Pear Shaped (17 page)

‘You are such a dick sometimes,’ I say, poking his stomach. ‘We shouldn’t have to dress like prostitutes to win your affection. God, you really are an 80s cheeseball throwback, aren’t you?’

He laughs. I laugh, but only for the soundtrack.

James has signed a contract on the kitchen, and LSW are ripping out his old kitchen and starting to fit the new one next week. It’ll take eight weeks if all goes according to plan, and I’m moving in the first week of January. I am so overexcited about co-habiting that I have pushed the flecks of doubt I have about this relationship well beneath the surface.

Occasionally they rise up and I am forced to examine them:

Four months ago he said you weren’t his normal type. Why would that ever change?

Think of Celine’s legs compared to yours.

Think of why he isn’t married at forty-five. That’s not normal.

And then I think:

We have fallen in love.

He has asked me to move in.

He is truly himself when he’s with me.

We never stop laughing and talking and that’s what makes a relationship last.

Remember the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching: that is real, that is real, that is real.

L’Esteeme is launching in mid-November. James is away a couple of times in October, and it is on a Friday morning, while he is in Cape Town for a week shooting the press campaign, that Evie calls to tell me my grandmother has died.

I have been at my grandma’s every night this week; she’s been on morphine to manage the increasing pain that’s been creeping up in the last few months, and if she’s been awake when I’ve been there, she’s been barely lucid. I baked her a lemon cake on Monday, but she hasn’t eaten anything solid since Saturday, and it’s a struggle even to make her drink water.

Wednesday was the last time we spoke. I took round a bunch of her favourite orange tulips and sat on her bed, scared that the weight of me next to her might disturb her. She smiled softly and stroked my hand with one finger.

‘Your nails look beautiful, Grandma,’ I said.

She nodded slowly and in a voice weakened by utter exhaustion said ‘goodnight, Sophola.’

On Thursday night she’d been unconscious, and on Friday, just before dawn, the phone rang.

I rush over to find Evie, teary-eyed and looking like she hasn’t slept for days. I make her a coffee, and we call the doctor and the synagogue.

‘Did she say anything before she died?’ I say, curious to know if she’d mentioned my grandfather, or my dad. Maybe a final word of advice for me?

‘Sophie, she did, but I don’t think I heard her properly,’ says Evie.

‘Was it “horse stealer”?’

‘No, nothing about a horse. I think … I think she said “Jesus, I love you”.’

My mother can’t fly over for the funeral, because Shellii has hired a maternity nurse for three months, and my mother doesn’t trust the maternity nurse, or Shellii, not to kill the baby, so she’s shadowing them 24/7. Meanwhile, Shellii seems to be spending all her time at The Beverly Hills Hotel, pitching her new Spiritual Slimming video blog to producers, so just as well my niece has two surrogate mummies, given that her real one’s not doing the job.

My grandma died on the Friday, and by Monday she’s in the ground. She chose ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ as the final piece of music at the funeral, and it was
so
my grandma, stealing the show, as always, not a dry eye in the house.

She lived such a long and mostly-blessed life that I suppose
I thought she’d always be around. I can’t quite compute that she’s not on the other end of the phone to moan about how bored she is, or ask about what I’m cooking for supper tonight. I cried at the funeral and at the prayers, but I don’t feel a huge sense of grief. Nonetheless, I really wish James was here to help – not with the admin, but it would just be nice to have someone to come home to, just to be there.

On Wednesday night I go round to help Evie sort through my grandma’s stuff. My grandma wanted most of her possessions to go to charity. She’s left me the diamond earrings I found under the sideboard, her photos, papers and cookery books. The only other things I take from the flat are her pink fluffy dressing gown – it smells so much of her – and a stash of diazepam. I do like the occasional sleeping pill on an aeroplane. I consider whether I should pocket the bottle of liquid morphine the doctor prescribed for her, but figure with my semi-addictive personality that’s probably not the smartest idea I ever had. I make Evie take any and all the clothes that fit her, and after four hours of boxing and bagging, the job is mostly done.

I call James when I get home at midnight but his phone goes straight to voicemail. Are they one hour ahead in Cape Town? Something like that. He’ll have been on the shoot all day, he must be tired. Besides, all I wanted to say was hello. He’s back in two days anyway, and I spoke to him a couple of days ago.

