After a moment, he nods toward the table in front of me. “Your tea is getting cold.”
I take it and gulp it down until the it’s all finished. When I put the empty mug down, he clears his throat. “What do you like about cooking?” he asks in a contemplative voice, as if he’s talking about the weather, wondering if it’ll snow.
But the question makes me think. Isn’t this what teachers do? Ask questions that make you think?
“I like the way something develops and changes. Like the gingerbread.” I glance at the baking tray of small men, stars and trees waiting to go into the oven. “When you start with ingredients, no one cares much. I mean no one salivates looking at a bag of flour or packet of cold butter or even a ginger root. Only you know what they can do. But when you’ve combined them just right, applied the right heat, they change and suddenly,” – I spread my arms wide – “everyone can see how wonderful ginger, flour and butter can be.” I try to find another example. “It’s like when you look at a script, just words, black letters typed on paper. Then you take it, absorb it and what you speak isn’t words. It’s raw emotions, a human experience, pain, joy, fear. Like the gingerbread, everyone can enjoy the result.”
He is silent for so long, I start chopping vegetables again. All the time he watches me as if he’s analysing me. At last, he says. “My dear Leonie, I told you before I have little, if any, family attachments. Even if I did, it’s far too late for me to give you fatherly advice.”
He’s wrong. He does have family feelings; he just doesn’t know how to deal with them. I’ve seen the way he chats to Bill, the way he defended me when Watson called me interfering. And the way he called his father in tears when he was nineteen and scared.
He’s just playing a role, Mr Spock, Professor Higgins, Marcus Aurelius. Pretending to be a man who prefers black ink on white paper to raw emotions.
He continues. “But if you’ll let me offer a suggestion, consider it advice from an older friend who has a little more experience of making a private passion into a successful career.”
He fixes his blue eyes on me, so much like his father’s. So much like mine.
“It seems to me you're not trying hard enough.”
The words are critical but his tone is gentle. “it’s not enough to open the door and stand at the threshold waiting for success to come to you. You have to go after it, run until you're sweaty and out of breath. Why must you wait for thirty thousand pounds to land into your lap? Can’t you start small? A few tables, tea and sandwiches. Select the essential expenses, the legal requirements and the rest can grow over time. Look at Haneen.”
“Haneen has a very successful business and even an assistant—”
“Now, perhaps.” He interrupts me gently. “But she started with borrowed pots and pans and wilted vegetables the local grocer was giving away.”
I hadn’t known that.
“Look at Evan and his huge house. Had he approached a bank with a proposal for a hotel or a shopping mall, they’d have offered him ten business loans not one. But he wanted something else, something to feel passionate about.”
The professor talking about passion? What does he know about it? I could tell him all about my passion. How I feel about starting a café in that unique room with the light. My dream ofthe day when the terrace has tables overlooking a restored north garden, green and beautiful. Men would book a table when they proposed to their girlfriends. Lovers would take selfies to use as their profile pictures.
He of course has no idea what I’m thinking, he imagines I’m listening to his advice.
“You shouldn’t need me to tell you this, you’re an actress. What do people in your business do? Don’t they chase every opportunity, leave no stone unturned in the quest for success?”
He gets up and returns his chair back into place. Then he lays a hand on my shoulder and unexpectedly, kisses my forehead. “Forgive me, I’m used to lecturing. I’m sure you will know what to do.”
For several minutes after he’s gone, my mind is blank. Then slowly understanding, realisation arrives and with it, shame. Because it’s true, actors fight very hard for every chance, every half chance. Glenn Close almost had to beg to be considered for Fatal Attraction, the part that made her career. Liam Neeson went to L.A, with barely enough money to cover his rent because he knew he had to break into Hollywood. Madonna was told she’d never get Evita, but she wrote a personal letter to the director and convinced him.
And what have I been doing to push my acting career? I’ve sat and waited for my phone to ring.
My father is right. I’m not doing enough.
“Meredith” I ask.
She glances back from her potatoes.
“I’m just going upstairs for ten minutes.”
“Go, I’ll finish these. And I’m going to hide the mince pies otherwise the boys will eat them all.”
Meredith takes her role as deputy very seriously. She works for Haneen but I know she started as a volunteer. She was willing to work for free because she wanted to learn. It’s as if everywhere I look, the universe is sending me signals.
Upstairs, I sit on my bed, phone in hand and take a few minutes to think. What is my passion, how can I make it a success?
What is the minimum I need to start a café. Google has a wonderful AI search function and it gives me lots of answers. Some if it good, some bad.
The good news. There are endless cooking courses on YouTube. Masterclasses I can subscribe to for under £100. I can even get my food safety and all certificates online. No need for expensive colleges.
