“You’ll set the whole bloody building on fire,” Caroline shouted as the flames leaped towards her ceiling, and I laughed.
Next, I carefully poured in some sour cream and a small amount of lemon juice, and sprinkled some paprika over the top. I had previously taken a large potato and, since Caroline didn’t have a kitchen mandolin, I had grated it on the large-hole side of her box cheese grater to produce long thin strips of potato that I now fried briefly in a deep fryer to produce crisp brown potato straws, while my beef mixture warmed on a low heat.
“I thought beef stroganoff was served with rice,” she said, watching me. “And I didn’t expect a chef to use my deep-fat fryer.”
“I use one all the time,” I said. “I know that fried food is not considered very healthy, but it tastes so good, and it’s fine if you eat it only in moderation and use the right oil for the frying. I certainly wouldn’t use lard like they used to.” I lifted the basket of potato straws out of the oil. “It’s traditional in Russia to serve beef stroganoff with potato straws, although lots of people like serving it with rice.”
We sat together on the sofa in her sitting room and ate off trays on our laps.
“Not bad,” she said. “Why is it called stroganoff?”
“After the Russian who invented it, I think.”
“Another Russian,” she said. “Is that why you chose it for tonight?”
“Not consciously,” I said.
“It’s nice.” She took another forkful. “What gives it such a distinctive flavor?” she asked with her mouth full.
“The sour cream and the paprika,” I said, laughing. “This dish used to be on lots of restaurant menus, but, unfortunately, these days it tends to be made without the beef, is called mushroom stroganoff and is served up for vegetarians.”
“Like the Komarovs,” she said.
“Indeed,” I said. “Just like the Komarovs.”
MONDAY MORNING was full of contradictions and wildly different from the evening before.
Caroline was eager to leave for the airport and could hardly contain her excitement at the prospect of jetting to Chicago to join the orchestra. She kept complaining at how slowly the time was passing as we waited for the taxi she had ordered to take us to Heathrow.
I, meanwhile, was dismayed at how quickly the hours were rushing by. I was sickened by the thought of her being so far away from me, while, at the same time, I was trying to share her pleasure in going.
We arrived at the terminal more than two hours before her plane was due to leave, and she checked in with no problems.
“I’ve been upgraded to business,” she exclaimed with a squeal, clutching her viola case to her chest.
“The check-in man must have fancied you,” I said.
“It was a woman,” she said, poking me in the ribs with her finger.
We sat on high stools and had coffee. There was an uneasiness between us. I wanted to spend every last moment with her, while she was desperate to get through to departures, as if in doing so her plane would leave more quickly. Neither of us wanted to express our eagerness to the other, as we both understood the situation.
“Do you want another coffee?” Caroline asked.
“No thanks,” I said. “I think you ought to go on through now, in case the lines for security are long.” I didn’t want her to. I wanted her to stay with me forever.
“I’ll stay a little longer,” she said. But I don’t think she really wanted to. She was trying to please me.
“No,” I said. “You go now, and I’ll get the train back to London, then on to Newmarket.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said, clearly relieved.
I waved to her until the very last second, until she and Viola finally disappeared into the security area and the departure lounge beyond. I then stood there for a while, waiting just in case they came back, just in case they needed something. But, of course, they didn’t.
How was it, I thought, that she could be so close to me, just through a door or two, and yet so far away? I even spoke to my overnight bag. “How could she go without me?” I asked it. It didn’t reply. I thought of my passport, sitting in the side pocket. Why didn’t I just fly to Chicago? Would Caroline be pleased or embarrassed by my arrival? What would Carl say if I didn’t go back to the Hay Net for another week?
“Stop being so silly,” I said to the bag, and received some strange looks from people around me.
I caught the Heathrow express train to Paddington and felt very lonely. It wasn’t so much that I was not with her; it was also the fact that I couldn’t even call her on the telephone if I wanted to, and wouldn’t be able to do so for at least the next nine hours. I couldn’t tell her how much I was missing her already, how much I was hurting. Perhaps it was just as well, I thought.
By the time I got to King’s Cross station, I reckoned that her flight must have surely departed. She would be sitting comfortably in her business-class seat, sipping business-class champagne and deciding which movie to watch. She was cocooned in an aluminum tube, rushing away from me at six hundred miles an hour, and I felt dreadful.
CARL COLLECTED me from Newmarket station at three o’clock and drove me to the Hay Net. I didn’t want to go home and sit alone in my cottage.
“We did sixty-five lunches yesterday,” said Carl.
“Good,” I said. “Perhaps we can now say we’re back to normal.”
“Still down a bit on dinners,” he said. “We only had twenty last night, and that’s low, even for a Sunday.”
“Perhaps we should close on Sunday evenings,” I said. “What do you think?”
“It would give us all Sunday evening off,” he said. Fixing the weekly staff rotation to provide for time off was always a headache.
“How many lunches did we do today?” I asked him.
“It was quite good,” he said. “At least thirty-five. But we’re the only place that does lunches on Mondays.”
We arrived at the Hay Net to find that Gary was busy with the kitchen porters cleaning in the kitchen. They had moved all the stainless steel worktop units and were scrubbing the floors beneath.
“What’s all that about?” I asked Carl as we went into the office. “Gary seems very industrious all of a sudden.”
“I think he’s trying to impress,” said Carl with a laugh. “He’s had his nose put out of joint a bit by Oscar.”
“Oscar?” I said.
“You know, the temporary chef from the agency.” I nodded remembering. “Seems that Gary thinks that Oscar is muscling in on his life and he doesn’t like it.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I said. “Oscar will only be here for a few more days.”
“Ah, but it’s not just in the kitchen,” said Carl. “Seems that Oscar has designs on Ray as well.” Ray and Gary, the couple. “Gary is jealous.”
“I’m keeping out of it,” I said. “As long as it doesn’t affect the running of the kitchen.”
“Are you working tonight?” Carl asked. “I could let Oscar go now if you’re going to be back full-time.”
“No,” I said. “Keep him here for a while longer. I don’t feel fully back to normal yet.” Also, I thought, I might need to be away more for the next few weeks as I looked for a London site. And I had been thinking of having another chef in the kitchen anyway to help with the workload. Having Oscar around for a bit longer might help me decide if it was really necessary. Staff salaries were the biggest of my overheads, and I certainly didn’t want to employ more chefs than I needed.
IN THE END, I did work in the kitchen that evening, although it wasn’t because I was needed. It was more to take my mind off Caroline’s flight. We did more than fifty dinners, which, while not quite at prepoisoning levels, was a huge improvement over last week.