She returned to her seat, and tucked her slim legs underneath her so she was sitting on her heels, facing me. I looked at the long dark hair that framed a small face with very white teeth. Her attractive head was bent studiously over the sheet of paper.
‘I like the idea of the chicken and apricot tagine,’ she said. So did I, it was easy to make and practically foolproof. ‘We’ll need a vegetarian dish, about half the guests don’t eat meat.’
‘It’s on the other side.’ She turned the piece of paper over. ‘Do you like the idea of the smoked aubergine moussaka?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but it’s a bit too exotic for them,’ Naomi said, ‘as is the Caribbean jerk vegetable curry.’
Oh, I thought. I was disappointed, I had thought both of those would be quite interesting and different.
She put the paper down. ‘What about roast vegetable lasagne?’ she suggested.
I groaned mentally. How dull was that!
But I was enjoying my role as expert chef and problem solver. Then our cosy tête-à-tête was interrupted.
The ear-splitting noise of a car alarm rent the night, drowning out Miles Davis’s trumpet on Naomi’s expensive Bose stereo system. Bet it wouldn’t have drowned out Noddy Holder.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake …’
Naomi glared irritably in the direction of the window. It wasn’t a very spiritual, yoga recommended look; she was very angry indeed. The moment was ruined. There was the sound of shouts from outside, somewhere on the green, and then a pounding on her front door. She jumped athletically off her chair, and left the room.
I heard voices raised from the hallway: ‘It’s him isn’t it …?’ An angry male.
‘Calm down, Dave.’ Naomi, exasperated but very much in charge. I sat where I was, I didn’t think it my place to interfere with whatever was going on.
‘I’ll kill the bastard! Where’s he hiding!’ Then the door of the lounge flew open and an enraged figure of a man burst in.
It was Whitfield. He was wearing very little, a white silk kimono open to reveal a hairy, flabby stomach and man boobs with a Union flag tattoo across his heart and a pair of saggy black briefs from which his large, hairy balls hung out on prominent display. He was an eye-catching figure.
He saw me, jabbed an accusing finger. ‘You, what are you doing here! Was it you?’ He was trembling with rage, his eyes bulging. His balls too, come to that. Behind him, Naomi stood looking on helplessly.
Was what me? I wondered, not unreasonably. The trouble was, Whitfield was not a man that you could reason with at the best of times, and right now, was obviously not the best of times. It would be fair to say he was enraged.
I stood up. ‘Why don’t you calm down and …’
‘Calm down!’ he shouted in outrage, pointing a finger at me. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? “CALM DOWN!” You bastard!’
I wondered what on earth was going on in Whitfield’s mind. Maybe it was the drugs, weed-induced paranoia. Perhaps he’d like a vol-au-vent?
‘Just calm down, Dave,’ added Naomi, the chorus in a Greek tragedy.
He advanced on me, like Nemesis, pop-eyed with anger, fists clenched, then tried to grab hold of my collar. All our advice to calm down had gone unheeded. His flabby builder’s tits bounced angrily, the Union flag prominent – ah, patriotism, the last refuge of the scoundrel.
The time for discussion, I felt, had somehow slipped away. I didn’t think a vol-au-vent offer would help. Neither would the Tao Te Ching. So I hit Whitfield in the face twice, very fast and quite hard, once with my right which stopped him in his tracks and then a left hook, twisting my body so it landed with all the force of the top half of my body behind it. It slammed into the side of his head and knocked him down.
Textbook! I thought proudly.
He made an odd noise, like a loud groan, his legs buckled and he collapsed in a sitting position on Naomi’s oak coffee table. Fortunately it had been built to last and it withstood the fifteen stone or so of Whitfield crashing down on it.
I rubbed my knuckles, the human head is quite hard.
‘My God,’ said Naomi. I wasn’t sure if she was impressed or shocked. Maybe she wasn’t sure herself.
Whitfield got shakily to his feet. He looked angrily at me. I can’t say I was worried.
‘You’ve got celeriac remoulade all over your balls,’ I said, calmly.
‘Do what?’ He seemed confused. Perhaps it was because I’d nearly knocked him unconscious, perhaps it was the concept of celeriac remoulade.
‘It’s that stuff like coleslaw that’s hanging off your bollocks,’ I explained patiently. Perhaps he’d like the recipe. We all looked at the offending area of his anatomy, hanging out of his baggy pants. Bits of shredded celeriac in a garlicky, lemon mayo clung to his hairy testes. It was like some kind of horrible sex game. He’d sat down in the remoulade, dunking his balls in the stuff. A sort of mayonnaise tea-bagging.
‘I think you should go home and change.’ I added, ‘It’s not a good look.’
Whitfield nodded. He was quiet now, almost docile. He looked down at his groin again and then at us. He seemed somewhat at a loss.
‘I’ll take him back,’ said Naomi, rolling her eyes upwards in a ‘God give me strength’ sort of way. She turned to me. ‘Someone’s chucked paint over his Ferrari. He chased them and thought they’d hidden in here.’
Well, that explained both Whitfield’s presence and his rage. The various Buddhas in the room regarded us with tranquillity, as they would do.
I frowned, puzzled. ‘Why would they do that? Hide in here I mean.’
‘Because he thought I was behind it.’
I must have looked puzzled. I was puzzled.
‘I’m his ex,’ she said by way of explanation. She took Whitfield by the arm, like a parent with a naughty child. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
‘Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said. She nodded and disappeared with Whitfield. I started packing my stuff up. There was no way that we would be eating any more of my lovingly crafted food tonight. Neither, I thought with a hint of regret, would I be doing anything else at her house tonight. I thought of Naomi’s flexible body and lovely hair. Oh well, at least the boundaries between caterer and client wouldn’t be blurred. Three cheers for professionalism. I didn’t feel like cheering, it had been a while. But there was no point in lingering.
No moment of attempted seduction had happened. And even if that were on the menu, the moment had obviously passed.
At least Jess would be pleased.
Jess, needless to say, was delighted by the previous night’s events.
‘I told you so,’ she crowed.
I rolled my eyes and carried on kneading sourdough, or rather I weighed the sourdough starter (a gloopy natural yeast mixture that is mixed in with the flour to produce the carbon dioxide which inflates the dough). It had taken me ages to make; even though it was mainly just flour and water, it had kept going off until I used some recipe that