Chances (23 page)

‘I do have a problem with something though,’ said Jonty. ‘This thing about supper. What are we going to do – give her a ready meal?’

How Oliver could have hugged his boy. ‘Could go to the chippy?’

Jonty laughed. Then he had a quiet moment. ‘Or you could do those chops?’

‘Chops would be good.’

‘She’s not a frikkin’ vegetarian, is she?’

‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘she frikking isn’t.’

‘Frikkin’
so
doesn’t have a “g” on the end,’ said Jonty.

‘The chops then? What should I do with them?’

‘Chips?’

‘Chops and chips?’

‘It’s got a ring to it.’

‘It
has
a ring to it.’

‘God,
Dad
!’

‘Chops and chips it is.’

‘Tell her to bring the dessert.’

‘I can’t do that!’

‘I bet she’ll ask –
What can I bring?
Don’t you remember how Mum always used to say that, when anyone invited us over?’

Oliver had forgotten.

‘If she asks what she can bring, tell her she can bring dessert.’

Oliver nodded. ‘Righty-ho.’

‘When’s she coming then?’

Oliver shrugged. ‘Are you around Saturday evening?’

‘I’m meant to be playing cricket with the guys.’

‘How about Sunday evening?’

‘That’s good.’

‘I’ll ask her for Sunday evening then, for chops and chips.’

‘Don’t tell her what we’re cooking, though. Say it goes pear-shaped and we make a mercy dash to the chippy anyway?’

‘Chippy’s closed on a Sunday.’

‘Let’s hope we don’t balls it up, then,’ said Jonty. ‘Night, Dad.’

‘Night, kiddo.’

And as Oliver rinsed out the mugs with his hand and hot water, he thought,
We
. Not the Royal We but the Bourne We. He thought, Jonty said,
Don’t tell her what
we’re
cooking
. And he felt tears course up from his heart. I hope I don’t balls it up, he thought. DeeDee would kill me.

It was worth a long-distance phone call to Florida. Only Vita forgot about the time zones and Michelle’s phone went straight through to voicemail. Candy’s phone, it seemed, was out of signal in the Lake District and hers went through to voicemail too. Vita’s mum wasn’t at home and she didn’t have a mobile. Why would I want one of those, she’d asked, I’ve managed perfectly well without one all these years – she had said the same about auto-banks, answering machines and DVD players. So, once Oliver had left on Sunday morning, Vita paced around wishing there was someone to call. She was excited, nervous – she wanted to ask Michelle, What do you think, what do you think? She wanted to ask Candy, What shall I wear – dress down for the son and up for the man? She wanted to ask her mum, What shall I take for dessert, Mum? But then she thought how it probably wasn’t advice or answers she really sought – she simply wanted to share her excitement, her nerves. She was flattered to have been asked, and she was proud too. She sent texts to Candy and Michelle simply telling them that Oliver was cooking and she’d be meeting Jonty. And she knew if she asked her mum what she should take for dessert her Mum’s brilliant answer would be Keep It Simple.

Right then. Lemon drizzle cake and fresh raspberries it is!

Vita took a bus to the supermarket, ashamed to find her cupboards empty of all baking ingredients. All those shop-bought biscuits lavished on workmen over the months! She wondered, if she had made lemon drizzle cake for Oliver on his first visit, might he have chopped the tree down then and there? She laughed as she picked up a basket – thank goodness for small mercies. She’d keep the parakeets, the wasps, the rank pears because Oliver came with the package.

Self-raising flour.

She didn’t mind, really, that the corner shop shut at noon on Sundays – That Shop didn’t open at all. But she did think it daft to go all the way to the supermarket for self-raising flour.

Oh, and baking parchment.

And where was her loaf tin? Still in one of the remaining packing boxes?

She’d treat herself to a new one.

And a rubber spatula, so that she had no excuse to lick more of the mixing bowl than was absolutely necessary.

The trip to the supermarket was now worthwhile. In fact, it was very worthwhile because, just then, she caught sight of Oliver and Jonty, standing at the meat counter, scratching their heads.

She swept herself into the toy aisle, out of their sight line. They were in deep discussion, the two of them, pointing at cuts of meat in the display cabinet, reading off a piece of paper which Jonty held in front of Oliver. They bought something, finally, and wondered off; shoppers having to duck out of their way, so engrossed were they in their list.

They oughtn’t to see me. That wouldn’t be fair.

