Recipes for Melissa Page 10

  Also there were no kings.

  ‘Why do they call it the Tomb of the Kings… if there are no kings?’ Sam, hobbling across the dusty pathways in searing heat, sounded at the end of his rope. On any other day and in any other circumstance, it was a visit he would have loved – devouring every word in the guidebook.

  But today, after less than an hour, they threw in the towel. A quick lunch at a rather seedy cafe nearby and now heading home.

  ‘It’s doing my head in, Mel. I mean – you seem so distant suddenly. Sleeping on the sofa bed. Always looking for an excuse to sneak off. Is this really what it’s going to be like now? You saying that we are OK but behaving as if you don’t want to be in the same room as me. All because I asked you to marry me.’

  ‘That isn’t how it is, Sam. Look. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say anything, Melissa. Anything at all. Just explain it to me. What you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. Why you are not only so very unsure about marrying me but have suddenly withdrawn completely—’

  ‘Look. It’s like I said in the restaurant. I just don’t see what a piece of paper has to do with anything. I thought we had agreed to just leave it. See how things go. You’ve just had an accident, Sam. I don’t think this is the time—’

  ‘But it’s not just a piece of paper, is it? It’s about saying that you really want to be with someone.’

  ‘I do want to be with you, Sam. You know that. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘But not to marry me? Or even, it seems, to bloody talk to me.’

  Melissa could feel her heart rate increasing. She changed down a gear but the engine revved noisily and so she moved back again into fifth. Sam looked away – out of the passenger window.

  They drove on then in silence for a time and Melissa was struggling against a sick churning in her stomach, Sam now refusing to even look at her. She turned up the air conditioning.

  For a moment she played the cliff-edge game. The black game she played as a kid. Imagine that you actually jump. Too late. Done it. One split second decision and no going back. She would never actually do it. Jump. Hurt herself. But it scared her that you could even have black thoughts and fears. That life, even hypothetically, could turn on split second decisions. Tell him. Say it. Do things and say things that could not be undone. It was the same panic when that woman way back in primary school pressed and pressed and bloody pressed…

  ‘Look. You know I find it difficult to talk about stuff, Sam.’

  ‘Understatement of the year.’ It was rare for him to be this harsh. She winced, breathing then through her nose, which made an unpleasant noise. She felt in her pocket for a tissue. Normally when she was struggling with anything like this, he would help. Be kind. But he was still looking pointedly away and she could see from the profile that his eyes were heavy. Like in the restaurant when he disappeared for an age to the bathroom and came back with his eyes looking just like this.

  ‘Look. I know I’m hard work sometimes. But it isn’t what you think, Sam.’

  ‘So what is it, Melissa?’

  She used the tissue, awkwardly blowing her nose one-handed. Still he would not look.

  ‘You know what I used to think, Melissa? I used to think you are actually afraid to be in love. Afraid to let yourself be happy. I used to think all I needed to do was be patient. That what happened when you were a kid was what it was about. And that I just needed to hang in there. But now I’m thinking – that maybe we’re just stuck treading water here.’

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘So do you want to split up, Melissa? For me to move out when we get back?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She was shocked that he could even think this…

  ‘Why say of course not as if it’s obvious. When you don’t appear to want to be in the same room any more.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘OK. So how about I tell you what’s true. What’s true is that I watched you from the balcony this morning, taking your early swim before we left. We hadn’t even said good morning, Melissa. And all I was thinking is how the hell do I make this woman happy. Because you sure don’t look happy to me. You swam – what fifteen lengths, at some ridiculous hour – as if you were in some kind of rage. Then you sat by the edge of the pool with the sun right in your eyes as if you were on another planet. Not here at all. And that’s how it feels right now. As if you’re not even with me, Melissa.’

  ‘My mother left me a book, Sam. A journal.’ Edge of the cliff. Jump. Say it, Melissa. Tears pricking the back of her eyes. ‘I got it when I went to that lawyer’s office.’ Knuckles white as she squeezed the steering wheel.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘When I went to see that solicitor and I said it was a mistake. A will hunter? That was a lie. It wasn’t a mistake. The lawyer had a book for me. Left for me by my mother. I should have told you.’

  And now Sam was frozen – his mouth gaping.

  ‘It’s a journal of recipes and letters and photographs which she put together when she was…’ A long, deep breath. ‘That she put together for me when she was very ill. For when I was grown-up.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Finally looking at her.

  ‘I can see now that I should have told you. But the shock threw me. I’m sorry, Sam.’

  ‘And so this happened when? Before the restaurant?’

  ‘No. It happened the morning after. I’m not saying it’s why I’m unsure about getting married. I still can’t explain that. And I’m not trying to say it’s any kind of excuse. I’m just saying it’s why I’m all over the place. And all this, seeking time by myself. It’s not because I don’t want to be with you. I just wanted to read a bit more in private. Get my head round it before telling you and working out how I’m going to tell my father.’

  ‘You seriously saying you haven’t read it all yet?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I’m actually finding it very…’ What word would do? She tried to find one, narrowing her eyes, but couldn’t.

