I knew nobody in the literary world. Mum’s contacts were either in the movie business or in the theater. Then I had a brain wave. Cod. Unpleasant Cod from uni—aka Tobias Fish—had just been published. He had to have an agent. Why didn’t I give him a call and ask if his agent could possibly read Rosie’s manuscript and give her some feedback? It was worth a try. The worst he could do was say no.
As soon as I got to work, I Googled Tobias and found his Web site. There was a large photograph of Cod on the home page. In what I could only assume was an attempt to make him appear serious and literary, he had grown a nerdy beard and was wearing a fogeyish Shetland sweater. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses were hanging from a cord around his neck.
I left a message on the Web site explaining who I was and asking if he could possibly give me a call.
A couple of days went by and I heard nothing. I assumed that Cod was still pretty full of himself and wasn’t about to put himself out for somebody from university whom he didn’t even remember.
On the third day, my cell rang at work.
“Tally. It’s Tobias. Long time no speak.”
“Cod . . . I mean Tobias. Thank you so much for getting back to me.”
We exchanged pleasantries for a minute or two.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” I said. “Congratulations on the book.”
“Thank you. It took a few years and more rewrites than I care to remember, and even now, just between you and me, I haven’t made much money.”
He’d matured. There was a modesty about him that was rather endearing.
“As Oscar Wilde said, genius is born, not paid. It’s the cross some of us have to bear.”
I laughed, assuming he was being ironic.
“You see,” he went on, “I write not because I want to, but because I have to express what’s inside me.”
Correction. There wasn’t any irony or self-parody going on here.
“You know, I never really liked you and your crowd at university. In fact, I don’t really know why I hung around with you. You thought I didn’t notice, but I always knew when you were taking the piss. And I knew you called me Cod behind my back.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to play this. If I told him we took the piss because he was an arrogant, self-important twerp and still was, there wasn’t a chance in hell of him helping me.
“You’re right. We were mean. I’m sorry we hurt your feelings. But young people can be cruel. I’d like to think that we’ve all grown up now.”
“So would I.”
“So, has
Kumquats and Other Deaths
been well received?”
“I have to say it has—embarrassingly so. In many ways the praise has been worse than the criticism.”
“Wow—well, good for you.”
“And what are you up to these days, Sally?”
“That’s Tally.”
“Of course it is. Sorry.”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Huh. So, Tally, what can I do for you?”
I explained my predicament. On the grounds that I didn’t want Cod remembering Rosie and crowing, I referred to her as Rosemary. He didn’t make the connection, which wasn’t surprising, bearing in mind he couldn’t even remember my name.
“Well, this would appear to be your lucky day. My agent is a lovely chap called Jeremy Baxter—used to be with Mortimer Quinn. Left a few years ago to set up on his own. I have to say, he is one of the most sweet-natured people I know. He’d be perfect.”
“So if Rosemary sent him her manuscript, you think he’d be prepared to invite her in for a cup of coffee and offer her some free advice?”
“Absolutely. I’m sure he would. I’ll phone him, just to check, and get back to you.”
“Tobias, this is so kind of you. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything. It’s my pleasure. Just to show that there are no hard feelings for what happened when we were at uni.”
Cod was as good as his word. The next day he phoned with Jeremy Baxter’s address and to say that Jeremy would be looking out for
The Sand Collector’s Daughter
. Once he’d got it, he would get in touch with Rosemary.
I called Rosie as soon as I got home.
“Listen, hon, I just read your final chapters.”
“What did you think?”
“I’m biased—you know that. It does occur to me that you need somebody in the literary world, who really knows what they’re talking about, to give you an honest critique.”
“Yes, but who? I don’t know anybody. And Mary’s not published yet, so she doesn’t have an agent she could phone to ask a favor on my behalf.”
“It’s OK, I’ve got it sorted . . . Here’s the thing. Don’t shout at me. I contacted Cod.”
“Cod from uni? Bloody hell, how could you do that? I’m not having him looking at my stuff and sneering. And I bet he’s just as obnoxious as ever.”
