A Catered Affair (28 page)

We clinked glasses and toasted Kenny’s dream. “So would the restaurant be in London?” I said.

“Probably couldn’t afford to start there. I was thinking more in terms of the West Country—Devon or Dorset. If that was a success I’d open a second restaurant in London.”

After dessert—crème brûlée, my all-time favorite, which Kenny just happened to have “knocked up” yesterday—we decided to watch
The Piano
. Kenny had selected it from
Entertainment Weekly
’s list of the hundred best films ever made.

A few days before—at my place—we’d watched
Ghost
, which had been my choice from the list. We’d both seen it before and loved it, but we agreed that it wasn’t exactly what you’d call mind improving. I justified my choice on the grounds that it would ease us in gently to the more challenging pieces. We’d eaten popcorn and lost ourselves in the comedy and romance. We decided that the pottery scene had to be one of the most erotic in movie history and that we wanted to be roomies in the loft Demi Moore shared with Patrick Swayze—although Kenny did have concerns about the heating bills, bearing in mind the high ceilings. I said we were sharing a fantasy and that the first rule of fantasy sharing was that you couldn’t raise objections. “Why not?” he said. “Part of my fantasy involves thinking about how I would deal with the practical issues. So I’m just letting you know that I would lower the ceilings to save on heating bills.”

“I cannot believe you’d do that,” I said, genuinely horrified. “It’s just so male—thinking about the bottom line first. If you lowered the ceilings you’d ruin the entire character of the place. The whole point about a loft is the huge space and high ceilings. And you’d end up blocking off the tops of those huge floor-to-ceiling windows. It would be sacrilege.”

“OK, maybe we should forget about it, then.”

I said that seemed like the best bet, since I wasn’t going to have Demi and the late Patrick’s place wrecked for the sake of a few dollars a month.

Neither of us had seen
The Piano
. “OK,” Kenny said now, peering at his laptop screen, “it says here that
The Piano
is ‘a stunning mood piece and a haunting fairy tale, steeped in Victorian and Gothic imagery and a dark gray haunting landscape akin to a Thomas Gainsborough British landscape.’” He looked up. “Sounds like it might be a bit short on laughs.”

“Hugh would love this. Right up his street.”

“Who’s Hugh?”

“Old flame. Hugh is the guy I probably should have married when I had the chance. We split up when he went to live in Australia. Actually, he just got back. We’ve been out a couple of times.”

“Really? So do you think there’s still some chemistry between you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. He did kiss me, and I have to admit I felt something.”

The DVD slipped out of Kenny’s hand and landed on the floor. He bent down and picked it up. “Still got some oil on my hands from cooking,” he said. “So, you up for
The Piano
?”

“Sure, if you are. On the other hand, we could always watch
Die Hard
or
Snakes on a Plane
.”

“Tempted as I am,” Kenny said, “we agreed that this exercise is all about self-improvement.”

“I guess.”

Kenny slid the disc into the DVD player and we sat on the sofa sharing a tiny bowl of his wondrous, homemade honeycomb ice cream, which I couldn’t resist, even after the crème brulée.

“Blimey,” I said after about fifteen seconds, aware that my spoon, which had been on its way to my mouth, had paused in midair, “I can see what they mean about the haunting dark gray Gothic stuff.”

Kenny insisted we give it a chance because Roger Ebert had said it wasn’t just about a story or some characters, but a whole universe of feeling—of how people can be shut off from one another, lonely and afraid.

“If you say so,” I said, licking my spoon. As the film continued, I did my best to appreciate the haunting Gothic bits, but once I’d finished my half of the ice cream, I could feel myself getting sleepy. At some stage I must have drifted off. I woke up to the sound of
Match of the Day
. My head was in Kenny’s lap and he was stroking my hair and running his fingers through it. I lay there for a few moments enjoying the sensation, but after what had happened between us in the kitchen I started to panic. I let out a small grunting noise to let him know that I was awake. The stroking stopped.

“You got fed up with the movie?” I said.

“Yeah. I’ve decided that tempestuous landscapes and brooding sensuality don’t do a lot for me. So since you were asleep I thought I’d catch the last half of the Man United–Chelsea game.” He didn’t mention the head stroking.

Even more discombobulated now, I said he should carry on watching the football, but I could hardly keep my eyes open and needed to get home. He asked me if I was OK to drive and said that I was more than welcome to stay over. “The guest room is all made up.” I thanked him for the offer but said I really ought to be getting back, as I had none of my stuff with me. We exchanged a matey good-night hug. “Thanks again for the wonderful dinner,” I said, “and for teaching me how to chop an onion.”

“My pleasure.”

He saw me to the door. “Speak during the week,” he called out after me as I headed down the garden path. “I’ve found this great new Thai place we could try.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said.

Driving back to Notting Hill, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened between us and what it meant. Was I developing feelings for Kenny and he for me?

Or was what had happened nothing more than two vulnerable people, who’d been through a tough emotional time, reaching out (or attempting to reach out) for comfort?

Of course it wasn’t long before my dead father’s voice kicked in.
A caterer? You’re falling for a caterer?
I imagined him saying, a look of horror on his face.
Don’t be ridiculous. What can the two of you possibly have in common? OK, so maybe he’s worked in some fancy restaurants and has big ideas about opening his own place, but making your way in that world is tough. He might never be any more than a caterer. You can do better. Don’t lower your sights. Find yourself another doctor, a lawyer . . .

