Bye Bye Love

‘No, well, there wouldn’t be much point, would there? We’ve got nowhere to cook,’ Scarlett said.

Jonathan was mystified. ‘But this is the staff kitchen. Didn’t you know that? You and Irma and Marlene share this.’

‘Oh…’

He could practically see light dawning on her expressive face.

‘My dad must’ve forgotten to tell me,’ she said.

‘Yeah, right,’ he agreed. ‘Look, make yourself at home. I won’t be a mo. Perhaps you could put the kettle on for me?’

‘OK.’

Mercifully, she didn’t seem put out to be left there. He raced upstairs, unlocked the heavy door marked ‘Private’and went into the kitchen. If only he had known he would be cooking for a girl! As it was, he would have to improvise with what was around. He opened the cream-coloured door of the American refrigerator and took out bacon, eggs and cream, then rummaged in the cupboards for pasta, onions, garlic, olive oil and ground coffee. He piled the whole lot into a basket together with the chopping board, his French chef’s knife and the percolator. A glorious mix of excitement and nerves churned inside him. Supposing she didn’t like his cooking? Supposing she laughed at him? But she couldn’t—she mustn’t—because that would mean the end of their friendship before it had hardly started.

He galloped downstairs again to find the kettle starting to whistle while Scarlett leaned against the chipped enamel sink staring out at the back yard. There was a horribly bleak expression on her face that cut right through him.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, dumping the basket on the table.

Had his mother been in and had a go at her? His heart sank at the thought.

‘Oh…nothing…’ She straightened up, forcing a smile.

‘Only you looked…well…’

‘I’m all right. Really. What on earth have you got there?’ She moved over to look at the contents of his basket.

‘Just a few things to make a meal. Would you like to be my commis chef?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have that boiling water in a big saucepan with salt in, please, and butter and some olive oil in a frying pan.’

‘Olive oil?’ Scarlett questioned. ‘Olive oil’s for putting into your ear when you’ve got earache.’

Jonathan stopped himself from laughing. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know, any more than most people in this country did.

‘Mine isn’t,’ he said, handing her the bottle. ‘Mine’s for cooking, and making salad dressings.’

Scarlett made a face and looked at the French writing on it. Cautiously, she poured a small pool of oil into a pan. Jonathan got on with skinning and chopping a couple of onions. Scarlett stared at him as he sliced them expertly with a rocking motion, just as he had been taught.

‘How did you learn to do that? Did your mum show you?’

Jonathan laughed.

‘Mum? No, Mum hates cooking. I’ve got French relatives. I go to stay with them most summers.’

Wonderful summers with lovely Tante Jeanne-Marie, who tucked him under her wing with all her other chicks and made him feel loved and wanted. Racing around on bikes and swimming in the river with the cousins…

‘And they make you do the cooking for them?’ Scarlett was saying.

He wrenched himself back from sunny days in Mont Saint Etienne.

‘Far from it! I’m allowed to help. My aunt’s a wizard cook. Her brother’s a chef and owns a restaurant. They’re all really keen on food. It’s not like here at all. They all sit round the table and discuss what they’d like to eat for the coming week, then they go to the market together and buy the fresh stuff, and they argue while they’re going round even if they’ve agreed beforehand what they want, like, if they’ve bought some lamb, should they cook it this way or that, and what other things they need to get to go with it, and whether they’ve got the right stuff in the larder at home. It’s really interesting. It makes you think about tastes and flavours and textures and how things go together and complement each other.’

Scarlett was gazing at him in amazement. Jonathan felt hot, and then defensive. Food was important. If she didn’t realise it now, then he would prove it to her. He crushed a clove of garlic with the blade of his knife, chopped it into minute pieces and put it in the pan with the onions where they sizzled merrily, giving off a glorious smell.

‘What was that?’ Scarlett asked.

‘Garlic.’

Garlic was what foreigners were supposed to stink of. Well, at least foreigners knew how to eat.

‘Are you doing something French now?’ Scarlett wanted to know.

‘No, this is Italian, because I’m starving and there’s nothing like a big plate of pasta for filling you up,’ he explained. ‘Pass us the spaghetti, would you?’

‘Spaghetti?’

Scarlett looked at the ingredients on the table. She was searching for the stuff that came in a tin, he guessed.

‘In the blue packet,’ he prompted.

She found the right thing and watched as he opened it up.

‘It’s like long thin macaroni,’ Scarlett said.

‘Same family. It’s all pasta.’

Jonathan stood it in the pan, gradually pushing it under the boiling water with a wooden spoon as it softened.

‘Have you got an Italian aunty as well?’

‘No—I learnt this off Mrs Mancini along the road. She’s only got girls, so she sort of adopted me. I was a really skinny kid, and she used to sit me in her kitchen and feed me up until I couldn’t move.’

There was a time when he’d spent more time with the Mancinis than he had at home. He was always made to feel welcome there.

Jonathan chopped, stirred and tasted. He added bacon lardons, beaten eggs and cream. Finally he drained the spaghetti, mixed it with the sauce, divided it between two plates and put one down in front of Scarlett with a flourish.

‘Spaghetti alla carbonara!’

‘Wow—’ Scarlett looked suitably impressed. ‘It smells delicious.’

She picked up her spoon and fork and tried to capture the slippery pasta. Jonathan remembered the first time he had eaten spaghetti, when he was about eight, how Mrs Mancini had stood behind him and guided his hands, her comforting warm body pressing into his back.

‘It’s a so-and-so to eat, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There’s a knack to it—look—’

He demonstrated. Scarlett copied, with much laughter.

‘I did it! I did it!’ she cried, as she managed to get the perfect amount of spaghetti twiddled round her fork. She carried it to her mouth, and her eyes closed with pleasure. ‘Mmm—gorgeous—’

Jonathan relaxed. She liked it. Everything was well with the world. They ate and they talked, they found they liked the same music, the same films. Jonathan made some proper coffee in the percolator, another new taste for Scarlett, and they began a long argument over whether Rock Hudson was a better actor than Clark Gable. He was just acting out a scene to prove his point when the door opened.