Chapter Fifteen: You Are What You Eat
When Gerry closes his eyes and thinks of his first wife, he thinks of fresh boiled prawns, fat lovely chips, and candy floss – not suffocated in some container, but pink puffy clouds of spun-sugar delight, so sweet it made your teeth ache. Those were her favourite foods – their favourite foods – as they wandered along the pier at Southend or ambled along the waterfront in Brighton, the sort of day-out, train-home holidays they could barely afford in those days. They'd been children together, great, overgrown children, playing in the sand and eating deliciously unhealthy foods.
Too bad they hadn't also grown up together. Gerry can admit this to himself now, at the distance of thirty years. Carole had realised you couldn't always be a child once you had a child. Gerry had simply sought his playmates elsewhere. But prawns, cotton candy, over-salted chips: he retains a special fondness for those innocent, joyful flavours, just as he is especially fond of Carole – and she of him, although Gerry tried hard enough during their marriage to make her despise him, God knows. Carole has known Gerry longest, has watched the protracted, painful struggle to become an honest-to-Christ adult, and in many ways she knows him best of the three. They have the most in common, really: the proud, loud post-war working class upbringing; the cheerful language of the London streets; the uneasy transition from child to parent, and then from parent to grandparent.
Alison, on the other hand, had never ordered anything other than a salad when they ate a meal out in a restaurant – or in a hotel room, as he had to admit their first meals together had been shared. Alison ordered a salad, and then ate half of whatever was on Gerry's plate, and almost always saved room for dessert. Ah, yes, salad days, he thinks, his lips quirking. Poached pears, shaved parmesan and pecorino, delicately sautéed breasts of chicken or duck or quail, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, cashews – and the greens! The array had initially bewildered Gerry, who had been going through an almost exclusively carnivorous (in all senses of the term) period in the early eighties. He had escaped on his weekends with Paula to the markets and explored the world of lettuces, of sweet and bitter field greens, of arugula (Italian and American varieties) and endive. And then there were the other ingredients: radishes and sunchokes, thinly sliced fresh beets bursting with flavour, perfect avocados. Eventually Gerry had realised that he actually liked all those salads a lot more than Alison did; she ploughed through them to get to the summer pudding or banoffee pie or thick slice of sponge waiting at the other end once she'd dutifully run the green gamut.
At the time Alison had seemed like the anti-Carole, the precise antidote to the bitter dregs of his first (and ultimately longest) marriage. Light where Carole was dark, petite where Carole was tall, curvy where Carole was rail-thin, dancing and shagging merrily where Carole was paying bills on time and wiping runny noses. Salad to chips. But when it mattered, they were both practical, shoot-from-the-hip, no-nonsense women. Gerry had been desperate to escape the confines of domesticity, but always – and this was the Standing Paradox – yearning for the perfect family. So what had he done? Divorced Carole, married Alison, installed her in a cute little house, had another beautiful, highly-intelligent daughter, and set to work making salads on his off days.
Rinse and repeat. Second verse, same as the first.
He saw Jayne and knew he had to have her, exactly the same way she picked a main dish when he took her out to dinner: by peering at the plates of their fellow diners and exclaiming, "Ooh, Gerry, that looks nice!" She hated to eat in empty restaurants, where she couldn't compare her choices to someone else's and relish a gloat or a little dismayed moan. That was fine with Gerry, who loved to show her off. The bigger the crowd, the better. Here, at last, was the glamorous, flashy, merry blonde he'd been chasing all his life, with her long, thick hair – always perfectly arranged – her low-cut tops, tight little skirts and high heels. Jayne should've been his perfect culinary match. They adored the same types of lovingly, elaborately prepared favourites with a twist. She was a great audience, appreciative of all his endeavors (ahem). It should've worked, and it hadn't. Gerry had carried that around with him for a long time, that bewildered sense of loss and failure, the conviction that there really was something missing or wrong inside him. It had been hard to let Jayne go, and she never quite seemed to be truly gone.
Until exactly a week ago, when she'd made it abundantly clear that she wanted to come back, and his response had not been unmitigated rapture. Not even mitigated rapture, come to that.
