Chapter Seven
Present day
It was after midnight when Emma heard the door to the cottage open and low footsteps crossing the flagstone floor, en route to the fridge.
Emma switched on the light.
Sandro was standing with a stack of trays balanced one on top of the other, which he almost dropped, making at the same time a funny, rather high-pitched cry.
‘Jesus,’ he said, his eyes wide, when he saw her.
‘Sorry,’ said Emma, snorting. ‘You scream like a girl by the way.’
He laughed. ‘You try making a manly scream, Pajarita, when you think someone is about to attack you with that,’ he said pointing at her crutch, which was casting a rather ominous scythe-like shadow across the wall.
Emma started to giggle.
‘I hardly think the Grim Reaper would be after you just for those,’ she said, and then frowned. ‘What is it anyway?’
‘The contents of the fridge from the Tapas Hut.’ He set the trays down carefully on the table. ‘My fridge blew,’ he said, moving his hair from out of his eyes and giving her a half-grin. His handsome face now looked tired and unamused.
‘It blew up?’ Emma gasped, eyes widening in horror as she pictured an explosion. ‘Is everyone all right?’ She focused her still-hazy eyes on him with difficulty. He didn’t seem injured.
He frowned, confused. ‘Fine – it was just a fuse.’
‘Oh,’ she said, hiding a smile.
‘Well, anyway, I just have a bar fridge in the annexe so I thought I’d put these in here.’ He pointed to the large double-door fridge-freezer that sat across from the Welsh dresser.
Emma shrugged. ‘Sure.’
‘You’re up late,’ he noted. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Why not?’ she asked, trying and failing to open the pill bottle of her painkillers.
He unpacked the contents of the boxes, filled the coffee pot, then came over with a glass of water and got a pill out for her.
‘Thanks,’ she said. He shrugged, went off again and returned with a yellow striped mug, which he placed before her before taking a seat opposite, his dark eyes peering at her.
She blinked, and then looked away. His gaze was fairly intense, seeing perhaps more than she was comfortable with. In the background, there was an odd humming sound, which had her confused; she looked around, wondering if Penny was snoring, then realised it was the sound of the coffee machine.
‘Is that sore?’ he asked, pointing at her hand in its cast.
She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. I can’t wait to get the pins out.’ She sighed.
He nodded. ‘I can imagine,’ he said, touching the cast, his fingertips brushing her wrist. She jolted from his touch, moving her arm away.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No. It’s okay,’ she said, blushing. ‘Touch is just weird, you know – since my accident,’ and she explained about how things could get confused in her brain. Though, to be fair, when he’d touched her it had felt just like it should: gentle, nice really. Perhaps it was the surprise of such a normal response that had shocked her.
‘That must be hard,’ he said, shaking his head.
She took a sip of her coffee and sighed.
‘You know, I can deal with that – though I wish I could read. It would be such a help just to be able to escape for a bit.’
‘Why can’t you?’ he asked.
‘The words sort of scramble across the page and I can’t really make sense of the letters.’
‘Geez, I’m sorry.’
She gave him a small smile. ‘Thanks. What I really miss most, if I’m honest, is being able to enjoy food,’ she said with a small, sad laugh. ‘Not being able to taste or smell anything, that’s the worst, really, it makes life seem… flat.’
His eyes were solemn as he regarded her. ‘Especially for someone like you.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged, his hands taking in the expanse of the kitchen and The Book open on the scarred wooden table. ‘Coming from a family of cooks, your career – the food column – I mean, it must feel a bit like you’ve lost a piece of your identity,’ he said, eyes contemplative as they regarded her.
She blinked. That was exactly how she felt.
Then he smiled. ‘Food’s my life too, Pajarita – I think I’d be the same,’ he said with a wink.
She grinned, forgot to tell him to stop calling her a little bird. Up close, she could see that his dark eyes had small flecks of gold in them, though she saw this, as usual, doubled, like rows of negatives from a film.
‘You should let them help,’ he said softly.
‘Who?’ she asked, looking away. She’d been staring without realising it.
