Green Park

I

Maida Vale, London, June 2017

When the bus passed by her French balcony doors, she could see bopping heads on the top tier. On a particularly lonely night, glass of red wine and notepad in hand, she stared out of the window to try to catch someone’s eye, then make up their life story. Emma Cowley’s chosen career as a journalist suited her endless curiosity. People intrigued her, especially how things were never how they seemed.

Lately, life had been a succession of let-downs. Every time she thought she’d witnessed a perfect life, something creepy would happen. She’d meet the perfect couple, and without fail, later on in the evening the husband would make a clumsy drunken move on her, or the lovely little boy she imagined mothering would burst into an unbearable screaming tantrum. “I told you so, there is no such thing as a perfect life”, she would tell herself smugly.

Social media didn’t help either; someone could be suicidal, but all smiles on their Facebook page or partying away on their Instagram. Perhaps perfection wasn’t achievable, not without a filter, so here she was, dealing with that fact and wondering what she could do about it…

Last week, after her second glass of Chianti, she wrote on her Facebook wall, ‘I am intrigued to find out what everyone’s having for dinner tomorrow? Today's meals looked yummy.’ The idea to write that came from a lunchtime visit to an American diner in Hoxton where everyone seemed to be photographing their meals. With the chilli-fries burning a hole in her gut and the two hard shakes leaving her head fuzzy and the boredom driving her nuts, it wasn’t her finest hour. What made it even worse was when a particularly perky friend liked the comment followed by a delete of her status that listed her meals of the day.

After a good night's sleep, a strict word with herself and an intense run in the park, she decided to meet up with her friends later even though she’d already declined the invite. The night started well with updates on current boyfriends, work-life and mindless chatter. Her wine glass emptied faster than the others, she felt a little dizzy and she noted that she was starting to slur her words; she stopped speaking and slowed down her drinking; something felt off.

She walked home in the late summer evening soberer than she was the first hour of the night. It hadn’t been the best of weeks; her hamster-wheel-of-a-life was getting her down. Every day felt the same, it was hard to admit, but she was lonely and dangerously close to depression.

“Morning love, the usual?” said the young man behind the counter in her local coffee place.

“Please Frank, double shot, my head is a little foggy.” Emma contemplated a croissant but decided against it.

“What are you writing about today?” he asked.

“I am writing about baby turtles eating plastic,” she said.

“They eat plastic?” Frank looked concerned.

“We all do. You should stop giving people plastic lids.”

“I should? How would that help the turtles?”

“We got to start somewhere.” Emma grabbed her coffee and declined the lid politely.

Later that day, she was seeing her therapist, Susan Terry. Susan had an expression on her face that could haunt her dreams; it could only be described as cluelessly apathetic, or confusion, perhaps a hint of surprise.

“So, Emma… your mother. Did she ever tell you that she loved you?”

“Yes, she did, usually in front of other people.” Perhaps that wasn’t the exact truth but she was bored and she liked how she sounded when she said it.

“How did that make you feel?” Susan’s eyebrows nearly touched her hairline.

She continued her charade.

“Embarrassed, you know, like a show pony, it made me feel bad. Because it is a little weird, don’t you think?” Emma wanted a reaction but it wasn’t working. Then she felt guilty and humiliated. To make it worse, she started to well up, she wasn’t prepared for real emotions, and she couldn’t stop the cascading of tears running down her face.

Susan’s face froze in the highest of the eyebrow state. She mechanically reached for some tissues and passed them to her.

“That must have been hard for you. If your mother was here in the room right now, what would you say to her?”. Susan handed her tissues that smelled of lavender.

“Nothing. That’s why I’m here, I can’t talk to my mother.” She hated lavender. To top it all, this morning, she’d found her first grey hair. Grey shit, shit grey. The two words raced through her brain like a rancid mouse infestation. After two years of paying a hundred pounds per session and getting nowhere, something inside her snapped. She tilted her head and spoke in a calm, monotone psycho-horror-like voice.

“Are you surprised how I feel about my mother?” Emma glared at Susan.