Where in the blue bloody blazes had Emily gotten the idea that he and Jayne were getting back together? Four years ago, maybe. But now?
Now Gerry has exactly what – exactly who – he wants. Who he's wanted for a long time, without allowing himself to realise it. And he must have done something right, somewhere along the line, because he's reaping the benefits of what can only be amazing karma. In short, not only has he just awakened to find that the events of the last twelve hours (Frank and all – Gerry hopes that dental bill will be a bitch) weren't some sort of drug-induced fantasy, but he has awakened to this realisation in Sandra Pullman's bed.
That's not in her rule book.
And yet here he is, and here she is, and here they are, at 7:12 on Friday morning, cocooned in her dark grey duvet. Her hair is fanned out across the royal purple pillow case, pure gold in the morning light. She is breathing softly, sleeping as soundly as a child. He can feel every inhalation and exhalation as her rib cage rises and falls with her spine tucked firmly against his chest and her hand resting against his forearm where it's curved around her waist.
Twelve hours ago, Gerry had strongly suspected that Sandra would never let him near her again, let alone closer than he has ever been before, watching the sunlight splash over the bright walls and honey-coloured floor and send out soft tendrils to tickle at her t-shirt-clad form.
The very short drive to her flat the previous evening had passed in silence. Gerry, feeling mildly contrite and majorly unwilling to go back to his empty flat and squander what was left of a precious Thursday night, pulled into Sandra's drive and offered, "I'll come in and make us dinner."
She had hesitated, and then smirked smugly as she decided, "Yeah, why not?"
Five minutes later he understood the smirk. The woman had no bloody food in her flat. There were the remains of three or four take-aways in the fridge; a bit of cereal and a chocolate bar in a cupboard; assorted condiments and spices; a bottle of juice; and an unopened bag of rigatoni.
"Jesus, Sandra!" he'd exclaimed, hands on his hips as he surveyed the desolation, "What do you bleedin' do for food?"
Grinning wickedly and semi-drunkenly (he had already pressed a large glass of water into her hand, intent on rehydrating her), she'd pointed to the Indian menu magnetized to the refrigerator door. This situation clearly required intervention, but not tonight.
"Sod it, I'll buy you a curry," he'd offered instead.
They'd somehow reached a silent, mutual understanding that they'd done enough talking for one night – certainly enough about Patterson and Jayne and all that rubbish. Sandra had disappeared into her bedroom – the Dark Continent, as far as Gerry was concerned – and re-emerged in a soft blue track suit sort of a thing, feet bare, face scrubbed clean, and he'd thought, This is new. He has seen Sandra like this before – once when she, Jack, and Brian had popped up on her doorstep at 7 a.m., and again last fall when she'd had the flu – but never on one of their Thursdays.
They'd watched crap telly as they ate their curries, speaking very little, and when Gerry had dropped his arm around her and lightly rubbed Sandra's knotted shoulders, she had curled into his side and rested against him. He tried very hard just to enjoy the moment without analyzing the quiet intimacy of it all. They'd stayed that way for a long time, long enough for Sandra to surprise Gerry by her stillness, until she had finally stood, held out her hand as she solemnly instructed "Come on," and led the way to her room.
Later, as she'd calmly gone about slipping on her night clothes and Gerry had tried awkwardly to figure out what to do with himself, how quickly she wanted him out on his arse and what to say, she'd glanced at him over her shoulder and nonchalantly offered, "You can stay if you want."
It hadn't exactly been the rolling out of the red carpet, but it was nevertheless a grand statement if you knew how to decipher Sandra's cool, prickly lexicon.
Play it cool, Standing. Remember: you are the definition of cool. You invented cool. "Yeah, all right. Don't feel much like drivin'."
He couldn't see her face as she switched on her alarm clock, but he would've sworn just by the set of her shoulders that she was again wearing that damned insufferable, irresistible smirk.
Aww, c'mon, gov, give it a bleedin' rest, he'd thought. She knew exactly how much he wanted her, wanted to be with her whenever she'd let him – How could she have thought he might want anyone else? He could barely handle her, although he was more than happy to try. Throw an old dog a bone.