  ‘And your father doesn’t know about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. We need to pull in, Melissa.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You need to stop driving,’ at last he had turned to look at her.

  ‘This is really huge, Melissa. There. That cafe. Stop there…’

  Wiping at her face now. Silent tears. Relief and fear and guilt churned into one big wave as she checked the mirror.

  This is huge…

  Indicating to pull into the layby alongside the cafe now, so very relieved that he was looking at her again. And had said it.

  The footbrake now – which she hit too hard. Then the handbrake. Picturing a Kenwood Chef mixer of white and pale blue – its surface gleaming from a damp cloth. Looking down at a single drip onto the pale linen of her trousers and thinking – that; yes.

  This was really huge.

  * * *

  Boeuf Bourguignon

  3lb quality braising steak (sounds too much – but not for hungry folk)

  One large onion or handful of shallots

  Pack of cubed pancetta

  Two fat garlic cloves

  Pack of good mushrooms – sliced

  Good few sprigs of thyme – snipped with scissors

  Bottle of good red wine (don’t skimp!)

  Seasoning + 3 tablespoons of flour + tiny bit sugar

  Small amount of good beef stock, if needed

  * * *

  Chop the braising steak into large chunks (they shrink dramatically in the cooking) and brown in hot olive oil in a good quality casserole dish – transferring to a plate in batches. Then fry the chopped onion (or shallots) in more oil along with the pancetta and finally add the chopped garlic. Then return the beef to the dish. Sprinkle over the flour and mix everything with a wooden spoon. Don’t panic at the goo at this stage. Slowly add the red wine, mixing carefully as the sauce thickens over low heat. Put in the whole bottle and add a touch more rich beef stock to cover t
he meat if needed. Season well, add the chopped thyme, mushrooms and half a teaspoon of sugar to balance the wine. Bring up to simmer, then transfer to oven for THREE HOURS at around 160°C. Again – this is longer than most recipes say, but it works for me. Your casserole MUST have a tight lid. If not – put some waxed paper over the top of the casserole contents to improve the seal. You don’t want all the gorgeous sauce to evaporate away.

  First things first, Melissa. Ignore all the recipes that say 2lbs of meat will feed six people. Who are they feeding? Sparrows? This is your father’s favourite recipe in all the world and I make it for him every birthday – and trust me; when a guy likes a dish, he wants a proper, gorgeous, steaming plateful, not some dainty, little restaurant portion. So what if there are leftovers? Trust me on this. At least 3lbs of meat. In fact – as much as you can get in a good casserole dish. (I always recommend Le Creuset. Definitely worth the investment. Maybe Dad will have passed some of mine on?) But; no. I am not going to think of that as I write. Not today.

  Because – do you know what, Melissa?

  Even writing this recipe down is making me beam from ear to ear. I am thinking BIRTHDAYS. Your father’s. Mine. Yours especially. Oh, but I do so love birthdays, my darling.

  Your father laughs at me. Reckons I go over the top. But – I just can’t help myself. Means I get three very, very special days across the year – and that’s before we even think about Easter and Christmas.

  I first discovered your father’s passion for this dish on a trip to France. My parents used to take me for the whole summer pretty much every year so I have always loved the food. Your dad prefers holidays to be booked well ahead, bless him (and preferably Cornwall), but on this occasion I persuaded him to be brave. Just a ferry ticket and the Michelin guide.

  We had such a ball, Melissa. Just moving from place to place, according to mood and how much we liked the area. And during that holiday we had some of the best food I can remember. There was this fish soup at the most unpromising looking cafe, right by the roadside. Unbelievable!

  But I digress.

  For the highlight of the trip was finding this wonderful, completely unpretentious hotel with a tiny restaurant which seemed to have a pot of boeuf bourguignon cooking on the stove from first light. Seriously. The smell began to seep from the kitchen even as we ate our breakfast.

  Oh, I wish I had a picture of your father’s face – that first mouthful! I have never forgotten it.

  He tells me that mine is as good now as that hotel restaurant’s and though that is definitely a lie, I will say that I think my version now comes pretty close. I’ve tweaked it myself from trial and error, using classic versions over the years. And this is the fail-safe one your dad loves. (You may need to thicken the sauce a bit at the end, by the way. Varies so much. Either bubble on stove top or add a bit of flour and butter paste or cornflour + water – whisking in furiously.)

  Birthdays!

  It is my top tip in all the world that it is impossible to make too much fuss. Yeah, yeah. Your dad says I am like a child about them – but for me that sums up everything that love and relationships of all kinds are about, Melissa.

  I promised bits of advice through this journal, my darling. And when it comes to the people that you really love, it’s actually quite simple. You get back what you put in.

  And if you put something special into a birthday for a person that you love – well; there is just no better feeling in the world than their face when the surprise comes good. And it is just those sort of special memories – the anchors, if you like – which see you through the more difficult times. The ups and downs that all relationships will inevitably have.

  Do you remember your sixth birthday, my honey? One of my favourites – though what a blessed kerfuffle I had that year over the tide tables! You were a complete water baby by this time – spending all day every day during our trips to Cornwall in your wetsuit. Rain. Shine.

