Keeping Mum

‘Your mother always says it’s good to have something tucked away for a rainy day—and besides, she’s worried about you.’

‘So what’s new?’

‘Well, the one she’s got in mind is bright, the right size, right age, requisite number of teeth. Say yes, you know your mum’s dying to take you on a guided tour of the new kitchen—did I tell you we’ve got to have the roof off the bloody house now? Anyway, she’ll cook and while she’s in there griddling and steaming away I’ll show off, get horribly drunk and make a complete fool of myself. Remember last Christmas? It’ll be just like that, only with less advocaat.’

Cass laughed. ‘How could anyone possibly resist an invitation like that?’

Rocco grinned. ‘How’s Saturday night sound? Nita’s threatening to drag me off to see some peculiar foreign film with subtitles and bicycle baskets full of sardines.’

Cass hesitated. Rocco pulled his puppy face.

‘You’d be doing me a favour—honestly. And we could go with the fish theme for supper. There’s this great stall on the Saturday market we’ve just discovered, I could pick something up first thing—your mother does this amazing thing with halibut and Gruyère?’

Cass pulled a face. ‘Do I want to hear about this?’

‘And you could dig something or pull something up out of your allotment, something trendy and seasonal and Gordon Ramsay for the resident chef. Now how about you go and fish these cabinets out of storage, and while you’re gone I’ll mind the shop and ring your mum to let her know about Saturday. Oh, and I’ll get her to email you the brief over for the job in Cambridge.’

Cass sighed; it sounded like a done deal.

Wanting to pour oil on troubled waters, Cass tried ringing Fiona when she’d finished work, but got the answer machine. She had a feeling that Fiona was probably there listening, screening the calls. Whether Fiona was right or wrong about Andy playing away, Cass decided to be careful what she said in case he picked up the message. The last thing she wanted to do was add fuel to the fire, real or imaginary.

Cass sighed. She felt guilty about Fiona walking out. Although it had to be said that Fee had a talent for making her feel bad. When they were thirteen it had been because Mr Elliot—their art teacher, six feet tall and gorgeous—had told Cass that she was very talented, at fifteen because Cass had thrashed Fee in the mocks, and at sixteen because she had been the first one to get her hands on Justin Green, if Cass remembered rightly. Cass getting married, having two sons and being happy—even if it hadn’t lasted that long—had been the ultimate insult, and Cass had an odd sense that Fee had never quite forgiven her for any of it. When Fiona had walked back into her life, Cass had hoped they could start over; after all, they were grown-ups. Unfortunately two years on it was increasingly obvious that actually only one of them had made it through to adulthood.

So, after the beep Cass said, ‘Hi Fiona, hope you’re well. Be great to hear from you if you’ve got a minute. See you at choir on Tuesday if not,’ making a real effort to sound warm and cheery.

A few mornings later, Cass heard a phone ringing somewhere in the darkness. Dragged from sleep and a complicated dream about Amsterdam, rats and a blonde wig, she felt around by the bed, found the handset, pressed a button and mumbled, ‘Hello, who is it?’

‘Oh hi Cass, it’s me.’ The voice belonged to someone wide awake and unnaturally cheerful. ‘I’d got you down as an early bird, I thought you’d be up and about by now.’

‘Rocco, it’s the middle of the night.’

‘No, it’s not,’ he said defensively.

Cass peered at the bedside clock. ‘No, you’re right. It’s worse than the middle of the night, it’s six o’clock in the morning. What on earth are you doing ringing me at six in the bloody morning? I don’t open the shop until ten—I lie in. Like heads of state.’ She paused. Rocco said nothing, at which point Cass’s imagination fired up and filled in the gaps. ‘Oh god, is everything all right. What’s happened? Is Mum okay? Are you all right?’

‘It’s about the fish.’

‘Fish? What fish? Oh for god’s sake, Rocco, you’re doing too many drugs. Go back to bed and sleep it off. I’ll call you later.’

‘No, no listen, I’m serious. We’ve got to drive down to pick up the people from next door from Heathrow this morning, I’d totally forgotten about it. You are still on for tonight, aren’t you?’

‘As far as I’m concerned it still is the night.’

‘Just listen to me and stop whining, will you? Could you nip down to the market and pick up the halibut for tonight? Four nice steaks and some prawns? Problem is, if you’re not there early it all goes.’

Cass, totally awake now, groaned and rolled out of bed. ‘Halibut?’

‘Uh-huh, halibut and a pint of prawns. Only you really need to be there first thing when they open or it will all be gone. I’m not joking.’

‘What constitutes first thing?’

‘Half seven, eight—if you leave it any later—’ he began.

‘It’s all gone. I got that the first time round, Rocco,’ growled Cass. As she pulled on her dressing gown, phone tucked up between ear and shoulder, Cass couldn’t help wondering who these people were who got out of bed at the crack of dawn to rush out and buy bloody halibut. ‘Can’t I nip in and get a bag of frozen fish from the supermarket? You know, if I don’t make it to the market in time?’

