‘Patrick’s been dropping around a bit,’ said Liz.
It was said casually. Too casually. Lobbed into the conversation while Tash was sautéing onions and more of Pa’s capsicums for Chicken Piperade, and her mum was inspecting the fridge calendar.
‘Mmm,’ Tash said, concentrating hard on stirring her pot.
The observation was true. Patrick had called round twice since the previous Friday—the day Tash had labelled in her mind Soap Joke Day. He’d come on Sunday morning to return her plastic containers, and again on Monday afternoon, while she was saddling Khan up for a jaunt. Sunday had been a brief drop and go, probably because he’d caught Tash outside in her sunflower yellow shortie pyjamas, slurping coffee, warming her feet on a recumbent Coco, and slaving over her laptop in the fresh morning air. She had bed hair and was braless, which meant she’d spent the entirety of his visit with one hand smoothing her head while the opposite arm was slammed across her chest to hide her pointed nipples.
On Monday, to her chagrin, he’d lingered. She’d been looking forward to a good canter, perhaps even a gallop. Between party preparations and filming, then Thom and Ceci’s arrival on Friday night, she wouldn’t get another chance that week. Patrick had made her self-conscious and careful. Tash didn’t want careful, she wanted fun and free.
‘I’m heading to the swamp paddock,’ she’d said, hoping he’d get the hint. Instead Patrick had shrugged and said he’d follow. A hundred other put-off lines cantered around her head as she walked Khan towards the gate. All of them sounded rude, and Tash’s new worry that he might be in need of a friend had kept them unsaid. Patrick looked bad enough—pale, downcast and deeply troubled—without her adding to his misery. ‘I’ll be okay. You don’t have to play school monitor.’
He shrugged. ‘I used to watch Maddy when I could.’
Tash kept her voice gentle. ‘I’m not Maddy, Patrick.’
‘I know.’
He opened the gate for her, stepping back to avoid getting too close to Khan. The horse kept twisting his head, looking at Patrick. The sadness of it sat heavy on Tash. Both horse and human were suffering.
She kept Khan halted while Patrick closed the gate and waited for him to walk alongside. ‘Seriously, I’m fine on my own.’
He squinted towards Springbank. ‘Maddy thought she was too.’ He held up his palm as Tash opened her mouth. ‘Yeah, I know. You’re not her. I get it.’ He smiled. ‘Humour me?’
Tash had been too much of a sucker and too concerned about him to say no.
Liz joined her at the stove now as Tash splashed in a good dollop of sherry over the onions and capsicums, then added a slug of chardonnay.
‘That looks interesting.’ Liz studied Tash’s face. ‘Is Patrick still fretting over you riding Khan?’
‘Yes.’ Tash pulled the lid off a tin of tomatoes as she waited for the pot to come to the boil. She glanced at her mum. ‘It’s more than that though. I think he’s a bit lonely.’
‘No doubt he is. Those two were practically joined at the hip.’
‘But he has other friends. Clipper, Jordan Heeney.’
‘It’s not the same though, is it? Men don’t engage with each other the way women do. He probably sees you as someone he can talk to, like he did with Maddy.’
Tash dumped the tomatoes in the pot, sprinkled hot paprika on top, then ground in salt and pepper. She stirred, contemplating her mother’s comment. ‘I suppose. But we’re so different.’ Although not completely. Both of them had their ambitions. Tash’s had simply been slower to mature.
‘I’m sure he understands that, but you two were best friends. You’re probably the closest thing he has to her. Maybe spending time with you brings her back a little.’
Tash wasn’t so sure about that. Unless it was part of an argument, they’d barely spoken about Maddy. They’d barely spoken about anything except Khan and whether Tash wore her helmet.
Liz leaned in and stroked a strand of hair from Tash’s forehead. ‘What are you really worried about?’
‘Everything. That I’ll make things worse for him. That I’m seeing things that aren’t there.’
Liz frowned. ‘Like what?’
‘Nothing. I’m being dumb.’ She dipped the spoon, blew on the end, and tasted. ‘A touch more paprika.’
With the seasoning adjusted Tash donned mitts and lifted the pot from the stove. The mixture made a satisfying plopping noise as she poured it over the browned chicken pieces. After giving the meat a poke to ensure every joint was submerged, Tash covered the casserole and placed it in the oven.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’d better get this mess cleaned up.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said her mum. ‘You’ve been doing too much.’
‘I don’t mind, and this was part of our deal, remember? To pay my way.’
‘I do, but it didn’t mean you had to do everything. And you pay your way more than enough. Go on.’ Liz made a shooing motion. ‘I’m sure you have things to take care of.’