It doesn’t matter, does it?

But as I get in to bed, I think that actually yes – it does matter, a bit, to me.

When James comes back the following week, we’re in the final stages of the kitchen being fitted. I am at work in a meeting with Will from Appletree discussing vanilla pods when my phone rings: James. I ignore it.

‘I really want to use the Madagascan again if we can,’ I say to Will, sliding a knife along the slit-open pod and marvelling at the tiny black specks that make all the difference between good custard and great.

‘So much better than the essence, I know. But have you thought about Tahitian? It’s more floral, it should work well on the ultra-vanilla,’ he says, taking out what looks like a cigar tube from his bag, popping open the lid and passing it to me.

My phone rings: James again. ‘Sorry Will, I’ll just get rid of this … James? Can I call you back, I’m in a meeting.’

‘It’s very important,’ he says.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Be outside your office in twenty minutes, I need to show you something.’

I check my watch – 4.30pm. We’re practically done but I was considering taking Will across to the Japanese cream bun specialist on Dean Street as I wanted his technical opinion on how they make their custard so thick and yet light.

‘Is it really important?’ I ask, thinking I could always take Will there another time – he’s down in London quite a lot at the moment.

‘Yes. Very,’ says James, ‘see you soon.’

‘Sorry, Will. Right, so the Tahitian … for the ultra-vanilla. And maybe for the raspberry custard? Would that work?’

‘Yep, it works with cherry too, and almond.’

‘Almond … interesting. Okay, could you do comparative costs with the Madagascan? Then I can get Devron to choose between the two, and hopefully he’ll forget that essence is even an option.’

‘Done. Are you heading off somewhere now? I was going to say we should check out Shake Away for a milkshake up in Islington at some point.’

‘Oh! I want to go there! But now’s not good …’

‘Don’t worry, it’s just my train’s not till 7pm – I just thought if you were free … Another time.’

‘Deal,’ I say, and he reaches for my hand to shake on it.

Twenty minutes later James pulls up outside my office.

‘Hop in, Wench. With any luck we’ll beat the rush hour,’
he says through his car window, pushing my door open from the inside.

‘Alright, what’s the hurry and where are we going?’

‘St. James’s Palace!’ he says, flashing me a smile.

‘You’ve dragged me out of work why exactly?’

‘I’m taking you down to the basement!’

‘The units are in, I’ve already seen them.’

‘Aha, but there’s more! I called Luke from Cape Town and told him I’d give him a bonus if he got all the kit in while I was away. Nothing like a bit of cash in hand to get things done.’

‘You did that? Why didn’t one of you let me know? I thought I was project managing?’

‘Oh, well, what difference? Anyway, you wouldn’t have wanted to think about that stuff, what with your grandma …’

I guess.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says. ‘You look pissed off.’

‘No, you’re right. I was busy,’ I say, remembering how shitty it felt when I tried to call you and you weren’t there.

‘Don’t look, don’t look,’ he says, his hand clasping mine as he guides me slowly down the stairs. He pulls me to the centre of the room, then stands close behind me, placing both hands firmly on my shoulders. ‘Now look.’

The kitchen is amazing. Nothing actually works yet but it all looks terrific. Bright and light and shiny, full of the potential of a thousand perfect unbaked cakes.

‘What do you think?’ he says, looking at me nervously. I walk over to the Gaggenau oven and open and close the door a dozen times. That beautiful purplish blue – I wonder if it’s okay to keep the oven door open all the time?

‘Come on, Rain Man, it’s not just about the oven, what about the Sub-Zero?’ he says, standing hands on hips admiring his baby.

I am strongly of the opinion that it looks too big, but he is so overjoyed with it I just give him a hug and tell him it’s all wonderful.

He picks up a big glossy brochure from the counter top. ‘And did you know, the guys who make Sub-Zeros also do an oven range, Soph? And it’s called Wolf. Wolf! Next time we do up a kitchen everything has to be Wolf!’

I shake my head in wonder. How have I managed to end up with James, the most alpha male on the planet?

My ex, Nick, was shy. He used to write me the most tender, heartfelt love songs and sing them to me while I was in the bath. I’d sometimes call him Bluebird: his eyes were bright blue, he was supremely gentle, and his voice was beautiful, but that wasn’t why. It was after a poem by Charles Bukowski, Nick’s favourite poem, my favourite poem.

