Chapter Four
MONDAY morning Marcus parked along the road from Tom’s house and checked the state of his hair, then his eyes, in the rearview mirror. Considering the exhausting weekend that had just been, he looked remarkably awake and alert.
End of April, and both Thursday and Friday lunch and dinner service had been off-the-scale busy. Then late Saturday night in Edgware Road, they had entertained a table of A-list celebrities—well, three, to be precise, all well-known personalities performing together in a West End show—and a group of other cast members. Marcus always welcomed celebs, purposely came out of his kitchen to meet them, and usually comped them a round of drinks. Other patrons enjoyed the display, and word usually got out either through the press or by word of mouth. And, of course, Tina loved free publicity.
On the downside, the revelers didn’t leave until five thirty. Eventually, he got home from the restaurant just after midday, deciding to stay behind and finish the inventory, rather than coming back on Sunday afternoon. Now here he sat in his car, trying to come down to earth, readying himself for his domestic duties with the Bradford clan. Having woken at six that morning, he’d just about managed to get everything done and reach Tom’s house by seven.
Talk about burning the candle at both ends.
“See you’re in the paper again, Marcus,” called Tom as soon as Marcus unlocked the front door using the set of keys Tom had cut for him. In the process of leaning over and packing documents into a briefcase, Tom gave Marcus a good view of his perfect jeans-clad backside, and despite his low energy, Marcus felt his cock stir. Absently, Tom waved a hand to the table where the girls were eating cereal.
“You’re looking dapper this morning,” said Marcus. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he bit his tongue, remembering that Tom didn’t like other men complimenting him. On anything. But this time the observation appeared to go right over his head. Usually when Tom worked on-site he donned worn overalls and a sweatshirt. Today he was togged out in clean jeans, a charcoal gray woolen jacket, a crisp white shirt, and a navy tie.
“Yeah, I know,” muttered Tom, frowning at his attire. “Got a bloody boardroom meeting. Monday morning, of all things. The newspaper with the article’s over on the table.”
As far as Marcus was concerned, Tom needed to have more bloody boardroom meetings. Not that he didn’t admire Tom in his trademark work clothes, but the casual corporate style definitely looked hot on the man.
“Daddy read it out to us,” gurgled Charlotte, rewarding Marcus with the sight of a mouthful of milk and Cocoa Puffs.
“Charlie, what did Daddy say about eating and talking at the same time?”
“And close your mouth when you eat,” added Katie. “Nobody needs to know what’s in there. Nana said watching you eat is like looking at a washing machine running with a full load.”
Marcus couldn’t help but laugh aloud, while Tom smiled into his briefcase and gently shook his head. Fortunately Tom didn’t notice the Cocoa Puff–covered tongue that poked out from Charlotte’s mouth, aimed at her sister.
“I’ve left the page open at the article,” said Tom before disappearing upstairs.
Marcus loved the early-morning routine with Tom and the girls, so different from the usual solitude of his own apartment. Six weeks since they’d had the chat, and everything already felt so much better.
More importantly, the social worker had turned out to be extremely understanding and sympathetic to Tom’s situation. Having insisted on being there throughout the interview, Moira had given Marcus the full download. Tom, for his part, had been relieved they would not be considering further action, although the social worker confirmed that there would be monthly visits for the foreseeable future to ensure everything stayed on track.
Joining his goddaughters, Marcus parked himself on the free seat around the table and pulled the paper over. That morning he’d had barely enough time to get showered and dressed and make pack lunches for the family. Strange, too, because normally Tina would have called him. She scoured the national dailies each morning over breakfast, keen to capitalize on any publicity. When he picked up the paper, he realized why. This was a local rag, a freebie popped into everyone’s letter box in Tom’s borough. But the story was priceless.
Marcus vaguely remembered the situation. Apparently two of the paper’s staff had rocked up at his Edgware Road branch one Thursday night—a traditionally busy night when Marcus usually ruled the kitchen—with a party of twelve, only to realize that nobody had made a booking. The head waiter—who would have been Michelle that night—had apologized that they wouldn’t be able to fit them in, but then immediately phoned the Shepherd’s Bush outlet and managed to secure them a table. Not only that, but she organized cabs for them all to be ferried across. The article, which took up a good half a page, then went on to talk up the excellent food and service, and was nothing short of solid gold publicity for Old Country. And of course, next to a photo of the outside of the Edgware Road restaurant was Marcus’s standard publicity photo in his kitchen whites, holding a flour-peppered rolling pin and grinning at the camera.
“Right” came Tom’s voice from behind, a heavy hand on Marcus’s shoulder, which took Marcus by surprise, especially at how nice it felt there. “I need to be off. Final meeting today, but I think we’re going to win this tender on the new estate in Burleigh. Finally a bit of good news.”
“Excellent stuff. Go knock ’em dead.”
“Thanks, honey,” said Tom, squeezing Marcus’s shoulder. “Uh, I mean Marcus.”
For some reason the comment warmed Marcus inside, while Charlotte found this hilarious. After a few seconds almost choking and then the next tipping her head back in uncontrollable laughter with a tiny hand over her mouth, she finally managed to speak.
“Daddy just called Uncle Marcus honey.”
Even Katie had trouble suppressing a fit of giggles. A smiling Tom came around the table and, from behind, kissed the top of Charlotte’s head, then pulled her into his arms and rubbed his stubble into her cheek until she squealed even louder.
“That’s what he used to say to Mummy,” Katie explained, smiling still.
Yes, thought Marcus, they’d all come a long way if they could remember Raine without getting sad. While they had a family moment, Marcus stood and began clearing away bowls and packets of cereal from the table.
