content and uplifted. It just shows the effect that a morning of pure culture has on the soul. From now on, I decide, I'm going to spend every Saturday morning at a museum.
When I get back home, the second post is on the doormat and there's a square envelope addressed to me in writing I don't recognize. I rip it open as I lug my carrier bags to my room – and then stop in surprise. It's a card from Luke Brandon. How did he get my home address?
Dear Rebecca, it says, It was good to bump into you the other night, and I do hope you had an enjoyable evening. I now realize that I never thanked you for the prompt repayment of my loan. Much appreciated.
With all best wishes – and, of course, deepest sympathy on the loss of your Aunt Ermitrude. (If it's any consolation, I can't imagine that scarf could suit anyone better than you.)
Luke
For a while I stare at it silently. I'm quite taken aback. Gosh, I think cautiously. It's nice of him to write, isn't it? A nice handwritten card like this, just to thank me for my card. I mean he didn't have to; he's not just being polite, is he? You don't have to send a thank-you card to someone just because they repaid your twenty quid.
Or do you? Maybe, these days, you do. Everyone seems to send cards for everything. I haven't got a clue what's done and what's not any more. (I knew I should have read that etiquette book I got in my stocking.) Is this card just a polite thank-you? Or is it something else? And if so… what?
Is he taking the piss?
Oh God, that's it. He knows Aunt Ermintrude doesn't exist. He's just pulling my leg to embarrass me.
But then… would he go to all the trouble of buying a card, writing in it and sending it, just to pull my leg?
Oh, I don't know. Who cares? I don't even like him, anyway.
Having been so ultured all morning, I deserve a bit of a treat in the afternoon, so I buy myself Vogue and a bag of Minstrels, and lie on the sofa for a bit. God, I've missed little treats like this. I haven't read a magazine for… well, it must be a week, except Suze's copy of Harpers and Queen yesterday. And I can't remember the blast time I tasted chocolate.
Oh, I don't know. Who cares? I don't even like him, anyway. Having been so ultured all morning, I deserve a bit of a treat in the afternoon, so I buy myself Vogue and a bag of Minstrels, and lie on the sofa for a bit. God, I've missed little treats like this. I haven't read a magazine for… well, it must be a week, except Suze's copy of Harpers and Queen yesterday. And I can't remember the blast time I tasted chocolate.
But I can't spend too long enjoying myself, because I've got to go out and buy the stuff for our homemade curry. So after I've read my horoscope, I close Vogue and get out my new Indian recipe book. I'm quite excited, actually. I've never made curry before.
I've gone off the Tiger prawn recipe because it turns out Tiger prawns are very expensive. So what I'm going to make instead is chicken and mushroom balti. It all looks very cheap and easy, and I just need to write out my shopping list.
When I've finished I'm a bit taken aback. The list is quite a lot longer than I'd thought it would be. I hadn't realized you needed so many spices just to make one curry. I've just looked in the kitchen, and we don't have a balti pan, or a grinder for grinding spices, or a blender for making the aromatic paste. Or a wooden spoon or any scales that work.
Still, never mind. What I'll do is quickly go to Peter Jones and buy all the equipment we need for the kitchen, and then I'll get the food and come back and start cooking. The thing to remember is, we only have to buy all this stuff once – and then we're fully equipped to make delicious curries every night. I'll just have to think of it as an investment.
By the time Suze arrives back from Camden Market that evening, I am dressed in my new stripy apron, grinding up roasted spices in our new grinder.
'Phew!' she says, coming into the kitchen. 'What a stink!'
'It's aromatic spices,' I say a bit crossly, and take a swig of wine. To be honest, this is all a bit more difficult than I'd thought. I'm trying to make something called balti masala mix, which we will be able to keep in a jar and use for months, but all the spices seem to be disappearing into the grinder and refusing to come back out. Where are they going?
'I'm absolutely starving,' says Suze, pouring herself a glass of wine. 'Will it be ready soon?'
'I don't know,' I say through clenched teeth, peering into the grinder. 'If I can just get these bloody spices out…'
'Oh well,' says Suze. 'I might just make some toast.'
She pops a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and then starts picking up all my little bags and pots of spices and looking at them.
'What's all spice?' she says, holding up a pot curiously. 'Is it all the spices, mixed together?'
'I don't know,' I say, banging the grinder on the counter. A tiny dusting of powder falls out and I stare at it angrily. What happened to a whole jarful that I could keep for months? Now I'll have to roast some more of the bloody things.
'Because if it is, couldn't you just use that and forget all the others?'
'No!' I say crossly. 'I'm making a fresh and distinct balti blend. OK?'
'OK,' says Suze, shrugging. 'You're the expert.'
Right, I think, taking another swig of wine. Start again. Coriander seeds, fennel seeds, cumin seeds, peppercorns… By this time, I've given up measuring, I'm just throwing everything in. They say cooking should be instinctive, anyway.
'What's this?' says Suze, looking at Luke Brandon's card on the kitchen table. 'Luke Brandon? How come he sent you a card?'
'Oh, you know,' I say, shrugging casually. 'He was just being polite.'
'Polite?' Suze wrinkles her brow, turning the card over in her hands. 'No way. You don't have to send a card to someone just because they returned your twenty quid.'
'Really?' My voice is slightly higher than usual – but that must be because of the roasting aromatic spices. 'I thought maybe that's what people did these days.'
'Oh no,' says Suze assuredly. 'What happens is, the money's lent, it's returned with a thank-you letter, and that's the end of the matter. This card – ' she waves it at me 'this – is something extra.'
This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. She knows stuff like this, because she mixes in the right social circles. You know she once had dinner with the Duchess of Kent? Not that I'm boasting, or anything.
'So what do you think it means?' I say, trying not to sound too tense.
'I reckon he's being friendly,' she says, and puts the card back on the table.
Friendly. Of course, that's it. He's being friendly.
Which is a good thing, of course. So why do I feel ever so slightly disappointed? I stare at the card, which has a face by Picasso on the front. What does that mean?
'Are those spices supposed to be going black, by the way?' says Suze, spreading peanut butter on her toast.
'Oh God!' I whip the balti pan off the stove and look at the blackened coriander seeds. This is driving me crazy. OK, tip them away and start again. Coriander seeds, fennel seeds, cumin seeds, peppercorns, bay leaves. That's the last of the bay leaves. This one had better not go wrong.
Somehow, miraculously it doesn't. Forty minutes later I actually have a curry bubbling away in my balti pan!
This is fantastic! It smells wonderful, and it looks just like it does in the book – and I didn't even follow the recipe very carefully. It just shows, I have a natural affinity with Indian cookery. And the more I practise, the more accomplished I'll become. Like David E. Barton says, I'll be able to knock up a quick, delicious curry in the time it takes to call the delivery firm. And look how much money I've saved!
Triumphantly, I drain my basmati rice, take my ready-made naan breads out of the oven, and serve everything out onto plates. Then I sprinkle chopped fresh coriander over everything – and honestly, it looks like something out of Marie-Claire. I carry the plates through and put one in front of Suze.
'Wow!' she says. 'This looks fantastic!'
'I know,' I say proudly, sitting down opposite her. 'Isn't it great?'
I watch as she takes her first forkful – then put a forkful into my own mouth.