I have flown from a bluebird to a wolf.

Two weeks later, the kitchen is still not quite finished. James is working all hours in the run-up to his launch, now just a week away. I’m at his house meeting with Luke to discuss when the various valves that are stuck on an autobahn outside Munich will arrive, so that our shiny new hob and oven will actually work.

By the time we’ve finished it’s nearly ten, and James calls to say he’s on his way home and can’t bear the thought of another takeaway.

We can’t cook at mine. My fridge is crammed with pre-Phase 4 samples of my puddings at various life-stages. I’m presenting final products to Devron when he’s back from the Maldives next February, but I’m trying to finish all my work before Christmas. I’d love to spend my first Christmas with James doing absolutely nothing but eating, drinking, going for the occasional whisky-fuelled walk and watching old films.

I ask Luke to drop me round at the Sainsbury’s in Chalk Farm and then can’t work out what I feel like eating that doesn’t involve cooking. I opt for my favourite student fallback plan and head home, laden with jars. I swing by the posh offie round the corner from James and buy a lovely bottle of Fitou.

‘Where have you been, woman?’ says James, coming to the door in just his trousers. ‘I thought you were shagging Luke round the back, I know he’s got a thing for you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘I was fetching your supper.’

‘Good wifelet,’ he says, tapping me on the head. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Well. Currently in your kitchen the only heat sources are matches and a toaster. I don’t much fancy holding a marshmallow over your Swan Vestas, so I propose a night of toast and Philadelphia, inspired by our little trip to El Bulli …’

‘Toast?’

‘Yes. What?’

‘If we just need the toaster, let’s do it in the bedroom …’

He takes wine glasses, cutlery and the toaster up to his room and puts the blanket from his bed on the floor.

‘Naked picnic,’ he says, taking his trousers off.

I don’t ever, ever eat or drink anything hot when I’m naked, after I spilt boiling coffee down my torso while in my underwear three years ago. Nick had to sit with me in A&E for four hours with a wet towel wrapped around my middle. I couldn’t put on clothes as the burn went from under my bra to the top of my pants, and the incident scarred me more psychologically than physically.

‘Lend me a t-shirt. Okay, you’re going to have to trust me,’ I say.

‘Never trust anyone,’ says James.

‘Shhh … pour the wine. Okay, wholegrain toast. First round, butter under the Philadelphia.’

While we’re waiting for the toast to pop we fool around and James tries to shag me. ‘Even you can’t do it in less
than two minutes,’ I say, as I push him off and take a sip of wine. ‘Right, try this.’

‘Mmmm, really good with the butter. Why have I never tried that?’

‘Next – a taste of France …’ I say.

I put another slice in and James attempts to maul me and I don’t put up much of a struggle. ‘Okay, stop – toast …’

‘Apricot jam on cream cheese? Yuk.’

‘Trust me.’

‘Fuck, that’s good.’

‘Same basis as a cheesecake. Next …’

We indulge in considerable heavy petting, and seven variants of cream cheese on toast (pickled cucumber: excellent; black olives: also excellent; avocado: surprisingly excellent).

After I have made James check the toaster is unplugged, twice, we snuggle under the rug, and by the time I’ve popped to the bathroom to clean my teeth and returned, he is snoring.

I stroke his hair, fetch another pillow to lodge under his head and curl up beside him.

Tonight’s the big night – November 17th – the launch of L’Esteeme. James seems anxious – normally he’s so confident, I rarely see him like this. He almost looks scared, though I can’t imagine why. He’s bloody good at selling; I know whatever he applies himself to he’ll do well.

The launch event is at a bar off Mount Street in Mayfair. I’m wearing my best black silk dress from Zara. It’s very 1950s Gina Lollobrigida, with a nipped-in waist and a full skirt. Normally I feel great in this dress, but tonight James’s nervousness seems contagious.

He introduces me to his business associates with a reticence that makes me paranoid. When he says ‘this is my girlfriend, Sophie’, the word ‘girlfriend’ sits heavily on his tongue like an ulcer.

On the table next to us sit the financiers, four men straight out of
Rosemary’s Baby
, but with George Hamilton tans. Nothing but their eyes move, darting to the podium or to the champagne waiter to beckon him to fill up the
long, thin flutes that their wives’ collagen-mouths are suckered to like plastic frogs in a bath.