Recipe for Disaster (4 page)

He sometimes wondered if he cooked to make up for
those years of starvation and terror under the Nazis, but
when he tried to explain this to Georgia, she had stared at
him, uncomprehending. Food was Georgia's enemy, not
her friend. She waged a continual, single-minded battle
with it, starving herself for days on end and then bingeing.
But the first time Jake overheard her throwing up in the
bathroom, he was so furious she made sure he was out when
she did it again.

'It's a disgusting thing to do to your body! It is wrong and
unhealthy, and anyway, if you carry on like that all your
teeth will fall out.'

He tried to tempt her with low-calorie but delicious
dishes, seeing it as a challenge to his cooking skills, but she
wasn't having any of it. When Georgia did eat, she wanted
KitKats, Dairylea Dunkers and microwave chips. It was
quite a blow to Jake, because surely kindred spirits
shouldn't have His and Hers compartments in the
fridge?

Now, lying exhaustedly on the expensive hotel bed, he
absent-mindedly admired Georgia's perfect bottom as she
bent down to peer into the mini bar.

'I don't see how even you can make a restaurant out of
that horrible little chip shop,' she grumbled.

Jake sighed. He wished he could describe the vision in his
head, but all his creative powers were in his hands.

'Look, I know I'm no good at explaining things, but try
and imagine what it will look like after a makeover. A cheap
one,' he added hastily.

'No one will want to eat there – you'll lose all your
money.' Then, when Jake shuddered: 'Oh, don't be so silly.
I was only joking!'

'Yeah, well, I think I must have left my sense of humour
in London,' he tried to joke back, but he was so tired and
stressed that he could barely think straight. He wondered
guiltily if he would be able to stay awake long enough to
make love to her and then felt even worse because he didn't
want to make love – he wanted to do his sums again to make
absolutely sure he'd got them right and this was all
affordable, just, and then draw up another plan for how the
restaurant itself should be set out. Maybe there was just
room for another six covers. It would be cramped but it
could make a big difference to his takings. What were the
statistics? One in two restaurants failed within a year of
opening. 'I've got to be one of the winners!' he said aloud,
thumping the pillow.

'It's funny you should say that. The very nice man who
bought me lunch on the train up here was talking about
being a winner,' said Georgia, taking off her clothes and
leaving them all over the floor.

Men were always trying to buy her meals and then get
into her knickers. She really wasn't safe out on her own.

She ran her hands appreciatively down her body,
remembering how the very nice man had looked at her. 'He
was so charming. Now, what was his name?'

'How should I know – I wasn't there. Now hurry up and
come to bed before I fall – I mean, get overcome by lust.'

'But the thing was, he said he knew you. Harold, I think.'

'Never heard of him. Couldn't care less.'

'No! Silly me! It was Harry! He said you were at college
together. He said you had worked together afterwards, at
that restaurant you don't like to talk about.' She looked up
at the strangled noise coming from the bed. 'What on earth
is the matter? You look like you've just seen a ghost!'

Jake had jumped bolt upright 'Harry? Are you sure?' he
asked hopefully, then when she nodded: 'I wish to God he
was a ghost.'

'Oh, he's very much flesh and blood,' giggled Georgia,
thinking what very attractive flesh it had been, just the right
shape and size.

Jake shivered. He felt shaky and weak suddenly, as if
he'd suddenly come down with some dreadful virus.

'I think I would rather come across the plague than Mr
Harry Hunter again,' he said, more to himself than anything
else.

'What? Oh, don't be silly. He seemed like a perfectly
pleasant man,' said Georgia, who was oblivious to nuances,
unless they were her own.

'You don't understand,' said Jake through gritted teeth,
but she had wandered into the bathroom.

Harry Hunter was Jake's own personal demon, though
he still didn't know what he'd done to deserve one. The last
time he'd locked swords with this man, Jake had come off
very much the worse. In fact, if it hadn't been for an
irascible French chef called Louis, Jake would probably now
be a hollow-eyed empty shell working in a burger bar. Oh,
don't be ridiculous, he said to himself. Pull yourself
together, man. What does it matter now, anyway?
Lightning doesn't strike twice, does it? But what the hell
was Harry Hunter doing in Easedale then?