He'd wondered if she had developed mind-reading capabilities as she leaned over and gently kissed him good-night before tucking herself into his side. Her cool lips tasted of minty toothpaste and Gerry was so chuffed at the idea of the two of them actually spending a whole night together in the same bed that he suddenly felt like the village maiden pining over the dashing city slicker. Christ, if word of this got out, it would massacre his reputation.
There is a framed photo beside the bed, a temple on the banks of a river, its domes sparkling golden and purple under a brooding sky shot through with reds and oranges. India, he thinks. She has never told him anything about her trip. Her mother had died and it had never seemed quite the right time to launch into, "So, Sandra, how was your holiday?" But maybe he should ask. He would like to know, and she might even like to tell him.
7:13. Her alarm will sound in two minutes. Gerry can't resist. His palm glides over her bare arm, tickling lightly, and he shifts so he can press his lips to the back of her elegant neck. He murmurs her name in her ear, sing-song, until she stirs, wriggling away from his touch and slapping at his chest hard enough to leave a stinging handprint.
"Piss off," she grouses gruffly, a malcontent, unwilling to be bothered – a real class-A, take-no-prisoners bitch.
Gerry feels his face split into a maniacal grin. Jesus Christ juggling plates, Sandra, I love you, he admits to himself. "Good morning to you too, sunshine," he retorts cheerfully to her, smacking her on the bum and then smoothly leaping out of the bed and well beyond her reach. She can kill him later, but she's not moving quickly enough now.
If they were at his flat he'd make her something fabulous for breakfast – poached eggs and spinach, a frittata, French toast soufflé – but as they're at hers, she'll have to settle for black coffee and toast made with not-too-terribly-moldy bread. He still whistles as he goes about making it, though. He's 61 years old, paunchy, gradually balding, a drinking and smoking gambling addict with three ex-wives, an unhealthy interest in banging up villains, and the elocution of a Dickensian chimney-sweep, but by God, he's a man in love. This morning it no longer seems impossible to admit it, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts. He doesn't know how long he has loved Sandra; he just knows that he does love her, as surely as he knows his own name and all the lyrics to his favourite Bad Faith song and the starting line-up for Chelsea.
Sandra broke three of her four cardinal rules last night: she showed she cared (albeit unwillingly); she let Gerry into the sanctum sanctorum; and she invited him to spend the night. So it's no wonder that things feel different today.
Better.
He just needs to work on this whole silly "Thursdays" thing. Fortunately he knows just how to do that. The way to this woman's heart is through her stomach, as the last six months – maybe the last eight years – have illustrated. He just needs to ply her with fabulous food until she – Well, what, exactly? Falls head-over-heels in love with him? Unlikely in the extreme.
Until she lets him in a bit more. He'd settle for that quite happily. Sandra isn't the head-over-heels type, but a slight stumble would do Gerry nicely.
So what should he prepare for her? She loves exotic flavour combinations, sweet and bitter, spicy and sugared, blends that stretch the palate and tease the taste buds. Foods that suit her multi-layered personality. But what is her very favourite food, the taste she'd choose to take on her tongue if she knew it was going to be her last?
He wants to make the perfect thing, the one that will turn the key in the lock, although he knows it may sound a bit foolish. Thai drunken noodle, devastatingly spicy, with succulent, crispy duck? A sweet, savory eggplant and sweet potato curry/ handmade ravioli, as soft and white as little pillows, stuffed with poached pears and blue cheese?
Maybe, he thinks, pouring coffee and buttering toast. All of the above, and none of the above. They'll work their way through those and decide where to go from there. Because Gerry is pretty sure that Sandra, like him, is on a quest. She still hasn't met her favourite food, the very best thing she'll ever eat.
Gerry will just have to keep experimenting until he hits upon the right thing, from soup to nuts and everything in between. He doesn't have any particular plans for the next twenty or thirty years; so he might as well spend them cooking for someone he loves.
He grins even as he shakes his head at his own fanciful thoughts. It's just another Friday, he tells himself sternly. There's work to be done. Get back to the business at hand and quit rhapsodizing like a ponce.
But he's still grinning. "Sandra," he calls loudly to be heard over the whirr of her hairdryer, "breakfast is ready."