The Summer Seaside Kitchen Page 2

  If you have ever had an utterly agonising crush, you will know what this is like. Kai knows exactly how pointless this crush is, because he works for him too, and can see their boss clearly for exactly what he is, which is a terrible bastard. But there is of course no point telling this to Flora.

  Anyway, the man on the train is not him. Flora feels stupid for looking. She feels fourteen whenever she so much as thinks about him, and her pale cheeks don’t hide her blushes at all. She knows it’s ridiculous and stupid and pointless. She still can’t help it.

  She starts half reading her book on her Kindle, crammed in the tiny carriage, trying not to swing into anyone; half looking out of the window, dreaming. Other things bubbling in her mind:

  a)

  She’s getting another new flatmate. People move so often in and out of her big Victorian flatshare, she rarely gets to know any of them. Their old mail piles up in the hallway amid the skeletons of dead bicycles, and she thinks someone should do something about it, but she doesn’t do anything about it.

  b)

  Whether she should move again.

  c)

  Boyfriend. Sigh.

  d)

  Time for Pret A Manger?

  e)

  Maybe a new hair colour? Something she could remove? Would that shiny grey suit her, or would she look like she had grey hair?

  f)

  Life, the future, everything.

  g)

  Whether to paint her room the same colour as her new hair, or whether that would mean she had to move too.

  h)

  Happiness and stuff.

  i)

  Cuticles.

  j)

  Maybe not silver, maybe blue? Maybe a bit blue? Would that be okay in the office? Could she buy a blue bit and put it in, then take it out?

  k)

  Cat?

  And she’s on her way to work, as a paralegal, in the centre of London, and she isn’t happy particularly, but she isn’t sad because, Flora thinks, this is just what everyone does, isn’t it? Cram themselves on to a commute. Eat too much cake when it’s someone’s birthday in the office. Vow to go to the gym at lunchtime but don’t make it. Stare at a screen for so long they get a headache. Order too much from ASOS then forget to send it back.

  Sometimes she goes from tube to house to office without even noticing what the weather is doing. It’s just a normal, tedious day.

  Although in two hours and forty-five minutes, it won’t be.

  Chapter Two

  Meanwhile, three miles to the west, a blonde woman was shouting, loudly.

  She was gorgeous. Even annoyed and spitting after a sleepless and exceptionally energetic night, her hair roughed up and tumbling about her shoulders, she was still leggy, clear-skinned and utterly beautiful.

  Outside there was the low hum of traffic, just discernible through the triple-glazed glass of the penthouse apartment. The early-morning clouds were low, settling on the thrusting towers of the City skyline and over the River Thames – it was an incredible view – but the forecast threatened a damp, muggy day, hot and uncomfortable. The blonde was yelling, but Joel was simply staring out of the window, which didn’t help matters. She’d started out nice, suggesting dinner that night, but as soon as Joel had made it clear he wasn’t particularly interested in dinner that night, and that in fact three meetings was probably very much enough possibly for his entire life, she’d turned nasty pretty fast, and now she was shouting because she was not used to people treating her like this.

  ‘You want to know your problem?’

  Joel did not.

  ‘You think that you’re all right underneath. That that makes it okay to behave like an absolute bastard all the time. That there’s a soft side to you somewhere and you can turn it on and off at will. And I’m telling you, you can’t.’

  Joel wondered how long this was going to take. He had a psychiatrist who generally wasn’t as direct as this. He wanted a cup of coffee. No: he wanted her to leave, then he wanted a cup of coffee. He wondered if looking at his phone would speed matters up. It did.

  ‘Look at you! All you are is how you behave. That’s it. Nobody gives a crap what’s going on inside you, or what you’ve been through. All you are is what you do. And what you do is a disgrace.’

  ‘Are you done?’ Joel found himself saying. The blonde looked like she was going to hurl a shoe at him. Then she stopped herself and began to pull on her clothes in an affronted silence. Joel felt he shouldn’t look, but he’d forgotten how gorgeous she was. He blinked.

  ‘Screw you,’ she spat at him. Her skirt was incredibly short. She was very clearly going to be doing the walk of shame on the tube home to west London.

  ‘Can I get you an Uber?’ he said.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied stiffly. Then she changed her mind. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Get me one now.’

  He picked up his phone again.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘You don’t remember? You’ve been there!’

  Joel blinked. He didn’t know London very well.

  ‘Yes, of course…’

  She sighed.

  ‘Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What goes around comes around, Joel. You’ll get yours.’

  But he was already up, heading for the coffee machine; checking his emails; getting ready for the day. Something was nagging at him about a case but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Something good. What was it?

  Seven hundred miles due north, the men were coming down from the fields, stretching their muscles, the dogs scampering around their feet, rabbits scattering before them, the wind blowing in off the water as fresh as lemon ice under the soaring bright white sky. The first of the morning’s work done, they were looking for breakfast, as below them on the stones of the harbour the fishermen hauled in the catch and sang in the clear morning light, their voices carrying up the hillside and into the open air:

  And what do you think they made of his eyes?