‘Evie, your aunts. Let them make a recipe for you.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
She frowned, her ire rising. ‘Because – because it’s all rubbish anyway.’
‘So then, what could it hurt?’
‘That’s beside the point.’
He took a sip of his coffee. ‘I doubt that, Pajarita.’
‘Why do you say that?’
He shrugged. ‘Because if you really thought that it wouldn’t matter, would it?’
After Jack had sent the heart-shaped dog biscuits, Emma wondered if he would come past, but he didn’t. She tried not to be disappointed by that. Tried not to inject more meaning into the small gift than she should, reminding herself that they had both moved on. But it was hard. Hard not to think of him. A few times she saw him out of the window, jogging in the street with his dog, Gus, and almost found herself going out to call to him.
It was during Emma’s third week at Hope Cottage that she got the email she was dreading from her editor at the Mail & Ledger. She passed her mobile to Evie, who was sitting at the table, plaiting dough for a recipe for strengthening a family bond ahead of the Christmas season.
On the vintage radio station, The Old Whistle, a medley of Christmas tunes from the likes of Bing Crosby and Ella Fitzgerald had been playing all afternoon. Emma had been humming along, realising as she did that sounds had begun to make sense again, music didn’t feel like an assault and she didn’t need to lip-read any more, which was a relief.
Though everything else was still a mess. Just that morning as she’d tried combing her hair, the bristles of her hairbrush had without warning shed their benign guise, becoming sharp needles that pricked painfully at her scalp, and she’d yelped with fright and pain as she flung the brush from her. Her hair was now shoved into a very messy, knotty bun, which she’d done with one hand. Attractive, it was not.
Her mobile was open to her latest email.
‘Can you read it to me?’ she asked Evie. ‘I’m still seeing double.’
Evie nodded, dusting the flour off her fingers onto her apron and popping on her glasses. Emma took a seat next to Pennywort, eyed the plate of ginger snaps and bit into one, only to sigh; it was like eating warm sand, completely tasteless.
Dear Emma,
Thank you for letting us know about your situation. We were devastated to hear of your accident, and sincerely wish you a speedy recovery. Unfortunately, as the situation described is not quite temporary, we may need to make alternative arrangements with your weekly column, ‘The Historical Cook’. Our staff writer, Jane Bunting, has been using some of your past material, reworked into themes such as the recent holiday food one, but I fear that it is not a long-term solution. As it is one of our most popular columns, we cannot simply put it on hold, as you can imagine. Please advise whether we should look at contacting a freelancer to fill your place – is there anyone you would recommend? Obviously, we would like to keep the same standard our readers have come to enjoy.
Best wishes,
Sue Fedler
Food Editor, the Mail & Ledger
‘One of their most popular columns? Because of you – all your hard work!’ huffed Evie, putting the phone down with a thud.
Emma felt ill. A replacement? It hadn’t even been a month and they were already looking for someone else? After four years?
‘I can’t believe they’d write this,’ said Evie.
‘I can.’
What did she expect? It wasn’t like she was permanently employed by the newspaper; she was a freelancer. She had a popular column that many food historians would love to write – she couldn’t expect them to keep running her old copy for ever, repurposed into ‘new’ content. Still, after four years of loyal, faithful service that had helped to boost advertising and lift a rather flabby food section, she might have expected slightly more loyalty than this – at least a guarantee that as soon as she was well again they would welcome her back.
‘I suppose legally they don’t owe me anything, I’m self-employed – not permanent staff.’
Evie shrugged. ‘Still, loyalty should count for something?’
She could recommend someone to fill her column, but it was a tricky situation as she didn’t know how long her recovery was likely to be. It could be a few months, a year, perhaps even more – would it be fair on either of them if she came back after a prolonged period wanting her column back? She couldn’t really blame the newspaper for wanting to make a plan; they were running a business after all. The doctors couldn’t guarantee when she might get better, or if she even would.
There were other concerns too. She needed the money; even though the column wasn’t her main source of income, it was key, particularly, in building her brand as a food writer and building a network of freelance clients. She had some savings that would cover the rent for a few months, but, still, letting go of the column would just make it that much harder to return to her old life, which she desperately wished to do.