But Vita watched them. She nipped behind this aisle and that, like a character in a cartoon caper. Preparing for this meal was obviously an extremely important task for the Bournes. And she felt touched. She’d make them the best cake ever. And she bought the most expensive brand of raspberries available. She wanted to take flowers too – but do you give flowers to blokes? And then she thought that their house probably hadn’t had flowers in it for a long time. It was a woman’s thing, wasn’t it, buying a bunch just to treat the house. Selecting the vase, trimming the stems, displaying them artistically, managing to eke out a few blooms for a smaller vase for elsewhere in the house. Smiling at the display whenever they were seen. And then she thought, The last time Oliver’s house had flowers in it might well have been after DeeDee’s funeral. An awfully long time for a house not to have had a vaseful. But Vita sensed it wasn’t for her to bustle in there with a bunch. It would be like coming in to see someone’s newly laid floor and walking all over it in heels. If Oliver was preparing a new emotional pathway into the future, the least she could do was tread lightly, softly, on it. So she bought a bottle of wine. And then she thought, Jonty’s not quite fifteen. So she bought him
Q
magazine and, checking that Oliver and Jonty were still embroiled in lengthy discussions by the green vegetables, she nipped to the self-service checkouts and made a swift exit home.

‘Do you think we’re trying to be too fancy?’ Jonty wondered.

‘If Jamie Oliver says it’s pukka, we can do it.’

He and Jonty spent a happy hour in the kitchen, chucking in the ingredients just as the recipe instructed, adding their own mockney accents and daring dashes of tamari sauce.

Vita wore a floaty short-sleeved summer dress, soft green speckled with little white flowers; leggings and ballet pumps. She pulled up the sides of her hair and fixed them with a slide. She put on a little eyeshadow, a little mascara and a spritz of Eternity. It was a warm evening, it would take a good half-hour to walk to Oliver’s side of town. She thought of the cake and the raspberries and not wanting sweat patches or a red face, so she took a cab.

She thought Oliver would live in some kind of woodsmansy cottage, with roses and a lavender path and a tree stump with an axe ready for splitting logs. The house was handsome, period and semi-detached, on a neat road lined with similar homes. Driveways with cars pulled up close to their garages, recycling bins by front doors. Oliver’s house looked like any of the others on the street. She’d asked the cab to drop her at the start of the road, wanting a little time to steady herself. But she was shaking as she walked up to the front door. Ridiculous! You’ll bruise the raspberries! She rang the bell and quietly, under her breath, said, Think of me – as if it would carry to Florida and the Lakes, to her mum, faster than any text or call.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi!’

Oliver gave her a clumsy kiss on her cheek, a better one on her lips. ‘Come on in.’

‘Something smells nice.’

‘Domino’s pizza,’ he said.

‘I love Domino’s,’ Vita said generously, ingenuously, and Oliver laughed.

‘I’m teasing. I’m Jamie Oliver Oliver tonight.’

He took her through to the sitting room, too quickly for her to be able to take in the details of the hallway. She noted the kitchen off to the left. Glimpsed a carpeted staircase. Laminate floors downstairs. The sitting room was surprisingly tidy and incredibly still. It reminded her of her grandmother’s front room. Always a sense of stillness, just the steady tock of a mantel clock.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Oh yes, please. This is for you.’ She gave him the wine. ‘Oh, and this.’ She gave him the cake and raspberries. ‘And this is for Jonty.’ She gave him the magazine and then stood there, twisting two plastic bags around and around each other.

‘Thank you.’ Oliver made a sensible pile of it all and carried it off into the kitchen.

‘She brought cake,’ he whispered to Jonty.

‘Cool,’ Jonty whispered back.

‘Look – and a mag for you.’

‘Cool.’

‘Take her this glass of wine, please.’

Jonty thought, If only my dad knew how much I could do with a good glug of that.

Jonty came into the sitting room, followed by Oliver. Vita felt as though she was some kind of exotic dignitary being stared at by the People.

‘Hi,’ Jonty said with an awkward wave.

‘Hullo,’ said Vita, wondering whether she should shake hands or something. She’d never had a boyfriend with a child, let alone a teenager; in fact, she didn’t actually know any teenagers currently. Jonty came over, gave her the glass of wine and stood there, as if she was a teacher and ought to be telling him what to do next. Oliver just stood behind him, sipping quickly at his own glass.

‘Thanks for the mag,’ Jonty said, with another odd wave which started at his chest and ended at his hips.

‘My pleasure,’ Vita said. ‘I expect you’d’ve preferred a can of cider.’ He blushed. ‘But I’m on my best behaviour,’ she said.

‘I am too,’ said Jonty. He looked back at his father.

‘Shall we all sit down?’ suggested Oliver.

They sat. Vita on a leather armchair, Jonty and Oliver on the sofa. On the coffee table, a little bowl of peanuts and another with olives. She saw Oliver give Jonty a just perceptible nudge.

‘Olive? Peanut?’

She loved the way Jonty proffered them in the singular and, accordingly, she took one of each. Then she looked around the room, heartened by alcove shelving groaning with books and framed photographs. Sliding doors to an unkempt garden beyond. Over to one side, internal glass doors opening into the dining room. She’d finished her peanut and her olive and wondered whether she could help herself to more.

‘Yummy olives,’ she said.

‘Thank you!’ It was as if Oliver had harvested them himself. ‘Right, I think it’s ready. Shall we eat?’ They’d been sitting down all of three minutes.

Oliver led the way to the dining room, with Jonty behind her. The table had been laid properly. Side plates. Butter knives. And folded pieces of kitchen paper in lieu of cloth napkins.

