Just Desserts (3 page)

Like most of the people at the little course, Joanne Moss was proud of what she had achieved. She had taken the job as no more than a stop-gap, as she collected herself amidst the debris of a messy divorce. She had intended to acquire a little money from it whilst the terms of the settlement were argued, then move on to pastures new: at twenty-nine, there was plenty of time to make a different life for herself.

Catering wasn't even her field of expertise. In her previous working life, Joanne Moss had managed a small but busy office. But she had always enjoyed cooking, and she could manage the rudimentary stuff which was needed – when Patrick Nayland had approached her, the course had only been open for three years and everything about it was still rough around the edges.

Seven years later, she had a full-time job, two part-time staff, the appreciation of the members, and a sense of achievement which made the shattered self-esteem of her divorce seem to belong to another world. She also had a new relationship, which at once excited and frightened her. She wasn't quite sure yet where it was going, but she wasn't planning to opt out of the discovery process. It wasn't going to be easy for Joanne Moss to move on from Camellia Park.

The club now served simple meals at every lunchtime, meeting a demand which had grown as the reputation of the weekend catering spread. Wednesday was the busiest day midweek, but by four o'clock on this perfect November afternoon, the rush was over and Joanne had time to watch Alan Fitch repairing to his favourite greenkeeper's shed with young Barry Hooper, who was listening avidly as usual to his mentor's every word.

Joanne smiled as she watched the pair, reflecting on how good the bond was for both of them, the older man with no son to shape in a dangerous world and the youngster who had taken to the work on the course like a duckling to water. Everyone liked young Barry. He was willing to turn his hand to everything about the place, cheerful and unquestioning without being over-deferential.

She guessed that Alan would be telling him in his lair that he had been added to the permanent staff of the club. Everyone would be happy about that. It was sound economics, not sentiment: you didn't get many people as reliable and hard-working as Barry, not at the kind of money you paid to junior greens staff.

Chris Pearson had come into her kitchen and consulted her before he had decided to recommend to Nayland that Hooper should be made permanent. She had been pleased by the gesture, though she had said that it wasn't really anything to do with her. Chris had maintained that it was only common sense to consult her, because Hooper would be called upon to help her during slack periods on the course. She had been enthusiastic about the young black man, as Pearson had known that she would be. Everyone liked Barry.

The manager came in again as she was switching off all the appliances and preparing to leave. He was a handsome man, mature and confident, just under six feet tall, with dark hair that showed no sign of thinning in his late forties. But theirs was strictly a working relationship. Chris Pearson had never even made a pass at her, which she had appreciated, particularly in those early days when men gathered round an attractive divorcee like the proverbial bees round the honeypot, and she had sometimes felt that she could smell the lust in the air.

Pearson was never less than friendly, and she couldn't recall a single dispute about the way she ran her section of the enterprise. He listened carefully to what she had to say, generally agreed that it made sense, and occasionally added some small suggestion of his own, which was invariably thoughtful and often helpful. But there was a reserve about him which she had grown used to over the years. In the early days, she had been thankful for it; nowadays it occasionally rankled her, for reasons she could not define.

She was aware now, for instance, that he had something to say, that he would not have come into her kitchen for social reasons, but he did not immediately produce it. There would be a little period of social fencing before he announced the real reason for his visit, pleasant enough between two people who liked each other, but unnecessary, and therefore a trifle irritating.

She decided to take the initiative and talk business. ‘I assume Patrick will want me to do the usual Christmas dinner for the staff,' she said. ‘It means closing the place for our regular customers, but there won't be many complaints in December, so long as we give them a few days' notice. We might even get one of those deluges which means no one is able to play golf on the day, at that time of year.'

‘There won't be any need for you to close, this year. We won't be asking you to do our Christmas lunch,' said Chris Pearson. Then, as if he realized he had spoken abruptly, he smiled and said, ‘We'll all miss your turkey and trimmings, but I don't expect you will miss all the work.'

‘I don't mind the work, not really. And I enjoy watching us all make fools of ourselves, with paper hats and silly jokes from crackers.'

‘It's ten years since we started, though I know we'd been going for three of them before we had the good sense to bring you in. Patrick feels he ought to take us all out to celebrate. To Soutters Restaurant in Newent.' He added the name of the place as if anxious to assure her that there was no slur on her own efforts.

‘He's pushing the boat out, isn't he?'

‘I expect he can afford it, once every ten years.' Alan grinned at her conspiratorially, an unexpected expression which cut through his normal reserve.

‘And when will this splendid celebration take place?' Joanne felt oddly put out that she had not heard this news from Patrick Nayland himself.

‘On the thirteenth of December. It was as near to Christmas as Patrick could get.'

‘Unlucky for some,' she said automatically.

The phrase would echo many times in her mind in the months which followed.

T
he balmy autumn weather lasted for another week. Alan Fitch and Barry Hooper laid their new turf and saw it begin to knit in with the surrounding grass. Michelle Nayland ate her way through a tense Sunday evening meal with her stepfather and her rather anxious mother without any serious incident. Chris Pearson helped Joanne Moss to mount a lunch for the over-sixties golfers of Camellia Park, which was an occasion of raucous but good-natured fun.

Then the weather changed abruptly. The temperature dropped steeply, the rains came in from the west, and an overnight gale battered the area, stripping the trees abruptly of the autumn glory which had been impressive for a month and more. By the time of the staff Christmas dinner at Soutters Restaurant on the thirteenth of December, winter had taken a sudden grip on the land. The turf on the fairways of the golf course was white with frost in the mornings, and the flags on the greens stood out stiffly in the strong north-east wind, which strengthened throughout the day.