“Pretty much, but he did seem eager to help. And he won’t be the one reading it. I asked him if would mind asking his agent to look at it. Long story short, the agent said yes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. And don’t worry about Cod finding out it’s you. I said your name was Rosemary. He didn’t work out it was you.”
“I think Rosemary Thomas sounds better anyway,” Rosie said. “It’s got more gravitas . . . Tally, I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much. This is just amazing. Wow, I wonder what the agent will say. Showing your writing to somebody who really knows about literature is so exposing. It’s like taking all your clothes off in public and saying: ‘This is my body, and that’s as good as it gets.’”
“I know, hon, but I think this really is the only way forward.” She agreed and I gave her Jeremy Baxter’s address.
“So,” she said after she’d taken it down and thanked me another ten times, “you seen any more of Hugh?”
I told her about dinner at Zvi’s. “Oh, and he kissed me.”
“No.”
“It’s true. He dropped me home and we were sitting in the car with the engine off . . . and the thing is, I found myself kissing him back.”
“I’m guessing you don’t require a lecture on the dangers of rebound relationships.”
“No, but I have to admit that kissing him did feel rather nice. You know, familiar and comfortable. Like I said the other day, I think I’ve always carried a bit of a torch for Hugh.”
“A torch is one thing. Just so long as you don’t let it turn into a great big flashing neon sign saying
I think I might be falling for you again after all these years
.”
That Saturday, I went to Kenny’s place and we-slash-he cooked dinner. Kenny owned a tiny, two-up, two-down terraced house in Muswell Hill. At least that’s what it had been until he got hold of it and added this humungous, architect-designed kitchen extension.
As I walked in, the first thing that hit me was the vaulted, glass-paneled ceiling. From it, suspended on long steel wires, hung a row of lights with gray metal shades. They looked like they belonged in a factory or warehouse circa 1940.
This was the ultimate chef’s kitchen. The design was simple—a galley with one very long counter. Behind this was a wall of floor-to-ceiling cupboards and drawers. I couldn’t stop oohing and aahing over the stainless steel, the edgy composite worktops, the built-in deep-fat fryer and barbecue, the eight-burner stove and two double ovens, the polished concrete floor. This was more than a kitchen; it was an industrial space verging on art installation verging on science lab.
“So, you like it?”
“I love it.”
“It’s not everybody’s taste. Most people come in and say ‘Which way to X-ray?’”
“Not me.” I hardly ever cooked, but Kenny’s kitchen—because it was a proper professional space—was having a real effect on me. It was like some kind of weird culinary porn. I was suddenly filled with all these urges—to blanch, poach, coddle, fricassee . . . even parboil.
“Kenny, this is amazing,” I said, caressing his central island. “It must have cost you an absolute fortune.”
“Only a small one,” he said, laughing. “I think I finish paying for it some time in 2023.”
After I’d stopped with all the admiring, stroking and caressing, he suggested we make dinner.
I agreed, but not before I’d warned him that my culinary skills weren’t up to much and that he had to promise not to get impatient or laugh. He promised.
We were going to make spaghetti Bolognese with an authentic Italian ragout—as opposed to my “unauthentic” version, which involved frying onions, adding minced steak, tomato puree, a few herbs from ajar and maybe a slosh of red wine if there happened to be any hanging around.
His ragout, Kenny explained, was made with pork shoulder, oxtail and chicken liver, all of which he minced himself. The tomato part of the ragout would be made as a separate sauce. The two would be mixed together just before serving.
“OK,” Kenny said, “first-a we make-a the
soffrito
.”
Soffrito
turned out to be finely chopped onions, celery and garlic, which wouldn’t be fried on its own. Instead it would be mixed into the raw meat. As the sous chef, it was my job to chop the veg.
“Blimey,” he said. “Is that how you chop an onion? You’re doing it all wrong. For a start, you’re using a fruit knife.”
“And that matters because . . . ?”
“It’s too small. You’re making more work for yourself.”