‘You sit here,’ Jonty said, tapping a chair opposite the one Vita was about to sit in.

‘It’s fine,’ Oliver said to him, under his breath.

‘I can move,’ Vita said.

‘Honestly,’ said Oliver.

‘Seriously,’ said Vita and she moved to where Jonty was.

‘It’s just Dad said I should sit there – because then it’s quicker to get to the kitchen, you see. And I was meant to pull this chair back for you.’

‘Ah,’ said Vita, relieved, because she’d wondered whether it had perhaps been DeeDee’s place.

She let Jonty hold back the chair for her, then she sat and they disappeared. And she looked around her, at the art on the walls – mostly beautiful vast abstracted photographs of landscapes. Lovely small pottery bowls on windowsills. And, every now and then, a framed photo. Jonty at various ages. And family groupings. And one, quite near by, of DeeDee. It was angled slightly away from Vita, as if DeeDee was looking out from the dining room back into the lounge, as if DeeDee didn’t know Vita was here yet. But in came Oliver, followed by Jonty, and Vita pulled her attention back to them.

‘Hors d’oeuvres,’ Oliver announced.

‘Wow,’ said Vita.

‘Asparagus,’ said Jonty. Then he said, Doh!

Vita laughed. ‘Yup, no mistaking asparagus.’

Oliver and Jonty used knives and forks and cut the asparagus into genteel portions. Vita, however, had already picked up a spear, dipping it liberally into the hollandaise while a little of the cooking water dripped down her wrist. Jonty looked at her almost enviously. ‘Did your dad say,
Knife and fork, boy
?’ she asked him sotto voce.

Oliver just laughed. ‘We have manners,’ he said. ‘But actually, you’re right, I did.’

‘We usually just have stuff from the microwave, on our laps in front of the box,’ Jonty said.

‘So I’ve heard,’ Vita said and she looked at Oliver fondly. ‘Well, thank you very much for this – it’s wonderful.’

‘You sit here and chat to Vita,’ Oliver said to Jonty, collecting the plates just as soon as Vita had finished her last spear. ‘I’ll bring in the next course.’

They listened to him clattering about for a moment.

‘Sorry about the cagoule-madwoman incident,’ Vita said to Jonty.

‘It was funny,’ Jonty said.

‘How’s your summer?’

‘It’s been cool. I’ve been helping my dad. Hanging out with my mates. I went camping.’

‘I heard.’

‘That was pretty cool.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you like music, then? I didn’t know whether you liked computers and stuff – I could’ve bought you one of those mags.’ Vita had to laugh at herself for dumbing down her voice. But she wanted to bond with Jonty and was relieved to find him chatting easily.

‘I totally love music. I live for music.’

‘I thought you might. Who do you like then?’

Jonty listed umpteen bands whose names Vita nodded sagely at, though she was appalled at not knowing any of them. How old she suddenly felt
. You can’t hear what they’re singing about
– that’s what her mum used to say about Vita’s choice of music. She thought, God, am I old enough to be saying the same?

‘My dad’s not had a girlfriend before,’ Jonty suddenly said. But then Oliver came back in before Vita could respond. She regarded Jonty a moment longer: his teenage gawkiness, his butch-black T-shirt emblazoned with a band’s name and a skull motif but his slender arms appearing from the sleeves like young branches, his zeitgeist haircut half hiding a child’s face, half revealing a young man’s, and suddenly she wanted to hug him. If his dad now had someone to hug, who did Jonty have? Jonty glanced back at her, all awkward eyes and a quick unsure smile.

‘Blimey!’ said Vita, a plate having been put before her.

‘Good, eh?’ said Oliver.

‘Jamie Oliver Frikkin’ Oliver,’ Vita marvelled.

‘See – told you frikkin’ didn’t have a “g”,’ a delighted Jonty said to his dad.

The plates were loaded with sticky chops, handmade chunky chips with some kind of coating (paprika and garlic, Vita was soon informed), green beans tossed with sesame seeds and tamari. And a whole tomato each, carefully cut into eighths. They all tried to eat with knives and forks – but in the end, Oliver was the first to say, Sod it as he picked a chop up in his fingers. The chips weren’t quite cooked, so everyone ate the ends and left the middles on their plates like a pile of small weathered bricks. Oliver had done so many, they all had plenty.

‘That was delicious,’ Vita beamed, ‘really amazing.’ She’d only just finished and again Oliver was clearing the plates straight away. They’d sat to eat all of fifteen minutes ago.

‘Jont?’

The two of them carried it all back into the kitchen and she could hear energetic whispering interspersed with the clunk and clatter of crockery.

‘Can I help?’ she called.

‘No!’

‘No!’

‘OK!’

That sauce had been really lovely. She peeled her ears. It was obviously a hive of activity in the kitchen. Perhaps she should have offered to cut the cake and wash the raspberries. No, leave them to it. She left the table and examined the pottery bowls on the window ledge. And then she walked over to the cabinet and looked at the photos.