‘How’s Saturday night sound? Nita’s threatening to drag me off to see some peculiar foreign film with subtitles and bicycle baskets full of sardines.’
Cass hesitated. Rocco pulled his puppy face.
‘You’d be doing me a favour—honestly. And we could go with the fish theme for supper. There’s this great stall on the Saturday market we’ve just discovered, I could pick something up first thing—your mother does this amazing thing with halibut and Gruyère?’
Cass pulled a face. ‘Do I want to hear about this?’
‘And you could dig something or pull something up out of your allotment, something trendy and seasonal and Gordon Ramsay for the resident chef. Now how about you go and fish these cabinets out of storage, and while you’re gone I’ll mind the shop and ring your mum to let her know about Saturday. Oh, and I’ll get her to email you the brief over for the job in Cambridge.’
Cass sighed; it sounded like a done deal.
Wanting to pour oil on troubled waters, Cass tried ringing Fiona when she’d finished work, but got the answer machine. She had a feeling that Fiona was probably there listening, screening the calls. Whether Fiona was right or wrong about Andy playing away, Cass decided to be careful what she said in case he picked up the message. The last thing she wanted to do was add fuel to the fire, real or imaginary.
Cass sighed. She felt guilty about Fiona walking out. Although it had to be said that Fee had a talent for making her feel bad. When they were thirteen it had been because Mr Elliot—their art teacher, six feet tall and gorgeous—had told Cass that she was very talented, at fifteen because Cass had thrashed Fee in the mocks, and at sixteen because she had been the first one to get her hands on Justin Green, if Cass remembered rightly. Cass getting married, having two sons and being happy—even if it hadn’t lasted that long—had been the ultimate insult, and Cass had an odd sense that Fee had never quite forgiven her for any of it. When Fiona had walked back into her life, Cass had hoped they could start over; after all, they were grown-ups. Unfortunately two years on it was increasingly obvious that actually only one of them had made it through to adulthood.
So, after the beep Cass said, ‘Hi Fiona, hope you’re well. Be great to hear from you if you’ve got a minute. See you at choir on Tuesday if not,’ making a real effort to sound warm and cheery.
A few mornings later, Cass heard a phone ringing somewhere in the darkness. Dragged from sleep and a complicated dream about Amsterdam, rats and a blonde wig, she felt around by the bed, found the handset, pressed a button and mumbled, ‘Hello, who is it?’
‘Oh hi Cass, it’s me.’ The voice belonged to someone wide awake and unnaturally cheerful. ‘I’d got you down as an early bird, I thought you’d be up and about by now.’
‘Rocco, it’s the middle of the night.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he said defensively.
Cass peered at the bedside clock. ‘No, you’re right. It’s worse than the middle of the night, it’s six o’clock in the morning. What on earth are you doing ringing me at six in the bloody morning? I don’t open the shop until ten—I lie in. Like heads of state.’ She paused. Rocco said nothing, at which point Cass’s imagination fired up and filled in the gaps. ‘Oh god, is everything all right. What’s happened? Is Mum okay? Are you all right?’
‘It’s about the fish.’
‘Fish? What fish? Oh for god’s sake, Rocco, you’re doing too many drugs. Go back to bed and sleep it off. I’ll call you later.’
‘No, no listen, I’m serious. We’ve got to drive down to pick up the people from next door from Heathrow this morning, I’d totally forgotten about it. You are still on for tonight, aren’t you?’
‘As far as I’m concerned it still is the night.’
‘Just listen to me and stop whining, will you? Could you nip down to the market and pick up the halibut for tonight? Four nice steaks and some prawns? Problem is, if you’re not there early it all goes.’
Cass, totally awake now, groaned and rolled out of bed. ‘Halibut?’
‘Uh-huh, halibut and a pint of prawns. Only you really need to be there first thing when they open or it will all be gone. I’m not joking.’
‘What constitutes first thing?’
‘Half seven, eight—if you leave it any later—’ he began.
‘It’s all gone. I got that the first time round, Rocco,’ growled Cass. As she pulled on her dressing gown, phone tucked up between ear and shoulder, Cass couldn’t help wondering who these people were who got out of bed at the crack of dawn to rush out and buy bloody halibut. ‘Can’t I nip in and get a bag of frozen fish from the supermarket? You know, if I don’t make it to the market in time?’
There was a little pause and then Rocco said, ‘Cass, you are such a philistine. And no, you can’t, we need fresh. I’ve already got the Gruyère.’
‘Well, good for you. What if the fish has all gone by the time I get there?’
There was another longer weighty pause. ‘Then you didn’t hear me right…’
‘Okay, okay, I’m getting up now. You’re such a bully.’
‘Wait till you taste it, Nita does this—’
‘Rocco, shut up, go and pick up your neighbours and leave me in peace.’
‘Before eight.’
‘Bugger off.’
Which was why at around seven forty-five, two mugs of tea and a short, sharp shower later, Cass found herself walking up the High Lane into town, wrapped up against the rain, with Buster tugging at the lead, amazed that he was out that early and desperate to wee up every lamppost by way of celebration. Early or not, it was a very grim morning.
Cass could think of innumerable other places she would rather be, although she did remind herself all this was for a purpose. Her mother’s cooking was truly sublime, the apartment she shared with Rocco was breathtaking and, when they were on form, Rocco and Nita were the best company you could wish for. Rocco also found her work. The clients for their interior design business always paid top dollar, Cambridge was almost local and Cass needed the money.
So maybe it was worth it, Cass decided, sticking her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and hunkering down against horizontal drizzle. Buster didn’t seem to mind. He wagged and sniffed and panted cheerfully, rooting out discarded kebab innards, greasy pencil sharp-enings of cold meat, curled up in the gutter. Whoever said it was a dog’s life?
Cass turned the corner into Market Street and down past the Corn Exchange.
Rocco was right; it might be early but the market was already teeming with life. Most of the stalls were open and trading hard, with just a few latecomers still putting their stock out. Ready or not, everyone was open for business, including the parade of cafes and bars around the edge of the square. Every stall was lit, fighting off the gloom, and there was the smell of fried onions, fresh coffee and bacon hanging in the damp morning air.
‘Nice dog, missus,’ said a man laden down with bags as he hurried past clutching a bacon roll. It was a sad state of affairs when your dog got more compliments than you did, thought Cass grimly. Buster, meanwhile, tracked the man’s progress with an accuracy worthy of NASA, while the man headed between the stalls, all shopped out.
‘Maybe we’ll get one of those on the way home,’ said Cass conversationally. The dog wagged his tail.
The punters were four deep at the fish stall in the next aisle. Behind the spotless white counter, two middle-aged ladies were working the queue with a deft touch and a nifty line in helpful hints and off-the-cuff recipes. In front of the counter the broad chiller cabinet was full of the most amazing things—scallops, smoked haddock and rock, Nile perch, red mullet, unnamed things with fins and dark glassy eyes, mussels