Three headless chickens were lined up on the kitchen table, the stumps of their legs pointing at the ceiling, their plucked flesh a buttery gold from their corn-fed diet. This should have been a morning of pure pleasure, immersing herself in the sensuous process of cooking – chopping, stirring, assembling, garnishing. But Rachael couldn’t find her boning knife.
She’d looked in every drawer, in the dishwasher basket and the utensils jar and both knife blocks. Boning a chicken was a delicate operation and the right tool was essential. She’d noticed recently that things were disappearing. Usually they were unremarkable: a pencil sharpener, a small screwdriver, a bottle opener, a box of matches. She’d assumed at first this was the result of Bel’s inability to remember where she put anything, forever borrowing replacements. But Bel had left for Ireland and, anyway, what would she want with a boning knife? Rachael had found some of the missing objects scattered on the lawn and tried to have a conversation with Danny about them.
‘You do know you shouldn’t play with matches?’ He’d rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe she had such low expectations of him. ‘So you promise you won’t take them again?’
‘But, Mummy, I didn’t!’ His lower lip trembled and she had to force herself not to throw her arms around him and squeeze him to death. This was the boy Nathan’s doing. It had to be. He kept turning up like a bad penny, but Dan thought he was the most exciting companion on the planet. She hoped the phase would pass.
She went into the garden to scour the flowerbeds. Bluebells and lilies of the valley were beginning to open, their fragrance fresh and sweet. The pear tree was shedding petals like snowflakes, drifting beneath its trunk. The trunk itself looked scarred. She made out some kind of inscription but the carving hadn’t been very successful. Pear bark didn’t offer a smooth etchable surface like sycamore or beech – it was too rough. The missing screwdriver was sticking out at right angles, plunged like a dagger up to its shaft in the wood. That wretched boy!
Rachael wrenched it out, catching her knuckles as she did so. She licked the graze and spotted, at the foot of the tree, the knife she’d been searching for. She examined it closely to check the narrow blade wasn’t damaged. She sprang the point against her thumb; it felt sharp but she couldn’t be certain until she slipped it beneath the chicken’s ribcage.
Sometimes her life seemed a constant series of tests. As soon as she’d completed one, another would demand her attention. She was never able to put her feet up and let the world flow around her, as Matt kept recommending. There was always something to worry about, like a power cut while her soufflé was rising, running out of a vital ingredient, or spilling red wine on her white table linen. She was pondering the unfairness of this when she heard the doorbell ring. There was no reason to assume Nathan was the caller – after all, he generally wriggled through the hedge – but when the ring came again, she stormed back into the house and along the hallway. She flung open the door with her left hand, the knife dancing and flashing in her right.
For a second she didn’t recognise the figure leaning casually against the handrail. He looked, as he always did, a little the worse for wear. Behind him on the drive was a gleaming but, to her eyes, very dated sports car. ‘Leo!’
He stepped back, took his hands from his pockets and held them up in mock surrender. ‘I come in peace, you know.’
Rachael followed his gaze to the weapon in her fist. She dropped her arm to her side and said, embarrassed, ‘Why didn’t you phone?’
‘Why don’t you like surprises?’
She shuffled her feet. This was an odd situation. She’d only occupied the house for a couple of months, had barely begun the process of making it her home and getting to know the area. The man on the doorstep, awaiting admission, had lived here for well over a decade, far less of a stranger than she.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I did phone. Spoke to the delightful BT lady. Don’t you ever listen to your messages, Raquel?’
She bridled. ‘I use my mobile mostly. Landline calls still tend to be for Julia.’
‘Ah… Well, I was passing anyway, saw the car, guessed you were in and thought I’d take a chance. I didn’t expect a disembowelling.’
‘The knife’s not for you,’ said Rachael, to match his levity, although he made her feel as if she were trying too hard. ‘It’s for the chickens.’
‘Are you keeping livestock now?’
‘No! I haven’t killed them myself. They’re for a client who’s having a lunch reception tomorrow. You bone the birds, then you layer them with ham and a spicy stuffing and roll them up and truss them again for cooking. They carve nicely and look pretty on the plate. I know it’s a bit retro but actually retro dishes are quite fashionable and my client…’
‘Why don’t you show me?’
‘Oh, of course, come in.’ He had a bag with him, she noticed as he followed her, slung by one strap from his shoulder. ‘Are you, um, staying long?’
‘I’m waiting for the wind to change in France,’ he said. What did that mean exactly? ‘Thought I’d see how Bel was doing.’
‘But Bel’s in Ireland, didn’t you hear? You’ve just missed her. She’s holidaying with Julia for a week.’
