My mother has not said what she replied to this generous offer but there has been no mention of this neighbour since.
‘You’re a great cook, Scarlett,’ I say. ‘Ignore all the mad stuff I have. Chefs just need more ingredients than normal people because we have to start coming up with new ideas. Thinking up ten novel ways to make interesting meals requires a bigger than average store cupboard.’
I think of all my nights spent reading and rereading my cookery books, frantically scanning new ones and then I think of how I haven’t thought of one single idea for myyet-to-be-written book. It’s as if all the fresh ideas had been knocked out of my brain in that garage four months ago.
I’m still doing cookery festivals with mySimplicty with Freyademos, which is exhausting and means lots of time in the car, but my cookbook inspiration has dried up. In October, I’m due to go intopre-production for the next TV series which is to be broadcast next spring. In August, I planned to pitch my new cookery book and let’s face it, we need the money.
‘How’s it going?’ asks Scarlett. ‘The new recipes?’
I cannot plaster on a fake smile because my family would be on to me like a shot. Subterfuge is required.
‘Fine,’ I say, pretending to search a box for something. ‘Look! Moroccan spices and rose pepper. Smell it: it’s divine.’
My mother looks at me thoughtfully.
‘Work’s going terribly and I have no new recipes!’ I want to scream but I can’t.
They all have such faith in me, all think I will be able to do this, that new ideas are coming, but they’re not.
‘How are you sleeping?’ Mum asks, and I think that Dan needs to be killed when I see him.
Has he told Mum about the sleeping tablets? He promised he’d tell nobody. No, Dan is steadfast.
‘Fine,’ I say, brightly. ‘I thought I might go to one of those victim support groups to talk about January. Just to put it to bed, you know.’
Mum looks at me with a certain scepticism.
‘It’s on a Thursday night,’ I add.
Thursday night?
It appears that when I lie, I lie big.
‘Darling, that’s brilliant,’ says Scarlett, hurrying to hug me. ‘My infertility groups help me so much.’
‘I want to put it behind me,’ I add.
There’s nothing wrong with counselling groups – just not for me.
I can’t sit around in a group and let my deepest fears out,no way José. I don’t want to talk about this, I just want to be better quickly. There ought to be an app for this: Group Therapyon your own. I’d download it.
I feel the flush of guilt hit my pale face and I search for diversion.
‘Are you hungry, Granny? Because somewhere in the bottom of this box is a beautiful container of Turkish baklava they gave me in the office to celebrate the move. Let’s get it out.’
The men arrive when they hear the clink of the teapot and the rattle of plates.
Jack grabs me in a bear hug.
‘Hello, Duchess of Kellinch.’
‘Jealousy, darling,’ says Dan, winking at me. He pulls me out of Jack’s embrace. ‘Hands off my wife, you knave,’ he says. ‘The duchess only likes me pawing her.’
The men roared with laughter again.
‘No tea bread or baklava for you lot,’ says Maura. ‘In fact, I am taking the cheese out of the sandwiches to punish you all.’
Somehow the cheese stays in. And eventually, we heat up the meatballs because everyone is hungry. I heat somepre-packed andpart-baked white rolls in the oven, knowing my career would be irreparably damaged if such a thing were known. Chefs are not allowed to cheat the way normal people do. We must make all our food from scratch or else we are charlatans. Sad but true. In fact, I cook frozen pizzas and have eaten plenty of baked beans in my time. Real life does not always allow for hours in the kitchen.