“No, why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been coming here for a while now; I just wondered if you had an opinion, that’s all.”

“It’s not up to me. I am here to listen to you. That’s my job.”

“For fucks sake. Stop looking so confused; it’s confusing me.” Emma spoke louder than she usually would.

“I’m not confused, Emma.” Susan remained irritatingly calm; this wasn’t going very well.

“Why am I paying you? Don’t you have any answers for me? You must see that I have no clue what to do about anything. Perhaps suggest something that might actually help me?”

“We should take a break.” Susan’s voice was stern.

Emma held her head in her hands. This whole scenario was a joke. She stood up, grabbed her handbag and walked out of the office without shutting the door behind her. She decided this was the last time she would pay Susan Terry for listening to her speaking about herself; this frigging self-indulgent behaviour had to stop.

As she stepped out of the rent-by-the-hour offices on the prestigious Harley Street her phone rang. She reached for her phone; it was Catherine, her mother.

“Hi, Mum. Life update for you; I just sacked my therapist.”

“Oh, didn’t know you had one.”

“I did. Not anymore.”

“You’re funny; how do you feel?”

“Better.”

“Lunch tomorrow at one?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

She didn’t need therapy. She needed wine.

Emma put her phone back in her bag and marched towards Maida Vale.

She passed the local police station; it reminded her about an article she’d read about the number of babies that somebody had abandoned on station doorsteps and the heart-breaking left with the infants. ‘Look after my baby!’ ‘Please help my little girl!’ and ‘I’m sorry.’

Old buildings inspired her, even the downtrodden pavements did; they told stories, worn and gritted down by people and their mundane lives. Her feet kept marching, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other, but her mind was elsewhere; the contaminated London air brushed against her skin. She liked how that felt, so she walked faster, making the air hit her face even harder.

She thought about why she’d started to see Susan, how the fact that she was adopted had recently started to play on her mind, questions she never asked before had come up, and the reason why her mother never mentioned it even though they had a good relationship. She held her hands behind her back the way she always did when she was walking, it made her think clearer.

She arrived home flustered and inspired.

“Wait!” she said out loud to nobody, her eyes fixed on her battered MacBook.

She hang her coat up, fixed herself a large glass of wine. She opened her laptop carefully and ceremoniously as if they were about to start a race.

The deal she’d made with her teenage self was up; she permitted herself to wonder about her past, how she ended up being adopted. She started to see a therapist because of this slight niggling emptiness, a missing part of herself she couldn’t access.

She smiled, all that time and money, spent with Susan counted for nothing. The relief was instant as she started to type furiously; the words she wrote down explained her state of mind better than her thoughts.

It was time to try and work this mess of a brain out.

*

Osteria La Maria, Minervino, Italy, June 2017

"Two Vongole, three Minestrone soups and three Vitello tonnato. Table three. Pronto!"

“Yes, Chef,” replied the team in unison.

Tonight was critical, a brand-new menu was about to be tried at La Maria, and some of the world’s most influential food critics were in the room. Mario was cooking as well as hosting, making sure every detail ran to his standard. His Restaurant was his life work, his absolute priority. His passion for cooking started when he was a little boy; his mother ran an Osteria in Minervino Puglia, where he grew up and where he lived. He always knew that he was going to be a chef. At school, he’d been a failure, but he could make brilliant pasta aged five. Mario was doing his kitchen walk around, inspecting the work of his junior chefs.

“Do you understand what perfection is?” he asked a particularly scared-looking junior chef. It amused him to pick on the weak ones; it was a kitchen tradition; he would soon toughen up like he had and all the other chefs before him.

“Yes, chef.” The short blond young man looked terrified but determined.

“Anything imperfect will NOT leave my kitchen. Do you understand?” Mario marched around, muttering swearwords under his breath.

