first morning in our new home, I wake early. Clem is beside me, sweaty and warm, and completely dead to the world. She’s flat on her back with her arms outstretched (“the crucifix,” Richard called it) while drool weeps slowly from her open mouth. Last night, once we’d got through the first twisty, turny hour, she’d been a delight to sleep with—a sweet-smelling deadweight to cocoon around. It was so welcome after four months of sleeping alone. So unbelievably welcome.
I decide to make poached fruit and muesli for breakfast, if only to mask the smell of salami. I gulp down some coffee, then peel my pears and apples, chop my rhubarb, get out my cinnamon and vanilla bean. It’s my first day of work. Surprisingly, I find that slightly thrilling. During my study at the cookery school, I’d looked forward to this. Not working at a residential care facility, obviously, but cooking for a living. I’d visualized it—the fresh produce I’d procure from markets; the bustling nights in a hot, hectic kitchen; the new twists I’d invent on traditional recipes.
Mother didn’t like it when I said things like “new twists.” “Why do you have to get all fancy all the time, Evie?” she’d say. “A bit of tradition never did anyone any harm!”
I grew up on meat and three vegetables, but I’m not sure which three, because Mother always cooked them until they were so gray and mushy, they were unrecognizable. Everything was drowned in ketchup and swilled down with soda or, in Dad’s case, a pint of Guinness. Condiments were used liberally, so were butter and cream. We lived by Dad’s foolproof equation: Salt plus pepper equals flavor.
I still remember the day I tasted my first spice, on a date when I was seventeen. I don’t remember the guy’s name, but I do remember the warmth that shot into my belly when we wandered into that Brick Lane curry house in London. The scent of turmeric and cumin—so thick, I could taste it. The colors—yellows, reds, and greens—of the food on the table. The burst of fire when I chomped down on a surprise chili, the relief of the coconut rice against the roof of my mouth afterwards. That was the moment I knew cooking was in my future.
Six months later, I packed up and moved to New York to attend the Institute of Culinary Education. It was a lifetime ago now and so much had changed. Perhaps the one thing that hadn’t changed was my love of cooking.
Once my fruit is poaching on the stove, I set out some bowls. I find the newspaper outside the door. The old tenants must have forgotten to cancel their subscription. I smile, thinking Clem will like it—a little like being at a hotel—until I see Richard’s face on the front page. Actually, the paper is folded in half, so all I see is his chin—that sweet cleft Clem has inherited. The one I used to squash between my thumb and forefinger teasingly … I’d know it anywhere. And although after four months, I should be used to seeing Richard’s face in the news, I feel the familiar flap of panic. What now?
I scoop up the paper and scan it quickly. I’ve probably got only another minute or so before Mother calls and tells me what it says anyway. And with the way Mother exaggerates, I’m better to read it direct.
RICHARD BENNETT’S ACCOUNTANT TO PLEAD GUILTY IN SCHEME
This was new. Ever since this whole thing blew up, Richard’s longtime tax accountant, David Cohen, had denied knowledge of Richard’s scheme. Most people were skeptical, but I’d given him the benefit of the doubt—after all, I’d shared a bed with Richard and had no idea what he was up to. Or did I? I’d been asking myself this lately. Is it possible that, on some level, I did know? Not the details, of course, but that something was up? Did I ask enough questions? Or had I been afraid that, if I did ask, I might uncover something I didn’t want to know?
The funny thing is; I still haven’t cried. I’ve started to—plenty of times—even set the stage for a proper weeping session, with wine and a warm bath and memories of good times. But the tears just don’t come. And before I know it, I am thinking of the bad times, reminding myself of irritating habits, turbulent fights. The way he used to say yes to everything in the moment, and then come