She did. In two sleeps Thom and Ceci would be here and in three sleeps sixteen people would be arriving for a party, plus Minh with her camera for the Spectator. Not as many guests as Tash had hoped, but understandable given the short notice.
‘Are you sure?’ she said.
‘Go!’
On impulse Tash hugged her mum. ‘Thanks.’
Liz hugged back just as fiercely. ‘We’re incredibly proud of you, you know that, don’t you?’
She nodded, too choked up to speak. Her family was the best.
‘Don’t worry about Patrick either. If anyone can make someone feel better, it’s you. It’s your gift.’
Tash wished she had her mum’s faith in her ability to cheer Patrick up. So far she’d been no help, and her anxiety for him was made even worse when he turned up Friday morning with serious stubble, eyes glazed and rimmed with red and a walk so sluggish she wondered when he’d last slept. He dragged a stool from under the bench and sagged onto it.
‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ she began, switching on the espresso machine, ‘you look terrible.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s up?’
He shook his head and stared blankly at the wall.
‘Patrick?’ When he didn’t answer, Tash left her side of the bench to stand in front of him. She tried to make eye contact but he refused to play. She ducked and weaved until he was forced to look at her. The utter desolation in his gaze made her take his hands and she was shocked at how cold they felt. ‘What’s happened?’
To her horror he released a sob and reached for her. Tash let him hold her, eyes wide as she waited for whatever it was affecting him to pass. His breath was laboured, his grip desperate. His face was buried in the curve of her neck. She didn’t think he was crying but it was close, which somehow made it even more heartbreaking.
‘Shit,’ he said, finally letting her go. He scrubbed his palms over his face and let his hands fall wearily into his lap. His mouth twisted in one corner. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
He let out a long sigh. ‘No, it’s not and it never will be.’
‘Has something happened to Maddy?’
‘No. She’s fine.’ He barked a bitter half-laugh. Maddy would never be fine. He shook his head, and focused on the floor. ‘It’s just me.’
Tash cupped his upper arm. The muscles flexed rigid as he abruptly rose, once more refusing to look at her.
‘I shouldn’t have come. You have things to do and I’m …’ His breathing quickened and he covered his eyes with his hand. ‘Fuck.’
‘Stay.’ She touched him again, worry tangling her insides. ‘Sit. I’ll make coffee. There’s cake too.’
He sniffed and gave a fragile smile. ‘Of course there is.’
She smiled back. ‘I also have mini vegetable quiches, rabbit and prune terrine, and homemade gravlax. All the food groups covered.’
‘I don’t even know what gravlax is.’
‘Cured salmon. It’s lovely.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Now sit.’
Tash waited until he was seated before moving away, wary that he might bolt. The embarrassment of his mini-meltdown was etched on his face along with his fatigue. He’d been sad and tired on Monday but not like this. Something had changed and Tash wished she knew what it was so she could help. It hurt to see the man she’d known from childhood, the man she knew as strong and decent and loving, so broken.
There were white chocolate and raspberry friands in the pantry. She loaded a plate with them and pushed it at Patrick. ‘Eat.’
He regarded the tiny cakes with a slight frown, like they were something unfathomable. ‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘Have one at least. They’re light. Barely a mouthful each.’ They were also overloaded with sugar and if Patrick hadn’t been eating like he clearly hadn’t been sleeping, he could do with the carbohydrate hit. ‘Go on.’
‘You sound like my mum.’
‘Good. Mums always know best.’
Tash busied herself with grinding beans and making coffee, but kept half an eye on Patrick. He ate a friand, chewing slowly and without enthusiasm. On another day Tash would have been indignant, but his lassitude only deepened her worry.
Tash watched him sip his coffee over the rim of her own. ‘You can talk or you can just sit. It’s up to you. I don’t mind either way.’
‘Thanks.’ He put down his cup and stared at it.
Tash left him to it. Patrick needed time to settle and work out what he wanted to do. She took a sip of coffee and returned to her preparations. ‘I’m making buckwheat blinis to go with the salmon. They’re like mini pancakes. The buckwheat gives them a wonderfully earthy flavour that goes well with the cured salmon.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten it.’
‘If you give me a few minutes, you’ll be able to try some.’
‘Where did you learn all this stuff?’ he asked, as she measured out flour and sifted it into her nan’s ceramic bowl.
‘Nan mostly.’
‘I knew your nan and she made great scones but I doubt she cured her own salmon.’
‘No. I learned that from a Swedish lady I met at Prahran Market.’
‘What? You just started chatting about it?’
Tash shrugged, but was secretly pleased he was showing interest in something at last. The hollow-eyed staring had been too awful for words.
