Stella Newman - Pear Shaped

‘He is really, really rich,’ I say to Laura the following day.

‘Good for him.’

‘I wish he didn’t have that much money.’

‘What would you prefer, three million?’

‘I could even go to four …’

‘Whatever, Soph. It’s a number, isn’t it? Doesn’t make anyone truly happy.’

Insert the cliché of your choice, but she is, I promise you, correct.

It is almost April and I have finally pinned Devron down and made him taste the trifles and fools he should’ve eaten weeks ago. I hate waiting for anything and anyone, but I particularly hate waiting for product sign-off from a man who won’t go to a restaurant that doesn’t serve a well-done steak and wedges.

‘What’s the life like on this one?’ he says, sliding his finger along the top of a chocolate trifle I was planning on taking round to Laura and Dave’s at the weekend.

‘Seven. This is life minus three,’ I say – we’re three days off the ‘eat by’ date, so four days into the pudding’s life.

‘And how does the consistency of that hold up on minus one?’ He points to a raspberry trifle. Devron will always ask one question that makes him sound knowledgeable, but blindfold him and he doesn’t know the difference between a blackberry and a blackcurrant.

‘Flavour’s good, texture and mouthfeel maintained till end of life.’

He nods. ‘Custard’s good on that lot,’ he says. ‘Approved.’

I feel like the proud mother of twenty kids, all of whom have just won the egg-and-spoon race.

‘Appletree are great with custard,’ I say. ‘Brûlées, tarts, crème anglaise …’

‘Brûlées … can you look at a microwaveable brûlée for autumn?’

‘The custard part?’

‘Whole lot.’

‘You won’t get crispy, browned sugar from a microwave, you need direct overhead heat for caramelisation.’

‘Orangy custards? Mands loves tangerines.’

‘Not ideal – citric acid interferes with the protein network, the fat globules separate at heat.’

‘Huh … what’s our margin on those trifles?’

‘38%’

‘And the cost of custard as percentage of total?’

‘Low. Bulk of cost is fruit and labour.’

‘Right, work up a dozen or so new custard-based puddings for launch next summer, margin of 40% plus. Yeah?’

I do like a challenge when there’s custard involved.

James has gone to Paris. When I left his house on Monday morning, he’d said, ‘I’ll call you on Friday.’

And he does. He always calls when he says he will, and very rarely at any other time. Although I’ve been busy all week with Devron’s new brief and out every night with friends, I’ve been distracted, hoping he’ll call just for the hell of it, just to say hi, but that doesn’t seem to be his style.

‘I’m on the Eurostar, so it might cut out. What are you doing tomorrow?’ he says.

I have kept my Saturday free in the hope that I’ll see him, but I’m bothered by his presumption that I’ll have done this.

‘Why?’

‘Meet me at the Tate Modern at 5pm.’

‘I’m not sure if I’m free.’

‘I’ve got something for you, it won’t keep.’

‘What sort of something?’

‘Trust me, you’ll like it. The man in the shop said it’ll be okay till 6pm Paris time, so don’t be late.’

‘We could meet earlier?’ I’d like to spend a bit of the day together.

‘I’ve got some errands. Meet me at the top of the slope?’

I wear a white cotton sundress that I bought in a New York flea market for five dollars. When I bought it two summers ago it was too tight, but I fell in love with the idea of one day fitting into it, and the fact that it cost less than the Thomas Keller chicken sandwich I’d just eaten. My wardrobe has a smattering of random, very cheap clothes like this, most of which will never fit, but when I try the dress on today it’s perfect. I put on a pair of beautiful pale pink silk French knickers. And at the last minute, I grab the large brimmed floppy straw hat that I’ve never dared wear outside of my flat. I feel French. I feel pretty and delicate and like someone in a Vanessa Bruno advert, rather than someone who spends most of her life with perpetual underarm stubble.

Today is the first proper day of spring. As I walk along the embankment from Waterloo I feel like the person I always wanted to be: happy, confident, cool. God, I wish I could make myself feel like this every day. Men stare. Fashiony girls surreptitiously look with a mix of envy and admiration. I should wear this hat more often.

There’s so much I want to do around here with James. Late night cocktails at the Festival Hall overlooking the Thames. A Sunday tea-dance at the Savoy with champagne and scones! Ice-skating, come winter, over at Somerset House. Afternoon Billy Wilder double-bills at the NFT. I browse the second-hand book stalls along the river and find a near-perfect copy of Rapture by Carol Ann Duffy. I’d love to buy it for James, but I suspect he’d be more comfortable with the John le Carré on the next table, or last year’s Top Gear annual.

I have spent too long pottering. I’m fifteen minutes late and as I approach the Tate, I see James from a distance looking at his watch with an anxious frown. God, I love the size of him. He’s so man-shaped, so masculine, so male. He’s wearing a navy coat and his dark blue Levis. This is a man who would never countenance wearing a pair of jeans with Lycra in them. He turns his head in my direction, then does a double take. I have to order myself not to break into a run towards him.

‘Good hat,’ he says, and kisses me for a full five minutes.

‘For you.’ He holds out a box wrapped in pistachio coloured paper with a big pink ribbon. ‘I hope this kitten’s got big lungs or you’ll have one guilty conscience, Miss Klein.’

‘If there’s a dead cat in here it’s your fault for kissing me so long,’ I say.

‘You shouldn’t be such a temptress,’ he says. ‘Come on, open up before the RSPCA nick us.’

Inside the box is a Jean Clement praline millefeuille: a mythical dessert. The cakes in Jean Clement are displayed like diamonds on velvet casings. They cost more than diamonds, and the praline millefeuille is the Great Star of Africa. I once had a migraine that lasted three days, and a Jean Clement millefeuille cured it. They only make ten a day and if you’re not in the queue when the store opens, you’ll just have to take my word for it that you’ll never put anything better in your mouth.

‘I had to wrestle a very determined Japanese lady with a dead fox round her neck to get you this.’

‘Oh my God. You’re a very good boyfriend.’ I kiss him and he smiles. ‘Open wide,’ I say, and attempt to feed him the cake.

He shakes his head. ‘I bought it for you, Queen of Puddings.’

‘I want you to have the first bite,’ I say. He takes a small nibble then looks at me in wonder. ‘Jesus, is that even legal?’ He takes a bigger bite and pretends he’s going to eat the whole thing. I wouldn’t even begrudge him if he did, that is how much I fancy this man.

He grabs my hand and I follow him into the gallery. ‘I read about this guy in the paper. I know how cultured you are,’ he says. I don’t know where he gets this idea from. Oh, yes – it was the fact that I mentioned a poet on the first night we met. I’m entirely not cultured, really. I like art and books and films but I can’t explain Martin Kippenberger. The thought of seeing Ewan McGregor play Shakespeare leaves me cold, and I’d rather watch Trading Places than a Bergman film. However, I get the impression that his previous girlfriends spend a lot of time down the gym and consider Paolo Coelho the best writer in the world, so I guess in the kingdom of the blind….