  Sing aber o vane sing aber o linn

  The finest herring that ever made pies

  Sing aber o vane sing aber o linn

  Sing herring, sing eyes, sing fish, sing pies

  Sing aber o vane sing aber o linn

  And indeed I have more of my herring to sing

  Sing aber o vane sing aber o linn

  Chapter Three

  Joel walked into his office with a look of concentration on his face. He knew what had been nagging at him: he had an early-morning meeting with Colton Rogers, another American. Famously wealthy, he’d made his money through tech start-ups. Joel had heard of him but had never met him before. If he was coming to London and bringing his money, then Joel was very pleased indeed to hear this. All thoughts of the unpleasant incident that morning had completely gone from his head.

  He nodded at his assistant, Margo, to go and fetch Rogers’ people, and looked cheerfully out of his office window. They were just over Broadgate, in the heart of the City, overlooking the Circle and on to the towers beyond; he could see all the way down to the river. The streets were full of bustling people; black cabs in a line, even this early in the day. He loved the city, felt animated by it, enjoyed being a part of the big money-making machine. From up here it felt like his domain, and he wanted to own it. He was half smiling to himself when Margo turned up, ushering Colton Rogers and his team in and indicating a tray of bagels and Danishes, even though they both knew that nobody ever took one.

  ‘Hey,’ said Rogers. He was tall and rangy and wore the classic West Coast tech-guy outfit – jeans, a polo neck and white sneakers. He also had a slightly greying, exceedingly tidy beard along his jaw. Joel wondered if his own suit looked as strange to Rogers as Rogers’ outfit looked to him. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Rogers.’

  ‘Colton, please.’

  He came over and looked at the view.

  ‘God, this city is crazy. How can you stand it? So many
goddam people everywhere. It’s like an ants’ nest.’

  They both peered down.

  ‘You get used to it,’ said Joel, indicating a seat. ‘What can I do for you, Colton?’

  There was a pause. Joel tried not to think of how much this man was worth. Bringing a client this size into the firm… well. It would go down very well.

  ‘I’ve got a place,’ said Colton. ‘A really beautiful place. And they’re trying to build wind farms on it. Or near it. Or next to it or something. Anyway. I don’t want them there.’

  Joel blinked.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Scotland,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Joel. ‘You’ll probably need our Scottish office.’

  ‘No, it’s got to be you guys.’

  Joel smiled even more broadly.

  ‘Well, it’s nice that we’ve been recommended —’

  ‘Oh Christ, no, it’s nothing like that. I think you vicious bloodsuckers are all the same, and trust me, I’ve met a lot of you. No. I gather that you’ve got a local lawyer up there. Someone who can come and fight for me who’s actually visited the damn place.’

  Joel squinted and racked his brains. He’d never even been to Scotland; didn’t actually know what Colton was talking about. He didn’t think they had anyone like that. Someone from Scotland. He didn’t want to admit it, though.

  ‘It’s a big firm…’ he began. ‘Did they give you a name?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Colton. ‘But I can’t remember it. Something Scottishy-sounding.’

  Joel blinked. He normally saved displays of impatience for his staff.

  Margo started in the corner of the room and Joel turned to her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Might be that Flora MacKenzie? The paralegal? That’s a Scottish name, isn’t it?’

  This rang absolutely no bells with Joel.

  ‘She’s from up there… somewhere really weird.’

  ‘Weird?’ said Colton, a smile playing on his lips. He gestured once more to the throbbing landscape on the other side of the glass. ‘Living all jam-packed on top of each other in a place where you can’t breathe or drive or get across town is probably what I’d call weird.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Margo, going bright red.

  ‘She’s just a junior, though, right?’ said Joel.

  Colton lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s all right, I haven’t actually murdered anybody. I just want somebody local who actually has a clue what’s going on before they start charging me eight hundred dollars an hour. It’s called Mure.’

  ‘What is?’ said Joel.

  Colton looked frustrated.

  ‘The place I’m talking about.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Margo. ‘That’s her.’

  ‘Well, get her then,’ said Joel irritably.

  ‘Yes, but anywhere we go, if it’s nice we won’t be able to sit outside and it’ll be overbooked and —’

  ‘That’s al fresco living in London,’ said Kai, who sat at the next desk. ‘You just have to squeeze in.’

  Flora frowned. It always seemed to be such an effort to plan a get-together – everyone would bid out or in at the last minute or hang around for a better offer – but it was so hot. It seemed to her that being outside, rather than trapped in her stifling little bedroom at the end of the DLR, was the right way to go tonight. Plus, it was so hard to sleep when it was hot like this. She might as well go out… She glanced at the large pile of files in front of her and sighed. They’d sort it out at lunchtime.

  The internal line rang and she picked it up, unsuspecting.

  ‘Flora MacKenzie.’