'The editor really liked your piece. Actually what he said
was, "Only our Kate could make a pile of old bones
interesting, but where the hell is her next story?" '

'They weren't bones, Jonathan, they were bricks. And I
wish I knew.'

'Well, this has been out for a few days now, so don't leave
it too long.' He was always fairly curt in the newsroom, but
even more so today.

Kate waited until he was out of earshot and sighed
loudly. Neither her personal nor her private life was going
well. The previous night at a restaurant, Jonathan had
described in rather too much detail a sudden and
unexpected reconciliation with his wife. Being Jonathan, he
had told the story well and made it both moving and funny.
The restaurant had closed and shooed them out before he
could come to the subject of what this meant to them, 'them'
being him and Kate, but in the end spelling it out wasn't
really necessary as far as Kate was concerned. Of course it
was over. When she tentatively probed her heart early this
morning, she discovered that if it wasn't exactly shattered to
pieces, it was quite sore. And even three coffees and a big
bacon sandwich later, she still felt a bit frail. She got up
resolutely and wandered over to her desk. More than
anything, she needed a story now, something to take her
mind off things. But flipping through her notebook,
nothing shouted out at her.

'Maybe my nose isn't working any more,' she wondered
aloud. Kate was famous for her nose.

'Well, use a bloody pen like everyone else!' Seeing her
dagger look, Joe, the photographer, pretended to be busy
shuffling papers on his desk.

'Your jokes could really do with a makeover,' she said icily.

'Yeah, that's pretty much what the wife says.' Kate
winced and he hurried on. 'Oops, sorry – not your favourite
word at the moment.'

'Don't worry. Anyway, how does everyone already know
about this?'

'Er, because only a fool couldn't read your body language
when you both came in this morning. Actually, I think you
are both being really professional and civilised about it.
You're not really hurting, are you?' he added anxiously.

'No, I'm not. It's just . . . well, three months with me and
now he wants to go back to his wife!'

'Well done! You've saved a marriage, not wrecked it!'

Kate gave a wry grin. You had to be tough to take the
jokes in a newsroom, but they were mostly kindly meant.

She sighed, wishing she was back on the fells with the
archaeologists. Life was simpler there. They spent all day
on a bleak bit of hillside, grubbing around in the earth with
their trowels, then they sloped off to the nearest pub to get
outrageously pissed – and they were perfectly content to
spend weeks doing this.

She had been happy there too. Her remit as reporter
for the
Easedale Gazette
was simple. All she had to do was
sift through the personalities and Roman artefacts for a
double-page spread on what it was like to be a real-life
Indiana Jones. And all the components for a brilliant story
were already there. The guys were a bunch of Americans
with a desperate deadline of their own. They were down
to the last couple of days of funding before having to
return home empty-handed, when it finally emerged
under their trowels from the dark soil: a Roman settlement
that the rest of the academic world was convinced
didn't exist.

And if that wasn't enough for her, she was then given
the unexpected bonus of a really fantastic rumpus with the
local archaeology department, who hated the Yanks
simply because of who they were (there was a lot of stuff
about 'yank' rhyming with 'wank', which Kate unfortunately
couldn't put in a family paper). The locals claimed
the settlement was theirs; the Americans pointed out that
they could hardly say it belonged to them and that it didn't
exist, both at the same time, and there followed a bit of a
stand-off on site, with trowels being waved threateningly.
The Americans all had perfectly white and sparkling
smiles as well, of course, so the pictures were good. Kate
was thrilled.

And then there was Jim, the expedition leader, who
looked a bit like a young Harrison Ford, inhaled whisky as
if it was oxygen and knew more about the Romans than
Julius Caesar ever had. There was something very sexy
about a man who was passionate about his work, Kate
decided. And of course that was part of the reason she had
fallen in love with bloody Jonathan.