There was a little pause and then Rocco said, ‘Cass, you are such a philistine. And no, you can’t, we need fresh. I’ve already got the Gruyère.’

‘Well, good for you. What if the fish has all gone by the time I get there?’

There was another longer weighty pause. ‘Then you didn’t hear me right…’

‘Okay, okay, I’m getting up now. You’re such a bully.’

‘Wait till you taste it, Nita does this—’

‘Rocco, shut up, go and pick up your neighbours and leave me in peace.’

‘Before eight.’

‘Bugger off.’

Which was why at around seven forty-five, two mugs of tea and a short, sharp shower later, Cass found herself walking up the High Lane into town, wrapped up against the rain, with Buster tugging at the lead, amazed that he was out that early and desperate to wee up every lamppost by way of celebration. Early or not, it was a very grim morning.

Cass could think of innumerable other places she would rather be, although she did remind herself all this was for a purpose. Her mother’s cooking was truly sublime, the apartment she shared with Rocco was breathtaking and, when they were on form, Rocco and Nita were the best company you could wish for. Rocco also found her work. The clients for their interior design business always paid top dollar, Cambridge was almost local and Cass needed the money.

So maybe it was worth it, Cass decided, sticking her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and hunkering down against horizontal drizzle. Buster didn’t seem to mind. He wagged and sniffed and panted cheerfully, rooting out discarded kebab innards, greasy pencil sharp-enings of cold meat, curled up in the gutter. Whoever said it was a dog’s life?

Cass turned the corner into Market Street and down past the Corn Exchange.

Rocco was right; it might be early but the market was already teeming with life. Most of the stalls were open and trading hard, with just a few latecomers still putting their stock out. Ready or not, everyone was open for business, including the parade of cafes and bars around the edge of the square. Every stall was lit, fighting off the gloom, and there was the smell of fried onions, fresh coffee and bacon hanging in the damp morning air.

‘Nice dog, missus,’ said a man laden down with bags as he hurried past clutching a bacon roll. It was a sad state of affairs when your dog got more compliments than you did, thought Cass grimly. Buster, meanwhile, tracked the man’s progress with an accuracy worthy of NASA, while the man headed between the stalls, all shopped out.

‘Maybe we’ll get one of those on the way home,’ said Cass conversationally. The dog wagged his tail.

The punters were four deep at the fish stall in the next aisle. Behind the spotless white counter, two middle-aged ladies were working the queue with a deft touch and a nifty line in helpful hints and off-the-cuff recipes. In front of the counter the broad chiller cabinet was full of the most amazing things—scallops, smoked haddock and rock, Nile perch, red mullet, unnamed things with fins and dark glassy eyes, mussels and lobsters glittering like bizarre jewels—all snuggled down amongst great drifts of diamond-like crushed ice, their hard edges a contrast to the soft flesh of the peeled pink prawns and cockles and shrimps, moist and shiny under the bright overhead lights.

Cass took her place in line and settled down to the slow shuffle towards the front, letting her mind idle over what wine to pick up from the offie at the bottom of the road, and whether she should just take along a big pan of homemade carrot and coriander soup to Nita’s instead of taking vegetables. All this and half a dozen other thoughts were percolating randomly through her head as Cass looked around, just passing the time. As she idly gazed across the faces of the people at the stalls, she caught sight of Fiona’s live-in boyfriend, Andy.

She’d seen him once or twice at concerts, although barely ever spoken to him despite Fiona’s sporadic insistence that they should all get together for a meal sometime. He was loping across the road towards the market, dressed in a battered leather jacket, and he was smiling. Instinctively Cass looked in the direction he was looking, scanning the little groups of people, trying to pick out who he might be smiling at, wondering if it might be Fiona—and then Cass saw that it wasn’t Fiona.

Picking out the recipient of the smile gave her an odd feeling, a little shiver that made Cass feel uneasy. Andy was smiling at a girl, a girl who smiled right back in a way that said she was more than pleased to see him. She waved and hurried towards him, all smiles.

‘Hi,’ the girl mouthed. ‘How are you?’

As Andy and the young girl embraced and then held each other at arms’ length, looking each other up and down, a million and one thoughts tumbled through Cass’s head. First of all, she tried to tell herself it could be anyone, that it was silly to jump to conclusions. She could be a friend, a work colleague, god it could even be his sister—but there was another, stronger voice that was busy telling her that Fiona was right. Andy was seeing someone else. Someone significant, someone he was keeping away from Fiona, someone who he cared enough about to come out to meet first thing in the morning—in the rain.

As Cass watched, the girl tipped her head up towards him and Andy kissed her on the cheek. Tenderly. And then he smiled. As he pulled away, Andy scanned the faces of the people around them, left and right. Everything about the way he moved suggested that he didn’t want to be seen, not here, not now, not with this girl. Cass and Andy’s gaze met for a split second and Cass felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as they made a connection. A nanosecond later and it was over, as Andy guided the girl between the stalls, away from the early morning shoppers.