  ‘Yes, it is you, isn’t it?’ came Margo’s clipped, very formal voice. Flora had studied her carefully, given that she got to spend so much time at close proximity to Joel, and was utterly terrified of her: her immaculate clothes and the way she would look at you as if you were an idiot if you ever asked her for anything. ‘You’re the Scot.’

  She somehow said this like somebody might say, ‘You’re the Martian with the four heads.’

  Flora swallowed nervously. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you come upstairs, please?’

  ‘Why?’ said Flora before she could help herself. She didn’t work for Joel, she worked for various other partners, far further down the ladder.

  Margo paused. She obviously didn’t appreciate being interrogated by some nothing hick junior from the fourth floor.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she said icily.

  It quickly ran through Flora’s head to say that she actually required a blow-dry, a wax, a fake tan and a full makeover to make her ready, but she thought better than to risk it just then.

  ‘I’ll be straight up,’ she said, replacing the phone and trying not to panic.

  Flora’s career so far had involved her keeping her head down at H&I, the University of the Highlands and Islands, doing a law undergraduate course and making up for what she lacked in natural ability by working her socks off, then going for job interview after job interview, polishing her shoes and her CV and clattering around a huge, unfriendly and unfamiliar London, asking for advice, trying to make connections, competing against a million other young people trying to do the same thing. And when she scored a job at a big firm, with the opportunity to move up, maybe even one day convert her degree, she’d soaked in everything, tried to hold on to everything, learn as much as she could, asking everyone for advice.

  Never once in all that time did anyone say to her: don’t fall for your boss, you idiot. And never once did she think it would happen.

  Until it did.

  It had been such a brief interview. At various stages of the process, she’d been quizzed by cadres of terrifying women who barked questions at her and old men who sighed as if thinking it wasn’t fair that they couldn’t ask her whether she was planning to get pregnant. She’d met HR, bumped into other grads, many of whom she recognised trailing round the same, slightly dispiriting trail – there were, as ever, far more people qualified for the jobs than places for them to go.

  But she had done her research, knew her area down to the ground, was utterly prepared by the years at the kitchen table with her mother constantly asking her if she’d done her homework – could she do more? was she ready? was the exam passed? There were smarter people than Flora, but not many who worked harder. Then right at the end she’d been asked to step into the partner’s office. And there he was.

  He was yelling at someone at the end of the phone. His accent was noisy, unapologetically American, and he was gesticulating with his free arm, hollering something about district impartiality and how they had another think coming, and Margo – although Flora didn’t know who this glamorous woman was then – had indicated briefly that this was the new junior, and he’d waved his assistant away crossly, then paused, jammed the phone down and stuck out his hand, a faint smile breaking across his face as he almost paid attention.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Joel Binder.’

  ‘Flora MacKenzie.’

  ‘Great,’ he’d said. ‘Welcome to the firm.’ And that was it. That was all it was. She’d stayed gazing at him – his chestnut-coloured hair, strong profile and oddly full lips – until Margo had ushered her out. Flora hadn’t noticed the look the woman had given her as they’d left the room.

  ‘He seems nice,’ she said, feeling herself blush hot. He didn’t look like most of the lawyers she knew – stressed, overworked; dandruff on their shoulders; skin that didn’t see the outdoors anything like enough; yeasty paunches.

  Margo simply hummed and didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t speak to her again for about six months. Occasionally she watched him in meetings as she sat there shyly trying to take notes and miss nothing; he was commanding, rude, aggressive and an overwhelmingly successful lawyer, and Flora, to her utter shame and embarrassment, had a crush on him beyond belief.

  ‘So, tell me about Joel,’ she’d said faux-casually, out for a
getting-to-know-you drink with some of the other slaves – junior paras who were expected to work twenty-hour days for practically no money and basically have no other life at all. ‘You know, the partner?’

  Kai turned to her and burst out laughing.

  ‘Seriously?’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Flora, feeling herself go pink and staring at her large glass of white wine, so pale it was almost green. She hadn’t known what to order and had let the others go for it, and was now slightly worried about how to pay for it. Living in London was horrifyingly expensive, even with a salary.

  Kai had been there all summer as an intern, and was on the fast track to becoming an actual lawyer, so he was well up on office gossip. He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Christ. Another one.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? I didn’t say anything.’

  Where did they get this self-confidence? Flora wondered all the time, particularly about people who’d been raised in London. Did it just arrive? She knew she ought to be doing extra classes – maybe, who knows, even training to be a full lawyer. But after what had happened… She couldn’t. Not just yet.

  And work seemed so… well. It was what she had always wanted. A proper professional, smart job. But after she’d got over the novelty factor of having a season ticket and a salary and smart shoes and lunch breaks, it had started to seem a little… Hmm. Repetitive. The paperwork cascaded and never ended, and just as she felt she was getting on top of things, a case would be settled or called off and then it would all start again. She knew she should be studying on top of everything else. But she rather felt she was failing with the ‘everything else’.