‘A one-night stand?’ Clare looked confused.
‘Don’t sound so shocked. You’re not that much of an innocent,’ he said.
‘I must have read her completely wrong, then.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’ There was no way to stop the disappointment from ricocheting through the words.
‘Are you sure?’
‘She said as much.’
Clare came to his side, as she shook her head and hugged him. ‘I’m so sorry, Tad. I thought she was really into you…’
He sighed. ‘So did I. Anyway, I’m sorry I haven’t had more time to spend with you this trip – I was so focused on Amy, on her and the whole Billie Forsythe-Rogers circus – I kind of lost sight of what matters. Which I’ve decided is this place. I love it here. And – in case you were wondering – it’s you too, Clare. Making sure you’re happy with James.’
‘I am. I truly am. I just need to find a way to…’
‘To tell him about the baby?’
As Clare pulled away she looked past him, to the doorway she’d entered through, her face dropping as Tad turned to see James. He hadn’t been there a moment before, his forward momentum into the room ceasing as Tad’s words faded, and James’s gaze fell on Clare.
‘Baby?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Clare said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘I’m pregnant, James.’
‘You’re pregnant?’ The words echoed around the space.
‘I was trying to find the right time to tell you, but…’
Matteo bustled into the room behind James, carrying a pile of freshly laundered tea towels and confused to find the kitchen workspace clogged by clients and tension.
‘The teaching room is ready,’ he said to Tad, remaining oblivious to the unfolding drama.
‘Show me,’ Tad said, brushing past Clare with a quick squeeze of her arm before he propelled Matteo out of the space and left Clare and James to it.
* * *
A while later, Tad brought his brightest smile with him into the teaching kitchen, for the final lesson of the week. He hadn’t seen Clare and James leaving, tried to ignore the niggle at the back of his mind, his initial and ongoing cold reaction to James. Clare wasn’t Tad’s responsibility, she was a grown adult, and yet they had propped one another up through so much pain and so many dark times that it felt as though if James bailed it would rip him apart too.
The remainder of the class was assembled, Casa del Cibo aprons tied, hands washed. They knew the drill by now. And today they were starting with the dessert – lemon tart. Bowls of fresh lemons stood ready at each cooking station, alongside zesting tools and ceramic juicers.
As Tad scanned the room, he hoped the choices he’d made for their final lesson – beefcarpaccioto start,cacio e pepefor main, lemon tart for dessert – hopefully these would at least ensure Casa del Cibo got a decent write-up in Billie Forsythe-Rogers’ newspaper article. They had been chosen specifically because she’d said she wanted them.
If he could at least claw back some kind of positive outcome to the week for the cookery school, he would have to be at peace with that. Amy still wasn’t looking at him. Billie looked as though the bottom had fallen out of her can of peaches. Malcolm was lounging at the edge of the room, camera around his neck but lacking his usual energy. He looked disconnected from the rest of them.
There was a weight to the room this morning, a dampened atmosphere. Thriller writer, Ron, kept glancing at Billie – he’d been doing that all week, to be fair, but today his glances seemed more loaded than ever. Had Tad missed something – something everyone else was aware of except for him?
‘You’ll be glad to hear our first job for the morning is going to be making dessert, and the lemons are a big hint. As is the pastry Matteo made earlier, so it had time to chill in the fridge. Pastry, lemons, ricotta and double cream are your clues… Does anyone want to have a guess at what we’re going to make?’ He directed his gaze to Billie, hoping she’d take the bait – after all, lemon tart was where the week was supposed to have started. She stared back at him as though he’d asked her for the chemical formula for diesel. Then she huffed a huge breath and folded her arms.
It was going to be a long morning.
Tad glanced around the room, looking for positivity from anywhere he could find it. Hugh smiled at him, then grinned at Kathleen as she muttered something.
‘Kathleen thinks it might be lemon tart,’ Hugh said.
‘Aye, that’s spot on, Kathleen. Thank you.’ Tad wondered if this was what it was like to stand in front of a class of fourteen-year-olds to deliver an algebra lesson, searching for a sliver of enthusiasm from someone and grabbing on to it as if it were a life raft. ‘The quintessential Italian dessertcrostata al limone. Perfect to cook ahead of time for a dinner party, because it keeps happily in the fridge overnight – or maybe something to conjure up to share with a special someone. One dish, two spoons – that kind of thing.’
As he said it, he couldn’t help but glance at Amy – but it wasn’t her who reacted to his words, however much he wanted her to – instead it was Billie who erupted.