‘Ireland?’ said Leo. ‘So that’s where they are. And I’m out of the loop again.’ She couldn’t decide whether his tone was irked or ironic. ‘Shall I pop over or hang on here? I’ll think about it. I have a few plans anyway… galleries to visit.’ He dumped the bag and accompanied her into the kitchen. ‘Nice place you’ve got.’
Surely he was winding her up on purpose. ‘Do you need somewhere to stay?’
‘Well, I spent last night with Nick Roden. Sculptor. Did you ever meet him?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘The new wife’s a bit of a cow.’ Leo smothered a yawn. ‘You don’t expect a man to be under the thumb at Nick’s age. So if you have room…’
‘I suppose we have. I mean, the attic’s empty since Bel’s away.’
‘My old stamping ground.’
He made her feel ill at ease. His ex-wife had thrown him out of this house, but now that she’d given it up he was wangling his way back in. Could he be trying to prove something? She inserted the tip of the knife beneath the chicken’s backbone. Leo, restless, was pacing up and down, peering through the window, opening the door to the larder, inspecting the dishes and bowls that were hers and Matt’s, that had nothing to do with him or his previous tenure.
‘And how’s the boy himself?’
Did he mean Matt? Or Danny? ‘Oh… fine.’ She began to tease back the poultry flesh. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Leo, but I have to concentrate on this because if I don’t do it right it gets into a shocking mess and…’
‘No worries. I’ll settle in. The attic, you said?’
Rachael cast him a doubtful look but his back was turned and he didn’t register it.
By the time he returned she’d removed the carcasses and swept the frail ribcages and sturdy thigh bones into her stock pot. She was inserting the centrepiece stuffing into the cavity of the first chicken.
‘Impressive handiwork,’ said Leo. ‘Can I help?’
‘You can pass me the string.’ He fetched it for her, then pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I don’t really like being watched,’ she said.
‘I thought you used to give cookery classes.’
‘That was different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it was information for people who wanted to learn. This isn’t the same as teaching. I feel I’m making an exhibition of myself.’
‘You make a fine exhibition, Raquel.’
‘Why do you call me that?’
‘Oh…’ He leaned his elbow on the table and his cheek on his hand, studying her. ‘Too many Rachels in your generation, aren’t there? It gets confusing. This way I can keep tally.’
She knotted the string with a deft tug and moved onto her second bird. ‘Does Matt know you’re here?’
‘I spoke to him a couple of days ago. Told him I might pass by. He’ll be home tonight though, won’t he? I wouldn’t want to disturb him at work.’
‘You’re disturbing me at work.’
‘My dear!’ He sprang up, nearly knocking the chair over. ‘I’m sorry. Christ, that was thoughtless.’
‘Well…’ Now he was veering too far in the other direction. That was the problem with Leo. You could never be quite certain how sincere he was. And any flattery came hedged with qualifications.
‘I’m so bad at that,’ he continued. ‘Putting myself in other people’s shoes. But you’re right. I hate being interrupted during the creative process. How could I forget that you are a creative too, an artist no less.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ She concentrated on spreading the herb stuffing over the sheet of ham before rolling it up.
‘Look at those colours,’ said Leo. ‘Green and pink and white. Visual harmony.’
‘Well, flavour’s paramount of course, but I like to co-ordinate too. Especially salads: I mix beetroot with red onion and cherry tomato, and chicory and fennel look good against the green of avocado and baby spinach. And then—’ She broke off, suddenly suspicious that he’d been humouring her, that what was a passion to her was only dreary domesticity to him. Where was the intellectual stimulus in producing a decorative plate of food? How could it compare to someone who leapt around drenching six-foot canvases in acrylic paint – even if the average viewer was baffled by the image and had to buy an expensive catalogue to have it explained.
‘You have a natural talent,’ said Leo. ‘Matt’s a lucky guy.’
Other men had said this to her and she never knew how to react; whether it was because they were obsessed with their stomachs or because they fancied her. Once or twice she’d tried the response: ‘I’m lucky too’ and encountered blankness.
When she’d met Matt – while ladling pasta at a function for young solicitors – the first thing she’d noticed was his tie: the bold patterns and raging colours clutching at his collar like a cry for help. When he’d persuaded her to go for a drink with him, she’d challenged him to take the tie off and tell her what he liked about it.
Gladly he’d loosened the knot and placed it in her hands like a gift of silk ribbon. ‘It’s striking,’ he’d offered. ‘Makes a statement. I wouldn’t want something wishy-washy.’ And when she learnt that he couldn’t distinguish one shade from another, she fell in love with his misplaced confidence.