‘Pretty much. There was a line-up for the fishmonger. We just happened to get talking. She was making gravlax for a dinner party and when I asked how she did it, Marrtje was more than happy to share. We ended up having coffee together and a lovely chat. We’re still in contact. She gave me the best recipe for Jansson’s Temptation. I’ll make it for you one day. It’s unbelievably fattening but a spoonful in your mouth is like eating a cuddle.
‘People are amazingly generous when it comes to food,’ she went on. ‘There are those who believe it’s just something we need to live, and that’s true, but food is more than a necessity. I truly believe food—the preparation of it, the sharing, the way it brings people together—can be a powerful symbol of compassion and love.’
‘Is that why you cook?’
‘Partly. I also do it because I’m curious. I haven’t had the chance to travel but I’ve explored dozens of different cultures through cooking. There’s also my greedy stomach.’ She patted her belly. ‘I like to eat.’
Tash plucked eggs from a basket and began breaking them into a jug. She’d been up since six, dashing into Pa’s to grab fresh eggs and raid his garden. Besides the blinis, she still had rough puff pastry to make for the lamb and fetta mini sausage rolls, and shortcrust cases for the crab tartlets, along with several other canapés.
Fortunately, dinner for Thom and Ceci was already prepared and in the fridge in the main house. The night before she’d stayed up slow-cooking Thom’s favourite Sri Lankan lamb curry, aware it always tasted better after a day or so. Tonight, while they caught up on news and enjoyed drinks, she’d make and stuff parathas to mop up the curry gravy, and fry spicy vegetable bhajis to stimulate their tastebuds and soak up the alcohol.
She tried not to glance at the camera while she worked. Patrick didn’t need to know he was interrupting more than her cooking, and she could film later. Blinis were fast and easy, and it wouldn’t take long to whip up another batch to camera.
‘Maddy never really cared about what she ate,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Tash, remembering. ‘She was too busy with her horses. And you.’ She eyed him as she whisked the eggs with a splash of milk. ‘You must miss her very badly.’
He threw her an angry look. ‘She’s not dead.’
Tash was unintimidated. ‘No, but she’s not the Maddy she was either.’
His anger evaporated as rapidly as it appeared. He rubbed his mouth then dropped his hands to look at his fingers. Tash found herself looking too. They were long fingers, roughened. Patrick had a real man’s hands, like Pa’s and Dad’s. Thom’s had been soft and felt nice on her skin but she couldn’t help thinking that hands like Patrick’s would feel more exciting.
She blinked. No. This was not a place she wanted to go. Ever. And what sort of person was she for thinking such a thing while they were talking about Maddy and with Patrick such a mess? It was appalling.
To hide her self-disgust, Tash snatched a pan from the pantry and set it on the stove. She dumped a wodge of butter in to melt while she fetched a measuring spoon.
‘I know she’s not the same,’ said Patrick quietly. ‘I know she’s never going to get better.’
The crack in his voice made Tash forget her own stupidity. She turned off the burner and faced him, catching her breath at the plea in his eyes.
‘But I made her a promise.’
‘They were different times.’
‘So you think I’m crazy too.’
Disappointment coated every word. Disappointment and resignation, as if he’d just realised how truly alone he was. But he wasn’t alone. Patrick was surrounded by people who loved and cared for him. Including Tash.
‘I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re hurt and lost and want her back. It’s normal. Not crazy.’ She tilted her head. ‘Is this why you haven’t slept?’
‘That and other things. I just don’t know what to do. Everyone keeps telling me to move on, that it’s okay and no one will think less of me, but I can’t. I can’t fail her. It’s driving me nuts. I keep seeing her, the way she was …’ His voice broke down. He closed his eyes, agony on his face. ‘I loved her so much. And now …’ He lurched upright and strode for the door.
‘Patrick!’
But he was gone, the sliding door flung open in his wake. When Tash caught up he was leaning against the car, his head bowed.
She placed her hand on his back, feeling his heaving breath. ‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not.’
‘It only feels like that because you’re exhausted. Come back inside. I’ll make you a proper breakfast and afterwards you can rest. My bed’s comfortable and I can be quiet for a few hours.’
He sniffed and straightened, not looking at her. ‘Thanks, but I should get home. Dad’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Your dad will be fine but you won’t be unless you rest.’ She took his hand. ‘Come on.’
He gazed at her with watery red eyes. ‘You must think I’m such a sap.’
‘Nope.’ She tugged until he moved. ‘If you must know, I think you’re one of the most decent men I know. Except when you’re yelling at me. Then I think you’re a butthead.’
That raised a small smile.
She squeezed his fingers. ‘I’m going to look after you, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Pure self-interest.’ At his expression she laughed. ‘Don’t look so scared. Cooking for other people makes me feel good. And here at The Urban Ranger we smother goodness like we smother butter—thick and with great pleasure. Gird your loins, Patrick. You’re about to get the treatment.’