“I’ve made pack lunches,” called Marcus to Tom from the open kitchen. “So no need for lunch money today. There’s even one here for you, just in case.”
“Remember Katie’s got a checkup at ten. Her appointment card’s on the table. Doctor’s surgery is a stone’s throw from here. Moira let Miss Colbert know she’ll be in school just before lunch break.”
“No problem. I’ll swing by to pick up some groceries and then get the girls at the usual time. What do you fancy for dinner, ladies?”
“Shepherd’s pie,” shouted Charlotte, her all-time favorite.
“You always want shepherd’s pie,” said Katie. “We had it on Friday. Let Uncle Marc make something else for a change.”
“I agree with Katie. Whatever you fancy cooking. God, you’re a lucky so-and-so having Sundays and Mondays off,” said Tom, picking up his case.
“Lucky?” replied Marcus, stopping halfway to the sink. “Do you know what time we finished on Saturday night? Sorry, scratch that, Sunday morning?”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You work hard when you’re there. I am not disputing that. Just surprised you guys don’t capitalize on the Sunday trade.”
Many times Tina had tried to convince Marcus to open on Sunday, even if only for a lunch service to entice tourists to London. But after consulting many of his contemporaries in the trade, Marcus had stuck to his guns and decided to remain closed. His staff got one day off a week anyway, but the guarantee of Sunday with their families and loved ones definitely worked in his favor. Besides, he didn’t need his accountant to tell him they were making healthy profits; the reservation lists for the next six months alone bore that out.
“If my manager has her way, we may well do. But for now things are going well enough that it’s not a consideration. And anyway, I might have been otherwise engaged.”
At that comment, Tom looked up from the letter he had scanned but not opened. “Oh, yes? And were you?”
“Might have been,” said Marcus, flashing a wink at Tom. “Come on, Charlie, go brush your teeth and then Katie and I can drop you off to school.”
He thought Tom might reward him with a knowing smile in return, but the man turned away and busied himself with his briefcase. Too much information, perhaps. Marcus made a mental note to keep his private life off-limits in conversation with Tom.
LATER that morning, after Marcus had dropped Charlotte off and returned home, as Katie packed her schoolbag while Marcus sat at the kitchen table organizing his accounts, the phone began to ring.
“Uncle Marc,” said Katie, holding the phone out to Marcus. Her sad eyes said everything. “Someone’s asking to speak to Mummy or Daddy.”
Marcus hesitated. His heart stalled for a moment. Looking momentarily into Katie’s gaze, he realized he had not been prepared for this. Nevertheless, he took the phone from her and placed the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?” he said tentatively.
“Good morning. I’m calling from Modern Dance Fitness” came a female voice attempting professionalism. His own trepidation evaporated in that haughtiness. “We’re offering special memberships for people in your area. Sign up now for a three-year membership with nothing to pay for three months and then the option to renew on the same monthly terms.”
“Thank you, but we’re really not interested.”
“This may be something more appropriate for Mrs. Bradford. Is she there, by the way, your wife? May I speak to her?”
Marcus found this kind of attitude in his restaurants irritating at the very least. The danger and, frankly, rudeness of making assumptions about a person based on gender alone was something he drilled into his waitstaff. He hated nothing worse than people assuming Raine was his wife when they were out together. Fortunately he knew how to deal with these people.
“Can I have your name, please?”
“Debra. Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes, I am.”
“To a man?”
“Of course, to a man. What an odd question.”
Another assumption, maybe even a touch of discrimination there. Hopefully he would never have to meet Debra Lingham in the flesh, because he might be tempted to give her a piece of his mind.
“Well, Debra. First of all, I’m a family friend, and today I’m the house sitter. Secondly, I really don’t appreciate your telephone manner. If I tell you that we’re not interested, then I speak for everyone.”
“And I, Mr. Bradford, or whoever you are, am only doing my job. This happens to be an extremely generous offer, and you should consider yourself lucky that we are—”
Marcus slammed the phone down before the woman could say another word. Anger smoldered inside him. On top of everything else, had poor Tom had to put up with this kind of shit? When he turned and looked down, Katie stood there beaming at him.
“You sound just like Mummy sometimes,” she said.
“Something you should know, Katie. Just because people are grown-ups doesn’t mean they know how to be civil to other people. Some think they have the right to be rude just because of the job they do. My mother once told me that before I ever say anything to anybody which might be considered upsetting, I should think first of all how I would feel if someone said the same thing to me. Put myself in their shoes, so to speak. Your mummy was brilliant at doing that, which is why so many people liked her. One of her favorite sayings was ‘courtesy costs nothing.’”
“It’s politeness in a person’s attitude or behavior. Your mummy was like that with everybody. Now, where’s your appointment card?”
“It’s in my bag. I’ll probably need another prescription. Doctor said last time that if the asthma doesn’t start to improve soon, he might consider other treatment. But at the moment I have to keep a diary of when I get attacks and rate them on a scale of one to five on how bad they are. There’s a boy at school, Stephen, who uses a machine at home where he has to breathe in steam mixed with medicines for half an hour. But he doesn’t mind because it’s usually when the cartoons are on.”
“Sometimes asthma just goes away with age, Katie,” said Marcus, trying to sound encouraging. Growing up, Marcus’s next-door neighbor and best friend had regular bouts of asthma that suddenly stopped when he hit puberty. Maybe some people were just lucky. On many a charity hospital visit, he’d met kids with far more serious medical conditions, but it just seemed unfair for someone so young to have to struggle with breathing when she should be outside enjoying the world.
Seven years old, thought Marcus, and already so much on her shoulders. There was absolutely no way he would ever walk away from this family again.