Evie found her sobbing an hour later in the living room, an abandoned notebook and pen in her hand. Evie picked up the notebook and saw the uneven scrawl across the page. It looked like a child had written it, one who had recently learned the alphabet and was having some trouble, the letters shaky, some almost back to front.
She swallowed, took Emma in her arms. ‘It’ll get better.’
‘When?’ she sobbed. ‘That took me two hours. The worst is it’s all here,’ she said, tapping her head with a finger of the hand in the cast, tears making steady streams down her face. ‘I know what I want to say, I just can’t get it out.’
Evie stroked her back, wiped her thumbs under Emma’s eyes. ‘If that’s the case it’s a problem we can deal with, love. You don’t have to write it yourself, do you? You just need someone to transcribe what you say.’
Emma took in a shuddering breath, felt a surge of hope fill her chest.
‘You’re right.’ She looked at Evie, eyes widening in realisation. ‘You’d do that – for me?’ she asked.
Evie scoffed, ‘Of course I would, silly.’
It took almost two days to write her first column, something that usually only took her a few hours at best. Partly it was trying to remember past facts and references with a brain that was easily tired, and getting Evie to use her mobile to look these up for her as they didn’t have Wi-Fi – something Emma was prepared to remedy in secret if she had to as Evie was a committed Luddite.
It was also hard to focus on what she was trying to say when so much seemed to call for Evie’s attention. As soon as she would begin transcribing Emma’s dictation, there would be a knock on the door.
The people who visited came with their troubles and looked for a sympathetic ear, and it was never easy for Evie to get away. Besides, the recipes required her full focus, as many were complex and needed ingredients that had to be foraged on long rambling walks and then took hours of preparation.
By the time she was able to give her full attention, Emma was often fast asleep or had lost her train of thought. Evie’s knowledge of food, her own observations and ruminations, could also be a distraction and she couldn’t help peppering Emma’s dictations with them; they would come through after she read back what she’d written.
‘I don’t remember saying that!’ said Emma, referring to her latest column, a look at food in Shakespeare’s time, to which Evie had added in a snippet of her own about balancing the humours with the seasons.
‘Oh? Well, I added it in.’
‘Evie, I appreciate that – but this is about fact, not myth.’
‘It’s not myth!’
‘Yes, it is!’
This happened at least three times. Afterwards there were tense silences, followed by a lot of cajoling and forced apologies, till finally they’d start again. It was like running around in circles, getting nowhere fast. It was frustrating all round, but at last the first column was done.
‘I think it would be easier if you had someone else. Someone less… busy,’ said Evie tactfully.
Emma looked at her, bit her lip. ‘I agree, I appreciate everything you’ve done though, but it’s—’
‘It’s not really working,’ agreed Evie. ‘Anyway, the person that I have in mind would be perfect, free in the early mornings so you’d have some quality, focused time, which I think would really make a difference.’
Emma nodded. That would make a difference; she felt at her best in the mornings, which was when Evie was often busiest, so they’d been forced to do it closer to the middle of the day when Emma’s tired brain always needed a rest.
‘Brilliant. Have you contacted an agency of some kind? I’m not sure I could afford that – but I could make it work, somehow, it would be worth it.’
‘That’s the best part – they’ll do it for free!’
‘Really?’ she said, eyes widening in surprise. ‘That’s amazing, who is it – Dot or Aggie? I didn’t think they had the time.’
Evie beamed at her. ‘Not Dot or Aggie, no, but just as good.’
Emma frowned. She was beginning to suspect something. Next second, Evie confirmed it.
‘Sandro!’ she said in delight.
Emma felt her stomach drop. ‘Oh God.’
Evie ignored all her protestations. ‘It’ll be great – don’t worry.’
‘But – but what about his English? I mean…’ She bit her lip. ‘I wouldn’t be able to correct it on the screen…’
‘Oh, don’t be such a snob, his English is great, and if need be, I’ll go over it.’
‘Is there no one else?’
‘Nope,’ said Evie, who looked a little bit too pleased.