His mother would have been proud tonight; she’d saved up to send him to France to study under Michele Roux, he had the talent, and in France, he’d learnt the skills needed to achieve perfection. Maria wasn’t dead, but her mind had abandoned her. Up until four years ago, she still came in and worked her magic on the Restaurant’s sauces. The staff respected her; the whole town did; her pasta was famous, and Mario knew that no matter how many Michelin stars he achieved, he could never be a good as his mother at making pasta. Growing up, it was the two of them together. Mario’s father abandoned them before he was born and they had never met.

Nonna (as the whole town called her); still lived in his childhood home, cared for by a German nurse. The local shopkeepers kept on eye on her as she spent most of her day sitting in a rocking chair on the pavement outside her house. On a good day she recognised her son, today she didn’t.

Nonna Maria’s Minestrone di Minervino was the star signature dish on his menu. The preparation of the stock used to happen in her little kitchen and there were secrets around the ingredients that the locals had debated for decades. “The best cook in the world”, they would call her and Mario agreed.

The day the recipe for the stock was handed over to him he had mixed emotions because he knew she was fading away; the secret was the lard she used, lard from a specific local pig, overfed and ancient. He kicked himself for not identifying the ingredient. He practised and still, his mother’s version was better. He had to promise not to share it with anyone outside the Bonatti family; he continued the Sunday stock making tradition at her house, chasing the flavour his mother had created, sometimes she would come in and shout that he did it wrong and she was always right.

The concept behind his Restaurant was simplicity. The best produce in the land or the rarest flavour only a master of flavours could detect was important but overcomplicating a dish could ruin it; he had been to many restaurants where method had killed the plate. The balance was his secret method. His motto had always been, ‘The complexity of simplicity is the most difficult goal to achieve. I will never stop trying’. The slogan had become famous.

These days he said less. Talking about cooking didn’t interest him, he was a quiet man and the food spoke for itself. The first day of the new menu had gone well. He ushered his closest colleagues into his office.

“Umberto, today was good. Change the butter in the cannelloni sauce; I want you to make special notes on the guests. Any comments worth mentioning?”

“Everything went well. I’ll write a report later. Go home and have a rest. You look tired.”

Umberto was right, he felt worn out.

He arrived home and instantly his mood dropped, the hall light was off and he tripped over some shoes.

“Fuck….Helga!” he shouted. No reply; how hard could it be for her to pick up her shoes?

He could hear squeaky high-pitched voices down the hall, the familiar sound of the cartoons Alfonso watched continuously. His young son was sitting on the floor in front of a large screen. The little blond creature looked at him with curious eyes, and even though he was fond of the kid, mostly, he felt guilty because he didn’t have time to spend with him. His passion for food always came first.

“Papa!” Alfonso stood up and came over, dutifully placing a kiss on his father’s cheek, he then sat back down and stared at the screen.

Helga, his wife, had arrived in Minervino six years ago from Munich to be a protégé of his, they had an affair, and she fell pregnant. She gave up her lifelong dream of becoming a chef to be his wife and look after their child. After the birth, they stopped talking. Alfonso was a nice quiet boy who mostly spent his day playing with his train set or watching TV. His wife was miserable, and it showed; her frown line was deep enough to fit a coin in.

“Helga?” The door was slightly ajar; Mario could see she was asleep. He tried gently knocking on the door, but there was no answer. It was clear Helga had no interest in him or being a wife. He looked down on his round, bloated stomach; its enormous volume blocks the view of his feet and his shrinking manhood. He was over as a lover and a husband. His house was not home to anyone who lived there. He shut the door closed and walked towards the kitchen.

“Alfonso,” he called.

“Yes, Papa.” the boy answered.

“Did you have dinner yet?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Good. Good.”

Helga appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, Mario. I was...on the phone.” She was still dressed in pyjamas, at six o’clock in the evening. He looked her up and down and left the room. Recently, he’d tried to talk to her, but she was always grumpy and tired. It wasn’t his fault they fought; she was rude and fat.

The next morning, Helga was in her bedroom way past breakfast time. Another service had gone well, and the success had left him in a good mood, so he plucked up the courage to talk to her. He knocked on her door; there was no reply, so he entered anyway.

“Ciao.”