That was what she wanted – another good story. Then at
least if she didn't have a love life she could count on her
career. But her nose for news wasn't working and there
wasn't even anything in the newsroom diary. She had
scanned it obsessively, trying to convince herself that a
weaving collective in south Lakeland was promising. But
really, it wasn't. The weavers were a fearsome bunch of
women who were waging war against big business. Kate
agreed they had a point, but they were very tedious about
it and she didn't do boring.

'Our new chief constable could at least have had the
decency to keep quiet about the fact that he once smoked
dope as a student,' she said to Joe disconsolately, absentmindedly
tidying his desk for him. He winced when he
saw the emerging tabletop. Kate was streamlined and
minimal in her work space, while Joe could only function
in his own brand of organised clutter. She randomly
handed him piles of assorted photos and clippings.
'Doesn't he realise that skeletons in the closet are our
living?'

'I agree. He's being outrageously honest,' said Joe
placatingly, surreptitiously putting the photos back in the
same place when she wasn't looking.

She bit her lip abstractedly, and then jumped as the
phone rang.

It was her pet constable at the local police station, who
often tipped her off with juicy bits of news.

'Kate? Yeah, hi. Do you remember those walkers who
never came off the fells last weekend? Well, they've found
them.'

'Dead or alive?' Kate wasn't trying to be heartless. It was
part of her job to ask.

'Oh, very much alive. Listen, I can't say any more – got to
go – but you might want to nip up there and check it out.'

Hmm. There was more to this than met the eye or he
wouldn't have rung her up. Five minutes later she and Joe
were speeding off to Brownstone Fell.

'Joe, when did you last clean up this car?' Kate gingerly
put her feet down on the floor.

'Oh, dunno. Actually I don't think I ever have.'
'That's my point.' She waved a chocolate bar wrapper at
him threateningly. 'I think this has been here ever since I
first met you.'

'Probably. Who cares?'

'Well, I do, if I have to sit on it. You are an offence to
health and safety.'

'Listen, a few germs never hurt you.'

'Actually, some of them do – and probably most of the
ones you are incubating in this car.'

At the bottom of the fell she could see a group of people
wrapped in blankets and drinking tea. They looked alive
but sheepish.

Kate got out and put on her best empathic face.
Sympathy always broke down barriers and loosened
tongues. 'I always say, one bit of fell looks so much like
another, it's a wonder everyone doesn't get lost!'

'We weren't lost. We knew exactly where we were!' piped
up one of them indignantly.

'I believe the weather can turn very quickly,' said Kate.

'Especially if you are stark naked at the time,' said one of
the policemen grinning.

'We had to be – we call ourselves the Followers of the
Goddess Ceres,' explained one of the men.

'Well, I'd call you a pack of plonkers,' muttered the
policeman, as Joe started firing off pictures.

'Stop that! Our religion does not permit the taking of
images!' said one.

'Yes, leave them alone!' said Kate loudly, after Joe had
given her the signal that he'd got enough. She turned to the
leader. 'I'm sorry about that. My colleague doesn't
understand these things, but I've always been interested in
alternative ways of life and religion. Is this a specially sacred
spot?' She hoped she sounded warm and sympathetic.

One of the women nodded eagerly. Kate noticed she had
very hairy legs – she would get on well with the weavers. 'It's
the Brown Stone, at the top. We believe it has been used in
rituals for thousands of years. It is a very significant stone.
Ignored for years by you locals, of course.'

'So, er, what did you have to do there?'

'Oh, I don't think you would be able to understand it. It's
a very complex ritual,' she said importantly, eyeing Kate's
notepad.

Kate generally didn't have any trouble understanding
anything, but she gritted her teeth. 'Try me – but make it
simple.'

'We were ushering in the spring by using a series of
ancient and significant rites.'

'They took all their clothes off and ran round the stone,
only they started a downpour and all their stuff got soaked,
including their mobile phones so they couldn't ring for
help,' put in the policeman, who obviously couldn't wait
until he was off duty and at the pub to regale everyone with
this tale.

