“I’m sorry. It was all very last-minute this morning and anyway, I had no idea what flowers you liked.”
Zoe’s expression softened a little. “It’s okay. I was only joking.”
“Oh…” Marcy nodded and chuckled uncomfortably, for the first time sensing there was a milder side to Zoe than her stern façade led her to believe. She hadn’t seen her smile before, at least not at her. She looked sweet, even a little shy, which was hard to believe since all Marcy had got from her so far were looks that could kill and insults. “In that case—and I might be pushing it now—but is there any chance you’d come out for a drink with me so I can apologise some more?” Marcy was surprised at the words slipping from her lips. Asking Zoe out for a drink was the last thing she’d envisaged when planning her apology, but here she was, so relieved by Zoe’s reaction that she’d got carried away.
“A drink?” Zoe blinked a couple of times as she fiddled with the bouquet. “That’s a bit much, don’t you think? I’ve only just decided I’m not going to give you a hard time anymore.” She arched a brow. “Like, literally, this very moment.”
“Sure. I understand.” Marcy smiled and for the first time, Zoe met her eyes and smiled back at her. “Well, if you change your mind, the offer stands.”
18
“Who are the flowers from?” Ling curiously eyed her daughter from the sofa where she was watching TV with a cup of tea.
“No one special. Just someone from work.” Zoe headed into the kitchen to put them in water, grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down with her mother.
“Oh. A handsome man by any chance?” Ling chuckled when Zoe let out an exasperated sigh. “Sorry, I promised I’d stop bugging you about men. They’re lovely, the flowers.”
“They’re petrol station flowers.” Zoe pretended to focus on the TV, but she had no idea what they were watching. She’d been flustered and jumpy since Marcy had asked her out for a drink and although she’d tried to fight it as best as she could, all those feelings from years and years ago had come flooding back. Marcy was bad news, and frankly Zoe didn’t understand why she still felt something when she looked at her. After all, she wasn’t seventeen anymore and she knew better now. Girlfriends had come and gone over the years, but she’d never felt anything close to the crush she’d had on Marcy back then.Let it go. She’s just trying to buy off her guilt, that’s all.
From the corner of her eye, she could see her mother looking at her. Her mother always knew when something was bothering her, yet there was still one very important thing she had no idea about. Although Zoe was out to her friends, she’d always kept her sexuality a secret from her parents. Her father wasn’t much of a socialiser–he was always at work–and her mother didn’t mingle much with people outside the local Chinese community, so she wasn’t worried about them finding out either. It had never been her intention to keep it from them but as the years had passed, she’d kept putting off the conversation, simply because she had no reason to tell them. If there was no significant other in her life, then why upset her devout Catholic Spanish father and her conservative Chinese mother? Years of living in Spain had loosened her up a little but traditional family life was still everything to her, and with that, she meant a husband, a wife and children. ‘How are you going to pour your love and energy into cooking for your future family if you’re cooking at work all day?’ she’d protested when Zoe told her she wanted to be a chef at sixteen, but Zoe had stuck to her guns. Ironically, her mother was the one who had inspired her to become a chef in the first place. She’d helped her cook both Spanish dishes—because her father liked wholesome Spanish food—and traditional Cantonese dishes from a very young age and that meant that she had great skills and knowledge when it came to technique and also an intensive knowledge of diverse ingredients and flavour combinations making her an expert when it came to fusion cuisine. By the time she was twelve, Zoe was able to identify most herbs and their medicinal qualities, and she could make noodles faster than her mother.
“How was work?” her mother asked, knowing there was no point enquiring further about the flowers.
“It was great,” Zoe said, grateful for the change in topic. She propped her feet up on the coffee table and carefully sipped her beer. “We’re ready. In fact, we’re probably over prepped but that’s not a bad thing. I just hope our first guests will like the food.”
“They will, honey. You’re incredibly talented.” Her mother smiled at her. Despite her initial concerns about Zoe’s career choice, Zoe knew she was proud of her. “Did that squid dish you made for me and your father end up on the menu?”
“Yes, and we’re serving the tripe too,” Zoe said. “That one is a bit risky, but the Calvo Group representatives loved it.” She rolled her shoulders and sighed deeply. “Everything hurts. I think I’ve done too much heavy lifting today.”
