Spring
OceanofPDF.com
TWENTY
Eight months later Good Friday. Chelsea, London, 8pm
George had forgotten about Friday night traffic. The taxi bringing him from the airport was crawling down the King’s Road slower than an old lady on a Zimmer frame.
“All right, that’s enough,” he told the driver. “I can walk from here.”
The instant he was able to walk at his own pace, he felt better. It was a cool night for spring, and a light drizzle fell on his hair. God, he missed the sounds of London, the noise black cabs made as they drove past him, the rough growl of red busses taking commuters home and the patter of people’s feet on wet pavement inthe dark.
Geneva wasso boring.
He turned down Old Church Street and cut through Carlyle Square. Lights and movement caught his eye. Small St Luke’s Church opposite was lit and full. Of course, it was Easter weekend, and the church was getting ready for the Good Friday evening service. Images of Evensong at the much larger St Mary’s Church on La Canette brushed the edges of his mind but were not allowed in.
His flat, empty for so long, felt chilly, and he took a few minutes to turn on lights and switch on the central heating. Then he poured himself a brandy and, glass in one hand, iPad and phone in the other, he went through to the sitting room. The sofa faced the window and the night; he pushed it with his foot until it faced the television.
Putting his iPad under one arm to free his hand, he pressed the power button on the TV and grabbed the remote control before settling down onthe sofa.
There had to be something watchable at 8pm. When was the last time he’d finished work this early? There were hours and hours stretching empty before he could go to bed. Propping his iPad on his knees, he opened the inbox. Notifications and emails were unlikely to need all his concentration, so it was a perfect complement to TVwatching.
Over the last eight or nine months, he’d made a fine art out of keeping his attention fully occupied. He always did several tasks simultaneously, not leaving his mind any spaceto wonder.
BBC 1 came on first, the finals ofMasterChef: The Professionals. George scanned down the list of emails, making notes. Napoleon brandy warmed his throat, andMasterChefwas presenting background on the finalists…Jomana Mohammed grew up in Marseille to a French Algerian family… The voice-over continued while George answered two emails following up on his meeting with the Scottish energyminister.
Politicians weren’t business-minded as a rule, but this one had a fantastic grasp of the deal being struck. George liked politicians who cared about the welfare of their constituents. But a caring politician who also understood the cutthroat world of big finance, that was agreatpolitician.
The TV voiceover droned in the background …after graduation, Jomana spent four years as a private chef on the island of La Canette. Until a few months ago, when she turned down a highly coveted job at the Adelphi Hotel to go into partnership with a friend and open the BlueSage Café…
George’s iPad slid from his hand to the sofa next to him as he stared at the TV. Heart in his throat, he watched footage of Joanie and Millie carrying a bright-orange bench and putting it inside a circle of tin cans planted with flowers. The picture cut to theMasterChefstudio, where presenter Greg Wallace was asking Joanie abouther menu.
George snatched the remote control and pressed rewind. He watched the short clip again. Yes, it was the boardwalk outside the cottage. ItwasMillie and Joanie carrying a wooden bench. As the camera panned over Millie, George’s mind warned him to look away, but his fingers pressed pause, anyway. She was in faded jeans and a sweatshirt splattered with paint, not fancy clothes, not the wardrobe of a lady DuMontfort.
Leaving the image frozen on his TV screen, George reached for his tablet and Googled Blue Sage Café. His mind in overdrive, too impatient while the information loaded, he watched the clip again. Millie looked different; her hair had grown longer and curlier. Her face—her expression—how could someone look exactly the same and completely different, like she had transformed from the inside?
What was he doing? He shouldn’t look, much less think, about her.Whatever she’s up to no longer concerns you. Don’t poke a sleeping pain. Change the channel, something loud, an action movie.
Meanwhile his fingers had scrolled through the Google search results and opened a newspaper review. It seemed his eyes and hands no longer took orders fromhis brain.
BlueSage Café.
Sunday Telegraph, travel section.
This once forgotten corner on the island has been lovingly and imaginatively restored by two young women, Millie Summers and Jomana Mohammed. With a rag-tag collection of chairs and tables salvaged from schools, churches and garage sales, and painted a dazzling array of sunny colours, the place is less like a formal café than a wild garden.
The menu is no less surprising. Traditional English afternoon tea has been transformed into a magical offering. Sandwiches come with fresh basil instead of cucumber. Scones are baked with buttermilk and lavender. In place of the traditional strawberry jam, you can select from wild berry, delicious rose-petal marmalade, and the café’s signature fireweed jelly which has customers coming from across the Channel and even from Normandy. Luckily the café comes with a newly operational jetty for boats to dock. Don’t worry if you cannot find a free seat inside. There are pink and orange benches and picnic tables along the pier for customers to eatalfresco.
George could hardly read fast enough. His mind wanted answers, answers, answers. He moved to another article, a short interview. There was a picture of Millie and Joanie with large cups of tea that had floating cinnamon sticks. He skimmed the interview, looking for answers.
“…For a while, we lived on the premises with the smell of paint and turpentine. We opened in January with only a few tables and a half-equipped kitchen. All we could offer was spiced tea, mulled wine and chilli-pepper hot chocolate. Thank God the weather turned sunny by late February and business improved. Then the boats started coming, and we opened up the terrace. Joanie is going to open a new branch in trendy Brighton: Blue Sage Breakfast Bar. We’re setting up deliveries of local herbs and producefor her.”
George looked up Blue Sage Breakfast Bar, then checked his watch before knocking back his brandy.
Bed.
He had an early drive tomorrow. Brighton was an hour and a half away, and he intended to get there as soon as the place opened.