Golfers are hardy and determined souls, but by the middle of this bitter afternoon, the last of them had admitted defeat and were hastening from the course. Camellia Park closed early, and the staff hastened away gratefully to don their finery for the evening's festivities.

Soutters is a small and intimate place: its rooms date back to Elizabethan times and its softly lit restaurant has an atmosphere which makes every meal an occasion. It was exactly the right size for the sort of evening Patrick Nayland planned to give his staff, for its small size meant that he was able to take over the whole establishment for his party.

The bitter cold outside seemed only to add to the occasion. Everyone came in shivering, but within minutes was laughing with the rest of the company round the little bar where the preliminary drinks were served with the roaring log fire in the background. Paula Soutter served them herself and took their orders for the starters and main courses they would enjoy as the evening progressed. Nothing was hasty or unconsidered at Soutters: the place was theirs for the whole evening, and the food and wine would be served and enjoyed in a properly relaxed and unhurried pageant of enjoyment.

Several hours later, when the bulk of the meal had been enjoyed, Fred Soutter would emerge from his kitchen in his tall chef's hat, smiling and unflustered, his face shiny with pleasure in his work, shyly receiving the plaudits of the customers who now felt almost like guests, standing beside his poised and elegantly gowned wife to answer any questions about the food and the wines. There was a cost, of course, at the end of the evening; quality never comes cheap. But the charges were reasonable for what was given; Soutters' clients paid for four hours of splendid fare in a unique setting, but they got good value for money.
The
Times
had given the place a strong recommendation three years ago; its customers nodded sagely and kept rather quiet about such publicity, as if they resented outside opinions and wished to keep this tiny gem of civilized entertainment to themselves.

For all but the man who had devised the evening, the cost did not matter. And Patrick Nayland, circulating among the workers who had become his guests for the evening, gave the impression that cost was the last thing he was considering. He had a word for everyone, from the humblest to the most exalted of his little band, and he had a quality unusual in a boss: he listened to other people as well as to himself. Even the wives, husbands and partners who had never seen him before, who had come along diffidently to this evening which was designed primarily to reward their partners for loyal service, felt themselves a part of it as Patrick chatted to them about their lives, their families, and their concerns in the wider world outside Camellia Park.

Barry Hooper had not brought a partner for the evening. He had no girlfriend at the moment, he repeated patiently to a succession of enquiries. He was such a recent addition to the permanent staff of the golf course that he felt it an enormous privilege to be here himself, sitting in a restaurant which he would never have dared to enter, with a company glittering for the evening as he had never seen them before.

Liza Nayland, elegant in a sapphire-blue dress, had already drawn from him a full account of his work on the course, listening and smiling until eventually his shyness had dropped away and his enthusiasm for what he did and the place where he did it had come bursting through his diffidence. And Barry could scarcely take his eyes off her daughter, Michelle Nayland, dressed more informally in a close-fitting green cotton dress, whose lustrous black hair and clear grey eyes seemed only to grow more vivid as she moved down the steps from the little bar and into the soft lighting of the dining area.

The seating plan had separated Barry from his mentor and friend Alan Fitch, who sat rather awkwardly with his wife at the other end of the table. It was rather a surprise to Barry to see Mrs Fitch at all, since Alan never mentioned her at work and he had almost forgotten that there was such a person. She looked surprisingly animated as she chatted happily to Joanne Moss, a contrast to her rather dour husband. Fitch, who had always seemed to Barry Hooper to know everything in their two-man exchanges on the course, looked ill at ease in this social situation, smiling nervously when spoken to and contributing little himself as the level of noise rose inexorably beneath the beams of the old room.

Joanne Moss had brought her brother as her partner for the evening, a surprising escort for a woman who could surely have had a selection of men to accompany her. She looked younger than her thirty-six years, her dark eyes sparkling but observant in the soft light, her ready smile making her the most radiantly attractive woman in the room; Barry wrenched his gaze away from Michelle Nayland and gave himself up to visions of sexual instruction from a mature woman, one of his favourite recurring fantasies.

The meal was perfect but unhurried, so that there was plenty of time for conversation between courses. Patrick Nayland circulated among his small company, rather like royalty at a garden party, thought Chris Pearson uncharitably, surprising himself with that waspish thought. He allowed Paula Soutter to fill his glass with burgundy for the main course, acknowledging her attentions with a grateful smile. Perhaps he needed the wine to mellow him, to enable him to present the relaxed face which was appropriate to the company at large.

No one was driving; there were taxis laid on for the journeys home at midnight. Pearson watched his wife talking to Mrs Fitch and reflected upon what a handsome woman she was still, poised and in control of herself and the situation. Was that how people thought of him? he wondered wryly. It was the image he strove to present through the working day at Camellia Park. He was proud of his wife, and the sight of her happiness should have cheered him, but he felt flat and watchful amidst the noisy hilarity which now surrounded him. Almost as if he were waiting for something to happen.

Michelle Nayland watched her stepfather as he moved among the company, dropping compliments like winter snow among the people he had invited to his feast. He was good at this, she admitted to herself regretfully. He could charm the birds from the trees, just as he was now charming the partners of his employees, whom he had not met until this evening. No one except her seemed to see through him, and that added to her frustration.

He had got it right, as usual. She had never been to Soutters before, but it was just the right place for this ten-year celebration, combining the quality, ambience and intimacy which made for a memorable evening. This was something special without being at all stuffy. Everyone seemed to be both excited and appreciative, from her mother at the head of things to that slight black boy with the thin, interesting face, who surely must be older than he looked.

A familiar, mischievous notion crept into her mind. She wondered how she could best irritate her stepfather as he moved so confidently among his guests. She inched herself a little sideways and began to speak to the wide-eyed Barry Hooper. ‘Looks as if we're here to carry the flag for the younger generation!' said Michelle Nayland.