“Let me make you a cup of tea to relieve the pain.”
“It’s okay; I can do it,” Zoe protested, but her mother was already getting up. The brew of dried ingredients containing red peony root, kudzu root and osmanthus flower really did help with muscle relief, and she always wondered why more people didn’t turn to herbs when it came to aches and pains. Their pantry was full of sealed pots with all sorts of herbs and potions; astragalus and lotus seed for diarrhoea and fatigue, cinnamon for allergic reactions, ginger for digestion issues and red-yeast rice for lowering cholesterol, a combination mainly used by her father. It had taken him twenty years to embrace the idea of herbal medicine, but now he was a firm believer. Then there was ginseng, which stimulated blood circulation, jujube for anxiety, gotu kola; an anti-inflammatory, aged mandarin peel which contained a highly concentrated dose of vitamin C, mung beans for detoxing and shepherd’s purse for use in healing and bleeding. Zoe always carried a home-made paste of the shepherd’s purse with her, and it had worked wonders over the years in the kitchen, where she cut or burned herself on a regular basis.
“Hey, honey,” her father said as he walked in. He gave her a kiss on her cheek and rubbed her shoulders. “It’s so nice to have you home. Every time I come back from work it’s like a little surprise that you’re here.”
“It’s good to see you too, Dad. How was your day?”
“Oh, you know…” He laughed. “Back and forth, back and forth. But the weather was good, not much wind.” He took off his captain’s hat and scratched his head. “Glad to be home and I’m starving. What’s for dinner?” Working five days a week as a captain on the ferry between Benidorm and Calpe, the sea breeze always made him hungry, and those were always his standard words when he came home.
“I think Mum’s made noodle soup with mushrooms,” she said, then laughed when he inhaled the pungent scent coming from the kitchen and grimaced. “That’s not the food, Dad. She’s brewing a potion for me.”
19
“Marcy, you’re early.” Delia looked her over. “My, my. Don’t you look nice?”
“Thanks, Mum. We’re nearly done at that hotel, and I only had a couple of meetings and walk-throughs, so I didn’t have to wear my work gear today.” Marcy kissed her mother on both cheeks, then glanced into the gallery.
“Abby’s not here tonight. It’s just the two of us,” Delia said as if reading her mind. “She had to pick one of her kids up from the airport.” She opened the bottle of red wine she had ready and poured two glasses. “But I don’t mind a bit of quality time with my daughter. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it’s nice.” Marcy took a seat and leaned back, rolling the wine around in her glass. It was usually the three of them here and Marcy generally didn’t mind that. Lately she’d been seeing Abby more than usual, though, and that didn’t sit quite right. She and Abby were very good at keeping their affair and their friendship separate. Their purely physical relationship meant that there was never any flirting outside their get-togethers, not even a little. It was important to Marcy that they kept it that way, so not seeing each other for a week in a social capacity was probably a good thing. “How have you been? How’s business?”
“Booming as usual.” The comment was more of a joke, as her mother didn’t sell much art from the gallery that she’d opened with Abby in Altea. It was an excuse to paint a little, gossip with the locals and drink wine with Abby and other friends in the early evening. Since her father worked long days, her mother had been bored when they’d first moved to Spain, and the gallery had given her a sense of purpose and belonging, even though she’d never aspired to be an artist. She wasn’t the best in Marcy’s opinion, but she wasn’t bad either. Just good enough to be marketable to the average tourist, who saw the colourful beach scenes as a nice souvenir.
“I can see that,” she said, noting there was no one inside.
“But I did have a win.” Delia pointed to the window display. “I actually sold that large painting today. The buyers asked me to ship it to the UK for them.”
“Cool. Congratulations.” Marcy studied the painting with the ‘sold’ sticker and decided it wasn’t bad, perhaps even one of her better pieces. Thankfully she didn’t have flat walls in her new cave house so she wouldn’t have to feel bad about not having her mother’s art on display. Marcy wasn’t into art, but she did love the gallery and it had been her second home ever since her mother and Abby opened it eighteen years ago.
