‘Delicious,’ Cate agreed, beaming at the smarmy chef.
‘And now the stock, little by little. Let the rice absorb one ladleful of liquid before you add the next.’
Little by little. Phil could concentrate on this one simple thing. Mindfulness, wasn’t that what they called it? Now that Nico was supervising proceedings on the other side of the kitchen, not hovering over Phil’s shoulder, he could relax. If only he could get Mr King’s voice out of his head.
* * *
Cate inhaled the warm, stomach-rumbling aroma of shellfish stock and white wine. It was such a privilege to be taught by a chef who’d entranced thousands of Parisians with his Michelin-star fusion food before feeling the pull of his native Venice. And she was grateful their jam-packed day was keeping her occupied until tomorrow’s potentially life-changing encounter. There was something almost mesmeric about languidly stirring in each ladle of fragrant liquid.
She’d looked at the text from Belinda – her sister! – a hundred times: the one telling her that yes, her mother, Lina, wanted to see her. Tomorrow, she’d slip away to Burano whilst Natalie and Lucia took Phil to asquero. He was so excited to visit a boatyard where he could see the gondolas being worked on, he’d barely questioned why Cate wouldn’t be there.
She glanced across the counter at him, his face so endearingly serious, you’d think they’d been entrusted with cooking a six-course banquet, not rustling up a risotto no one but themselves would eat. Cate wasn’t worried about how hers would turn out. She was a decent home cook; she’d never have the talent of a starry chef, but it was the taking part that mattered. The only failure was the failure to try something new – that was what she’d always instilled in their two boys.
It was an attitude that flummoxed Phil. He’d stood on the sidelines at every infant school sports day, not understanding how she didn’t care that she’d trailed in last in the mothers’ race (though she’d started jogging round the park after that) or how she and Max were still smiling after failing to finish the wheelbarrow race, lying in a tangled heap on the playing field laughing and laughing until their sides ached.
There were worse foibles for a husband to have. Phil was only ever hard on himself, never on the boys. She smiled fondly at him, hoping the simple task of stirring risotto would provide him with the confidence boost to tackle the tiramisù they’d be making after lunch. But Phil didn’t seem to be stirring his. Should she lean across the counter and interfere or let him find his feet?
‘Ah, Cate!’ Nico waltzed up. He plunged a fork into her pan and held a few grains of rice aloft. He blew gently on the morsel before raising it to his lips. ‘Perfetto! Now remove from the heat and we stir in a knob of butter.
‘And how are you doing?’ He clapped a hand on Phil’s shoulder, making him jump. ‘But what is this! You have not been stirring? It is stuck! Stuck to your pan!’ He held up a forkful of Phil’s creation, examining the rice, congealed, crispy and brown, as though it were something unpleasant stuck to the sole of his shoe.
Phil didn’t reply, staring into the pan as though he had no idea how it had appeared in front of him.
‘Try adding some more stock. It’s probably just burnt on the bottom. Most of it will probably be fine,’ Cate cut in, ignoring the expression writ large on Nico’s face.
‘It’s ruined.’ Phil banged his hand against his forehead so violently, she flinched.
‘It’s only a risotto,’ Natalie interrupted, obviously trying to channel Mandy Miller’s relentless good cheer. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t show this on the programme. Could you stop the filming please, Lucia? Why don’t we all take a little break? I’m sure you’ll have more luck with the tiramisù after lunch.’
‘I’m not doing this any more,’ Phil said.
‘But Phil…’ Cate gave Natalie a helpless glance.
‘You don’t understand.’ His voice was bleak. ‘I can’t fail. I can’t.’
He started to wrench at the ties on his apron, struggling with the double bow.
Cate reached out a hand. ‘Here, let me. You’re knotting it tighter.’
‘I can manage!’ Phil snapped.
Ignoring his outburst, Cate gently pushed his hands away. ‘There you go!’
Phil stood silently, balling up the stock-splattered apron in his hands. He seemed to have shrunk several inches. Now she really was getting worried.
‘Phil!’ She needed to get him out of the kitchen, out into the fresh air.
Phil raised his head. Cate’s breath caught. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. Her husband was doing something she’d never seen before – not even on the days Oli and Max were born.
Phil was crying.
* * *
Despite wearing an apron, Cate had managed to splash fish stock on her dress. She pushed aside the pang of irritation. Even though she and Phil were sitting in a rather smart wine bar around the corner fromRistorante Nico, her appearance didn’t matter. Nothing, not even tomorrow’s trip to Burano nor the nagging realisation that she’d failed to make the usual call to the nursing home to check on her dad, was as important as discovering what had made Phil fall apart. But Phil wasn’t making it easy.
‘You need to tell me what’s bothering you. It can’t just be messing up in the kitchen. I couldn’t care less about the risotto and we can pay for the pan if it’s wrecked.’
Phil gulped another mouthful of red wine.