 

 

The following morning I popped round to Rosie’s for coffee.

“I’ve sent the manuscript off,” she said as I walked in. “Now all I have to do is wait. Of course it could be weeks or months before I hear anything. Or I might not hear anything at all.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” I said.

We sat in the kitchen dunking
pains au chocolat
into our coffee. She asked me when I was moving back into my flat.

“Saturday.”

“If you need any help unpacking, I’m around.”

“That would be amazing. Kenny’s coming, too. At last you’ll get to meet him. I just know you’re going to love him.” It felt really important that two of my favorite people should get along. “And speaking of Kenny, I went round to his place last night. First time I’ve been. You want to see his . . .” At that moment, some
pain au chocolat
got stuck in my throat. I started coughing.

“You OK?” Rosie said.

I nodded, but I couldn’t stop hacking. I started bashing my chest. The piece of pastry wouldn’t budge. Rosie got me a glass of water. I took a couple of sips and the irritation started to ease.

“So come on, what’s Kenny got that’s so amazing? A sixty-inch plasma TV? A Bang and Olufsen surround-sound system? A home cinema?” She laughed as a thought occurred to her. “A really ripped body? A huge penis?”

By now I had completely stopped coughing. Rosie took this as confirmation that she’d hit on the right answer.

“Omigod! You saw Kenny’s penis!”

“No, I didn’t. I saw his kitchen.”

“Huh. Is that all?”

At this point Ben came charging in holding out an empty plate, which he clearly wanted reloaded with
pain au chocolat
. “Tally, why did a man show you his penis? Mans shouldn’t do vat. It’s rude.”

“He didn’t, darling,” I said. “Your mum just got a bit confused.”

“Did he show Mummy his penis?”

“Ben,” Rosie said, doing her best to stifle her frustration and annoyance, “nobody showed anybody their penis.” She put an entire
pain au chocolat
on his plate. “Now, take this into the living room and finish watching
Ratatouille
with Grandma and Granddad.”

Ben trudged off.

“Kenny and I are not having sex,” I said in a whisper, in case Ben was still in earshot. “But something did sort of happen.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure exactly. We had one of these moments when we almost kissed, but didn’t. And then later on I fell asleep on the sofa, and when I woke up, my head was in his lap and he was stroking my hair.”

“Huh—so first Hugh kisses you and now Kenny’s hitting on you. Can’t be bad for the old self-esteem.”

“Do I hear just a hint of resentment?”

“No, I’m not resentful. Honest.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, you know what? Yes, I am.”

“But I thought you were off men.”

Rosie harrumphed. “You can be off men but still want to have sex.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I said.

“So come on,” Rosie said. “Honesty time. Have you got feelings for Kenny?”

“OK, I admit there’s some chemistry, but Kenny . . . I’m not sure that he’s right for me.”

“Because you, of course, are looking for another high-achieving professional with a social conscience. Another Josh to put on a pedestal. Hugh’s the same. You’re a sucker for these men, Tally.”

She got up and put the kettle on for more coffee. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why are you and my sister so against me getting involved with Hugh—saying that I’m still vulnerable after what happened with Josh and I should be careful of rebound relationships—but you get excited whenever I mention Kenny? Each time Scarlett phones, she’s like, ‘So, how’s Kenny?’ Every word is in italics. It’s clear she’s not asking after his health. Neither of you can get it into your heads that all Kenny and I do is hang out and eat pizza a couple of times a week.”

“And nearly kiss . . . Look, I haven’t met Kenny, but I can’t help thinking he sounds like a breath of fresh air—that’s all. The way you describe him, he comes across as grounded and funny and different from all the other men you’ve gone out with.”

“I’m not going out with him.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

I arranged for the Wizard of Aus to pick up my stuff from the self-storage place first thing on Saturday morning. We would meet at my flat just after ten.

I arrived a few minutes early. Of course I couldn’t find a parking space and I had to lug two heavy suitcases of clothes several hundred yards down the street. Even though I’d loved living in a trendy flat in Notting Hill, I couldn’t wait to get back to my flat. It might be tiny, and I couldn’t afford to fill it with cutting-edge furniture and fancy modern art like Scarlett and Grace, but it was my space, my home. What worried me was that the flat had so many associations with Josh. We’d spent our first night together there. I’d cheered up a lot over the last few weeks. I was dreading that the place was going to make me feel depressed and miserable all over again.

I opened the door and was met by the smell of fresh paint, new wood . . . and Terry the builder.

“Hi, Terry. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He was carrying an aluminum stepladder.

“Just come to collect my gear and hand you back your keys,” he said. “And I thought you might like to see the final bits and bobs we did yesterday.”

“I would, but you know what, my removal man is going to be here any minute. I’m not sure there’s time to . . .”

“Won’t take five minutes.” He leaned the ladder against the hall wall. “I can’t leave a job without knowing I’ve given satisfaction.”

“Terry, it all looks wonderful: The plastering is amazing. The tiling is faultless. And you made such a great job of fitting the kitchen.”