15
I Hate Myself for Loving You
When I got home I made another attempt to google Marcie’s tour from 2009. But like last time, I found references to Jess’s band supporting Marcie and nothing about the band being dropped. Supporting artists didn’t always do full tours – they did legs, and then other bands took over. Nothing untoward was hinted at.
As a last resort I went to a trashy rumour site that kept changing addresses to stave off libel action, but even there the only story I found was about Marcie having had the secret love child of a long-dead, black-and-white movie star with the help of alien technology.
Whatever the facts about that particular tour, they weren’t easily available on the net. You needed to have been there.
I was due at Patrick and Justin’s for dinner that night and I was itching to ask Pat, but I knew I had to restrain myself. We had a rule about not talking shop in each other’s homes, and that was probably a good thing because, in all honesty, I didn’t really care about Jess and Marcie. I cared that their ten-year-old ghosts had caused friction between me and Simon.
Would he still want to come to Georgia’s party tomorrow night? Going without him would be horrible, especially after we’d had such a lovely time choosing costumes.
‘Zoë my dear, you made it! And laden with gifts, I see.’ Patrick smiled and enveloped me in a hug. On the way to their Hampstead flat I’d stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of red wine and a huge box of Bendicks chocolate mints – Pat’s particular weakness.
‘Let’s not tell Justin about the chocolates,’ said Patrick conspiratorially. ‘Sugar’s as deadly as nicotine, or so he keeps telling me. I’ve kicked the smoking habit – how boring would it be to cut out chocolate too?’
Something divine and garlicky was being concocted in the kitchen. Justin was a great cook who loved to make mouthwatering pasta dishes from scratch.
‘You caught us in the middle of a domestic,’ said Patrick, ushering me through to the kitchen, where Justin was presiding over two sizzling pans. ‘We’re having a ding-dong about olive oil. But now you’re here, you can put the whole matter to rest as an impartial observer.’
Justin turned from the stove to kiss me on each cheek. ‘Zoë, you know I love you, but you’re hardly impartial.’
I sat down at the solid wood kitchen table. ‘What’s this all about?’
Pat sat down next to me and poured me a glass of wine without me having to ask. ‘Justin’s annoyed that I only bought Greek olive oil this week, and he wanted Italian for his dish. I told him the damn pasta will only be improved by this marvellous Cretan oil I found.’
I took a sip of wine, trying to weigh up my words. ‘Well, it’s Justin’s recipe and if he thinks Italian olive oil is better, that’s his call.’
Justin humphed in satisfaction.
‘Not so fast,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s not what I’m asking.’ He turned to me. ‘In your opinion, my dear Zoë, which olive oil tastes better – Italian or Greek?’
I laughed. ‘I’m afraid Justin is right, I can’t be objective about this. Growing up you get it drummed into you – the Greek version ofeverythingis better.’
*
Two hours later, with Graeco-Italian rivalries put to one side, we were relaxing in the living room, a second bottle of red wine open and congratulating Justin on his delicious penne all’Arrabbiata. Although in Patrick’s case, the wine had been swapped for his customary Gordon’s and tonic.
‘The trick is to get fresh Scotch bonnet,’ said Justin, and I nodded, pretending to know what he was talking about.
‘It’s a type of chilli,’ whispered Patrick, noticing my blank stare.
The pair of them thought it was hilarious that my parents were in the restaurant business, but I was so terrible in the kitchen. But that’s the thing about having great cooks in the family – you never have to learn for yourself.
‘You seem out of sorts, my dear. Is everything okay?’ Patrick was too perceptive not to notice that my quietness wasn’t all down to not keeping up with Justin’s culinary tips.
‘Boy trouble,’ I murmured.
Justin winked. ‘That’s the best kind.’
‘Too many to choose from?’ said Patrick.
‘There’s only ever been one boy for me,’ I said, surprising myself.
Wow. Was that the wine talking or how I really felt?
Patrick smiled. ‘You never seem that bothered about relationships and dating. I should have guessed it was because you’d already lost your heart to someone.’
