane spluttered something about absurd insanity and held her friend at arm's length. “You look amazing. You should wear red more often, that dress is gorgeous.” Grinning, she pushed forward her chest, “And it fits you perfectly….”

Sally saw John approaching, carrying champagne. “A drink! There're things to celebrate.”

His arm slid round her waist. “Hey, you two! It's been too long!” He winked at Diane. “If that dress is a bit on the tight side, it's my fault; too much of a good thing!”

“No!” Diane clapped her hands. “We're celebrating more than one new beginning! Wonderful! Congratulations. I thought you looked well Sally; you must be one of those lucky women that pregnancy …..” Sally's and then John's expressions cut her words. “Oh no! I'm sorry. I think I've just put both my big feet in it.”

Sally recovered first and asking Diane to start filling champagne glasses she pulled John into the small dining room. Her legs trembled. “John, I….”

“Sally?” His words were low and precise. “Tell me it isn't true.”

But her face told the truth and she saw disbelief become anger then rage, rising and filling him so that she stepped back against the wall, fearful of something she'd never seen in him before.

“No!” The single word, mouthed rather than spoken, hung before her as he turned, moved, almost ran.

Pain jolted as the door rammed her shoulder and she slumped, her legs folding, so that she crouched against the wall, trembling.

Moments later Diane was there. “Sal?” she whispered. “Are you ok? Can I do anything?” She, too, crouched. “He didn't know, did he? I'm sorry. I thought you didn't want children but you looked so happy when you said you had things to celebrate and when John said you'd put on weight and it was his fault I thought… I'm so sorry.”

Her shoulder burned and she cupped it gently. “I didn't think he'd noticed my…” Holding out a hand she smiled weakly. “Help me up? It's not your fault, Diane. I was saying that as well as celebrating the restaurant, you and I had made up.” She stood shakily, flexing her shoulder. “Don't worry; I'll talk to him,” and added with more strength than she felt, “Look, I've got to get out there and give a hand. Can you come to my place tomorrow, around three? I could use a friend.”

Diane nodded. “Yes, I'll come. And you do look terrific – especially when you smile.”

Grateful for the encouragement she returned to the dining room and with a glass of orange juice in her hand smiled at a wiry, bearded man who she recognised as Alex Manning.

*

Through the evening she excused John's absences, explaining his food demanded him and that he would join them as soon as he could. When, eventually, she went to find him in the kitchen and he turned from her as if she'd ceased to exist she didn't wait to see the unveiling of the picture or hear the speech he'd been practising all week. Quietly, she left the restaurant.