  I’m amazed you didn’t shrink.

  Your birthday being in the autumn, we had already had our week on the Lizard so Dad and I organised an extra weekend to a hotel overlooking the most amazing sandy beach.

  Bear with me. This was key.

  You had seen some film in which a person wrote a message in the sand – I think it may have been a marriage proposal. Something like that; can’t remember exactly. Anyway. You had become a bit obsessed with it.

  The hotel gave us a family suite, with you sleeping on a sofa bed in the dressing area adjacent to our bedroom. My biggest fear was that you would wake much too early in the excitement – and sure enough you did. So I played mean and said it was much too early to get up, even for a birthday girl, and that I needed to go to the gym before breakfast and presents.

  I even put on my gym clothes! Is this ringing bells?

  Then I set off to sort the surprise while Dad continued to play bad cop – insisting you try to sleep until a respectable hour.

  I came back – around 8 a.m., terrified that the bloody tide was coming in so fast!

  Then we drew back the curtains and took you onto the balcony.

  It looked even better from the third floor than I dared hope. Happy Birthday, Melissa written in the fresh sand… beyond our balcony.

  Other people were stirring by this time – and I remember looking across at them all smiling from their own balconies as you started jumping up and down with the excitement.

  And then everyone started waving across at you and we all ended up singing happy birthday to you together from all the balconies.

  Do you remember this? Please tell me you remember.

  * * *

  Eleanor sat back in the chair, enjoying the smile on her face. She reached into the top drawer of her dresser to find her boasting book. A small flip-style photo album of favourite shots.

  There was one of the message in the sand, just as the tide was coming in to wash it away. Another of the wall and moat they built to try to divert the water for a bit. And then pictures of Melissa at the party organised for that sixth birthday once they returned home.

  Eleanor shook her head, smiling, at the shot of Max with the whistle in his mouth.

  We will be sued, Eleanor!

  She remembered the panic on his face as she roared with laughter at him – waving his arms in frustration and blowing on his whistle – ‘Six at a time! This is not funny,’ as all of Melissa’s friends piled onto the bouncy castle at once.

  They had hired a hall so that Melissa could invite the whole class. When they booked the inflatable – the only size which would fit the hall in question – they had imagined, naively that the supplier would stay and supervise.

  But no. Not in the contract, mate.

  Instead he handed over a clipboard with a large and alarming sheet of ‘rules’. No more than six on the castle at once. Be careful they don’t bite their tongues. Bang their heads. Get concussion.

  How she remembered the alarm on Max’s face as the man then handed over a large whistle and put it around Max’s neck. ‘You will be needing this.’

  Poor Daddy.

  ‘No, children, I mean it. Six at a time. Absolutely a maximum of six,’ blowing his whistle and waving his arms in horror as the boys and girls, hyper from all the sugar intake, took not a blind bit of notice.

  Of course no one got hurt. They all ate too much cake. They all drank too much Coke. One was sick in the toilets. But no one bit their tongue. Or got concussion. Or sued.

  And one very tired little birthday girl was put to bed that night, looking so very happy.

  ‘It was you who did the message on the beach back in Cornwall, wasn’t it Mummy?’

  ‘No. I have absolutely no idea how that happened. Some kind of magic,’ Eleanor had kissed her daughter on the forehead, running her hand through her hair.

  ‘I love you, Mummy.’

  18

  MELISSA – 2011

  Melissa allowed Sam to read the first few pages of the journal only, which, she guessed, would be enough.<
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  ‘Jesus Christ, Melissa,’ fidgeting and then putting his hand on hers as they sat at the too-orange, too-lacquered pine table – his face white. ‘You take as long as you need with this. You hear me?’

  She nodded her head very rapidly. ‘Thank you, Sam.’

  ‘God. I feel like a complete arse now. Picking a fight with you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. My fault.’

  He had stood up and was pacing towards the balcony, looking out towards the pool with his hands on his hips.

  ‘There are some really tough bits, Sam. Like the opening. And to start with, I just couldn’t take it. That’s why I didn’t say anything. But there are some really lovely memories in there too. And some of the writing is triggering things I had completely forgotten about. I’m getting used to that now.’

  He turned to face her but the sun behind him was so bright that she could not quite see his expression. And for this she was glad.

  ‘In fact, I had this dream, Sam. The first night I was on the sofa bed. It was a recurring dream I used to have about my mother when I was a kid.’

  ‘You’ve never told me this…’

  ‘I know. I never told anyone. I didn’t used to like it. I know that sounds odd but it really upset me. Then it came back when I was reading the book and I think now that I remember what it was. In the dream I was holding her hand on the beach. My mother. I think it was some birthday surprise or something.’

  ‘Oh, Melissa.’

  She smiled at his silhouette. Hands on hips against the bright blue sky – the picture broken only by the black railings of the balcony behind. Her mobile then vibrated on the table.

  ‘Shit. Bet that’s my dad. I have no idea how I’m going to tell him, Sam. It’s going to be such a shock.’

  Melissa picked up the phone to check the text, glancing at the journal. Glad OK. Wish you answered all my texts! Have fun xxx Ps Would you say I’m sexist?