'The rain will fertilise the barren land!'

'It's been doing that all bleeding winter! Couldn't you
have ordered some sunshine instead?' said the constable in
disgust.

The woman sighed in an irritating manner, which was a
bit rich, Kate thought, considering they had just availed
themselves of the considerable help of the fell rescue
service, which they didn't have to pay for.

'So, you didn't complete the ritual successfully then?'

The woman nodded, grudgingly. 'Only because we were
interrupted at a crucial point. The goddess is angered.
There will be many storms to come.' She looked accusingly
at Kate, as if she thought it was her fault.

Kate waited to return to the car before laughing. 'God, I
love this job!' Then she sobered up. This would make an
amusing little piece but it was hardly a ground-breaking
feature. In this business you were only as good as your last
story.

Kate had wanted to be a journalist ever since she was ten,
when she came top of her class for writing an entirely fictitious
essay on what she had done during her school holidays.
When her teacher had found out and threatened to take the
prize away, Kate pointed out that no one had actually said it
should be truthful, so she hadn't broken the rules.

Kate loved writing. She saw words as almost magical and
certainly precious things. Finding the right word was like
getting the steps of a dance correct. No one was surprised
when she was made editor of the school newspaper, though
she tended to hog all the best stories for herself. As soon as
she could she had left school, with an impressive clutch of
qualifications, and walked straight into the nearest newspaper
office, where she spent a few months making tea and
writing reports of Women's Institute meetings. She covered
her first major news story because she took the phone call
and failed to inform the chief reporter, who would have
given it to someone with more experience. Of course he'd
bollocked her for it afterwards, but it was already on the
front page. Now the years working her way up had softened
her a bit, but she was still following stories in the same
single-minded way.

They took their time going back into town, because
although still early in the year, the narrow roads were
already clogged with tourists. While Joe waited at the traffic
lights, Kate fidgeted in her seat. Her evening at the
restaurant with Jonathan was still replaying in her head and
now, topped by this dissatisfying interview, she could feel
herself getting edgy again. She glanced idly outside at a café
sign that proudly proclaimed it served ice cream homemade
made on the premises.

'Funny, I would swear that's a van delivering ice cream
round the back!'

Joe tapped the wheel impatiently. 'Eh? What the hell are
you on about?'

'That café. Pretty cheeky, don't you think?' When he
looked blank she pointed at the ice-cream van just passing
underneath the sign. 'It's false advertising really. I've got a
food thing at the moment. What we get are too many fancy
and pretentious promises. Who knows what restaurants get
up to in the back, out of the sight of us customers?' she said
sharply, her red hair almost vibrating with an angry life of
its own.

'Well, you're in England – the north of England, to be
precise – what do you expect?' said Joe tolerantly.

Kate opened her mouth to reply, then she bit her lip.
'Sorry, you're right. I seem to have turned into a complete
bitch today.'

He laughed. 'Don't be silly. You're just . . . well, you've
got a bit of a sharp edge at the moment.'

She winced. 'I know, I know, it's just that I've been a total
idiot. I should never have started an affair with a married
man, even if he did swear he was separated at the time,' she
said wryly. 'And the whole office knows about it. Every time
I walk into a room I feel like everyone has just stopped
talking about me!'

'Well, they probably have. But they'll get over it.'

'Actually, I just need to get over myself. What I really
need is a cracking story, the sort that will take me out of the
office for a couple of weeks until it's all died down.'

Joe nodded. This was only the ninth or tenth time she'd
said this today. 'You and me both,' he yawned. 'Since
having the twins I don't really have any ideas at all any
more, well, apart from how to try and snatch more sleep. I
just point my camera, press, go home and try to remember
what disgusting shade a healthy nappy should look like.
Mary's quite keen on that sort of thing,' he added
apologetically.

'The woman was a saint to marry you in the first place, let
alone consent to have your sprogs,' Kate retorted, but
absently. She was thinking.