He reached over to the knife block, which contained a seriously scary selection of Japanese steel, and selected a ten-inch vegetable knife. Then he took another onion from the fridge. The secret, he explained, was cutting the onion in half without removing the root—“It’s the root that holds everything together when you slice.” I watched him peel both halves of the onion. Then he put one half on the chopping board and made slits from pole to pole. Afterwards, he turned it and cut in the opposite direction. “Ta-da. Easy chopped onion. OK, now you try.”
I could feel his eyes on me. “Uh-uh. You’re using your knife like a saw. Use your wrist. Bring the knife up and then down hard.”
A second or two later, out of the blue, something happened between us. Kenny and I shared what I can only describe as a long, frisson-filled moment. It happened like this: I had finally mastered chopping an onion—much to Kenny’s excitement.
“Yay, well done.” He put his arm around me and gave me a hug. Then came the kiss on the cheek. It was an innocent peck, but as he let go of me, our eyes met and we held each other’s gaze for a couple of seconds. It was like one of those scenes in a daft rom-com where you know the guy and the girl are hot for each other and want to get it on, but something is holding them back—like her mafia-boss fiancé. In the movies, they don’t kiss (at least not then) and nor did Kenny and I. Instead—as per daft rom-com—we both snapped out of whatever it was that had come over us, pretended it hadn’t happened and got back to chopping onions. I could only guess at what he was feeling, but it left me strangely discombobulated.
Whereas my spag bol recipe called for two pans—a frying pan for the ragout and a saucepan for the pasta—Kenny’s involved seven, and that’s discounting serving bowls and plates. The pork, oxtail and chicken livers had to be fried in different cast-iron skillets. The onions were left to caramelize in another. The tomato sauce (Kenny told me to wash my mouth out when I suggested using tinned tomatoes) required yet another pan. But first we had to blanch the tomatoes, put them in cold water and peel them. Kenny’s tomato skins practically flew off. Mine clung to the pulp for dear life and refused to budge. Once the sauce, meat and onions had been combined, the mixture was transferred into a casserole—pan number six. The spaghetti was cooked—until perfectly al dente—in pan number seven.
By the time we sat down to eat, I was exhausted just from watching. Kenny was still multitasking, grating Parmesan, making a green salad and pouring Chianti into huge goblets.
“OK,” I said, taking a glug of the delicious wine, “you should know that a few minutes ago I was having fantasies about owning a kitchen like this. I was really getting in touch with my inner Nigella, but although I still adore the kitchen, the cooking fantasies have disappeared.”
“That’s so sad,” he said.
“OK, granted, you’ve made it look really easy, but you’ve got masses of experience. For me, fancy cooking is far too stressful. Here’s the thing: First, I don’t have a larder like yours, so when I entertain, I have to shop for all the ingredients. Inevitably the supermarket is out of star anise and Kaffir lime and I end up spending two hours driving around Kentish Town trying to locate them. When I get home, I discover I’ve forgotten to get wine so I have to drive back to the supermarket, and by then it’s late on Saturday morning and there isn’t a parking space to be had. I finally get home and decide to make a start on the dessert—only to find I haven’t got the correct-size baking tin. Out I go again. I get home, spend the afternoon cooking. Of course I haven’t eaten, my blood sugar’s low and I forget to add key ingredients. All I can do is pray that nobody will notice the apricot custard tart has no custard. An hour before the guests are due, I realize the kitchen floor is swimming in vegetable peelings, the sink is full of dirty pans and the waste bin is overflowing. What’s more, I haven’t laid the table, I’ve run out of napkins, I haven’t put the wine in the fridge and I need to have a shower, put on my makeup and get dressed.”
Kenny said that it was all down to organization. Anybody who was serious about cooking built up a stock of utensils and kept their cupboards full of the basic herbs and spices. I didn’t dare tell him that I had row upon row of herbs and spices, but most of them were stamped USE BY 2007.
The eating part of the evening was sublime. I started oohing and aahing all over again. This was like no spag bol I’d ever tasted. “You don’t need me to tell you how talented you are, but this is fabulous. I can’t wait for you to open your restaurant. I’ll be your first customer.”
“And for you, dinner will be on the house.”