This, along with his knack of reassurance, had drawn her to him. She’d no idea whether it was because tragedy had entered his life so early and forged his character or whether it was a trait inherited from the father he’d scarcely known. But she relied on his encouragement – and she envied his ability to see the positive in everything, because she was beleaguered by doubts. She’d been an ugly duckling as a child and still couldn’t consider herself beautiful. She’d also struggled with dyslexia and become convinced she’d never be good at anything. And now, although she’d discovered she could cook, it was such an ephemeral skill: once a meal was demolished there was nothing to show for it.
‘Look,’ she said, ignoring Leo’s comment. ‘I need to get these birds roasted so they’ve time to chill overnight. I like to keep ahead of myself, but you have to achieve a balance between advance preparation and absolute freshness, so…’
‘How do you wow them at the lunch?’ said Leo. ‘Chef’s hat askew? Tight black T-shirt? Are you always to be found with a knife in your hand?’
‘Actually I’m just delivering the buffet and setting it out. They don’t want me to serve, which is just as well because…’
‘Because then you can come out with me.’
‘Oh, but…’
‘No buts. We’ll go for a spin and find a pub somewhere. Did you see my new toy?’
‘Toy?’
‘A 1975 Lotus Elan +2. One of the last to be produced. Nick wants – or rather his wife insists – that he sell and I’m trying to decide if I want to buy. Completely impractical, but that’s the charm isn’t it? And I quite like tinkering with engines. I’ve never minded getting my hands dirty.’
‘I’d have to get back for Danny.’
‘Absolutely. I’m looking forward to seeing him myself. He probably doesn’t remember the last time, does he? When would it have been, two years ago perhaps? And he’d have been what, three? There you go. Three years old. He won’t have a clue who I am.’
‘You told him who you weren’t,’ said Rachael. ‘You told him you weren’t his grandfather.’
Leo was unrepentant. ‘Well I’m not.’ He gave her the smile he shared with Bel, the one that made people, however frosty, melt into forgiveness. She continued with her stringing.
He said, ‘Look, I can see you’re busy. I’ll get out of your hair if you promise to come with me tomorrow.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh… I’ll think about it.’ He clasped his hands behind his neck and surveyed the ceiling.
Rachael looked up too, horrified that a cobweb might have materialised in a corner. One of her priorities was to put in decent lighting, clear bright halogen, so she could see exactly what she was doing. There was so much that needed updating in this house but she and Matt were on a tight budget. She wrapped the stuffed chickens in foil and stepped around Leo’s sprawling legs to put them in the oven. ‘Um, if you don’t mind… Matt will be home around six.’
‘Raquel, I believe you’re dismissing me.’ He rose and let his hand rest for a moment between her shoulder blades, an innocent fatherly touch. ‘I shall see you later.’
As soon as he had gone she rang Matt. ‘Did he tell you he was coming?’
‘I think he said he might. Why the panic?’
‘I’m not panicking. It’s just the way he sauntered in like he owned the place. He’s taken his stuff up to the attic.’
‘I can see you might find that a bit tricky, but it’s not for long surely?’
‘I think he’s after something, but I don’t know what. He hinted at unfinished stuff with Bel. Or Julia. I didn’t know whether to tell him where to find them.’
‘Is that what he wants? Are they ignoring his calls?’
‘How should I know?’
‘It’s not like they’re in hiding,’ said Matt. ‘On the other hand he’s already majorly pissed Julia off. Perhaps you’d better warn her.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘Okay, but it will have to wait till I get home.’
Rachael added, ‘He says he wants to take me out tomorrow afternoon.’ There was a pause, as if Matt were considering the import of this. ‘I don’t want to go.’
‘Why not?’
She struggled to put her reservation into words. ‘There’s no special reason. I just don’t feel comfortable alone with him.’
‘We haven’t seen him for ages,’ he said. ‘You’re not still bothered about his performance at the wedding, are you?’
‘He was so rude, Matt. Nobody knew how to take him.’
‘I know he can be a liability. Perhaps he wants to get back in favour.’
‘Actually I think he wants to show off the car.’
‘What car?’
‘It isn’t even his. He’s borrowed it from a friend who’s trying to sell it, but I bet he’ll hammer it and then say he doesn’t want to buy after all.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be a good influence, Rach.’
She hung up in defeat. Sometimes Matt’s positivity could be wearing. Because he was so sure of himself he’d grind her down until she agreed with him, talk her out of her choices, into his. It was like being strapped into a runaway vehicle unable to reach the brakes. Which was why she was keeping her looming life-changing predicament to herself – even though she was feeling hopelessly ambivalent about it.