“Mario, please. I have a headache.”

“I just wanted to tell you about the Minestrone,” he tried.

“What about it?” she mumbled.

“I…well, the new menu... It’s better, better than ever before.”

“That’s good. You’re a good chef. Close the door behind you. I want to sleep.”

He shut the door and felt a rush of anger surging through him. Nobody would ruin this for him. His hard work had paid off again, he had delivered perfection. Quietly, he was seething, but he was done fighting with this sloppy woman.

Mario left the house even though he didn’t need to be at work for another two hours. He walked towards Nonna’s; the familiar sand-coloured streets calmed him down. He stopped and bought an espresso and picked up wild strawberries that the shopkeeper had kept for him. He was tired, but there was nowhere to rest. Work was all that mattered to him now, Helga needed to understand that, or she had to go.

*

Soho, London, 1974

“Brenda!!” A hoarse voice shouted from downstairs. Mum was probably drunk; she pretends to have orange juice for breakfast but the Vodka bottles disappear daily only to reappear empty in the strangest places.

I walk downstairs, dreading what state she’ll be in this morning. It’s obvious at first glance that she is not feeling great.

“Darlin’, you have to look after this place today. You’ve given me your friggin’ lurgy.” She starts shuffling towards her scruffy bedroom.

I feel relieved; at least she’d be out of my way.

“Don’t worry, Mum; I’ll manage.” She shuts the door behind her.

There are only two rooms occupied at the B&B this week. An Italian Mother and son and a Scottish electrician called John. The Italians look like they come straight out of the movies, olive-skinned and shiny-eyed. The mother is slightly chubby, but the son is so beautiful; I can’t stop staring at him, and every time I see him, my face goes tomatoey red. They look out of place in our downtrodden place.

I start doing my chores, pretend-dusting, and for a moment, I consider getting the hoover out. It’s 7 am. I need to get breakfast on, so I go to the kitchen. I can hear footsteps coming from upstairs; my stomach tickles from the inside.

I shout out for them to take a seat, and I will bring them breakfast. I put the bacon in the frying pan, the slightly mouldy bread in the toaster and switch on the noisy kettle. Mum told me they drink coffee, not tea. I don’t know how to make coffee. The pan starts to explode with smoke, and the rubbish fire alarm goes off. I try to stop it with the broom, and by the time I manage, the bacon is charcoal black. I look over to the door, and I see two silhouettes hidden in the smoke. It’s them, the Italians. The mother looks horrified, and the boy is chuckling so much his whole body is shaking. I feel so ashamed. I’m no cook, but I should be able to cook an English breakfast. And to add to the humiliation, the toaster pops up and presents two pieces of charcoal toast. I start to cough violently; the leftover from my fluey lungs can’t handle the smoke. The Italian woman looks concerned; she gets me a glass of water and opens the window to let the air in. Her kindness makes me want to cry; my mother would never care about me like this. I help her; that’s how it is and always been. She does care about other people, just not me.

“My English...very bad.” says the boy, he points at his mother and says "Maria", A and then at himself and clearly says; "Mario". I smile because it's very sweet.

“My Italian... No.” I try and shake my head. We both burst out laughing, and the boy is even more beautiful than I first thought.

Maria, the mother, points towards the chair, I sit down, and she opens up the fridge before I can protest; a look of horror emerges on her kind face. I stare at the floor to disguise my embarrassment; our kitchen is in no state to be seen by guests. Maria looks at me with a question-mark-like face. “OK?” she says. I think she means that she wants to cook. I nod because I feel too unwell and weak to protest. She starts taking out things from the fridge, and I show her where the larder is. She cleans up and starts preparing. I don’t know how she did it, but she makes the best meal I’ve ever tasted with the breakfast ingredients we have. After two weeks of feeling like a squeezed-out cloth, I scoff down the meal, and I can tell it made her happy.

“Thank you. How do you say it in...?” I ask Mario.

“Grazie,” he says the word slowly. I try to copy him; he laughs at my rubbish attempt; my face goes bright red again.