15
One of the best things about cooking is that, by and large, you can control it. If something is too spicy, you can counteract it with cream or yogurt. If something is too sour, add sugar. Dealing with real life is nowhere near so simple. Since Richard died, some days I get the feeling I’m falling down a hole with nothing to grasp on to. On those days, I grasp on to food. That’s why, the afternoon after Anna is sedated, I go to the grocery store.
I don’t know what it is about squeezing an avocado that fills my heart with song. My basket is full of sweet corn, butternut squash, Dutch carrots, and free-range eggs. At intervals, I raise my basket to my nose simply to inhale. It feels so good to be back at Houlihan’s, my old grocery store. I’ve missed the organic produce, the high-end brands. In here, it’s easy to forget the reality of my life as a widowed housekeeper—even for an hour.
It takes me a while to realize that I’m not shopping for two anymore and my basket isn’t going to cut it. I’m on my way to the front to retrieve a shopping cart when a crisp iceberg lettuce catches my eye—perfect for a cold wedge salad starter. If I throw in some flat-leaf parsley, tomatoes, cucumber, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs, it will be lovely for this evening. Olive oil and cider vinaigrette for dressing. Even the residents with dentures could cope with that.
I reach for the top lettuce, the biggest one, still beaded with water from the mister. But before I can touch it, I feel a weight on my shoulder and I’m whipped around so fast, I drop my basket. There’s a crunchy sound: eggs breaking. Before I can steady myself, a hand shoots out and thwacks against my cheek.
“You!”
I step back, away from the finger that is now thrust in my face, and grasp the cool metal rail behind me. What on earth? I don’t recognize the woman standing before me. She’s older than me, perhaps forty, with a neat brown haircut.
“Well?” she cries. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
The part of my cheek where the slap connected begins to throb. My ear is ringing in a long endless line, like a hospital beeper after someone has died.
“My parents invested their entire life’s savings in your husband’s scheme! They weren’t those big-time investors who had money to burn, they were a hardworking couple who wanted to secure their future. Now their home is in foreclosure and they are broke.”
My mouth goes dry. Shoppers have hushed; people look up from their baskets, exchange glances by the potatoes. I can actually feel their eyes on me. That’s Eve Bennett. So much for her getting her comeuppance. She’s a fraud. Just like her husband.
In the dead quiet, there’s a sharp intake of breath. I see Andrea Heathmont peering around the end of the aisle. Another blonde is beside her, Romy Fisher maybe. My heart sinks further.
“Because of you,” the lady continues, “my parents have shopped at Bent and Dent these last few months! And you’re shopping for organic produce at the most expensive food store around? Where’s the justice?”
My eyes drop to my basket. “Oh! No. This isn’t for me.”
“And why should I believe you? You’re probably a liar and a swindler just like your husband. That man did the world a favor when he—”
“That’s enough.”
From nowhere, Angus appears. He steals around me, positioning himself between me and the woman. The woman looks startled, but only for a moment. She starts to walk around Angus, but he blocks her way.
“Actually, it’s not nearly enough, after what she’s done!” she yells over his shoulder. “Do you know who this is?” she asks Angus.
I glance at Andrea, who is still watching. She whispers something to the other woman and I curse myself for coming to Houlihan’s. What was I thinking?
“Yes, I know who she is,” Angus says quietly. “She’s a woman, trying to get on with her job, cooking for the elderly. You’ve just assaulted her, which is a crime, and you’ve damaged this produce, which will cost the store money, unless you pay for it.”
“I’m not going to pay for it,” the woman says, but some of the heat has gone from her voice. Tears build in her eyes. “The only person who should have to pay is this bitch.” The woman stabs her finger in my direction, but that appears to be all she has left. She abandons her cart and scurries out of the store via a side door.
Immediately the bustle of the store resumes: a hushed voice, the roll of shopping cart wheels on linoleum. Andrea watches for another moment, then disappears, too.
I look at my upturned basket. A single egg rolls free, and by the look of the yellow spray around the edge of the carton, it’s the sole survivor. I squat, bundling it all back into the basket. My cheek radiates with heat, like a nasty sunburn. The ringing continues in my ear.
Angus squats beside me. “My truck is out front.” He tucks a set of keys into my palm. “Go. I’ll take care of this.”
I shake my head, blinking against tears. “I … I have to finish the shopping.”