Page 47 of The Missing Ingredient

“I know. But you didn’t have all the information.”

“How long have you known?”

“Not long. A couple of months. But I didn’t have all the facts. I’ve still no idea who the party was for. Not John or Moira, that’s clear.”

“You seriously don’t know?”

Marcus shook his head and then looked curiously at Tom. “No. Do you?”

“Pretty bloody obvious. The answer’s here in this room. The year she died, you were about to turn thirty and—”

“You were turning forty. Shit. You mean the surprise party was for the two of us?”

“And all this time I’ve had a nagging doubt that maybe, just maybe, she’d betrayed me. When right now, it feels like it’s the other way around.”

“Don’t say that, Tom.”

“I asked you to leave this alone, Marcus. I told you I didn’t want to know.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

They spent their final evening in New York together at an Italian restaurant with the Flynns and then, after promising to keep in touch, headed back to the apartment. Although Tom remained friendly and civil around the Flynns, he became quiet in Marcus’s company.

Even on the flight home the next morning, Tom remained sad and sullen. Despite the success of the New York opening, Tom’s reaction to Marcus’s admission had tarnished Marcus’s jubilation. Should he have kept quiet? Not said anything? But the answer to that was clear. He had a duty to his late best friend and to Tom to set the record straight, even if that meant losing everything he had only recently gained.

Chapter Fifteen

AFTERhis admission about Damian Stone, Marcus had thought Tom would disappear into his shell the way he usually did—stop seeing Marcus altogether. What actually happened couldn’t have been more different.

During the following month, Tom sought desperately to find time slots for them to be together for sex—and the session heat ramped up to molten levels. But something in Tom had changed. He brought a fierceness to their brief encounters, and sometimes the detached passion unsettled Marcus. Not at the time, because Tom still made every effort to make sure he brought Marcus with him all the way. Neither did he offer to bottom again—not that Marcus minded that. Later, however, in quiet moments, Marcus realized they barely spoke during their lovemaking sessions. And whenever Marcus did, usually asking if everything was okay as they both quickly dressed to be elsewhere, Tom would placate him with a curt “Stop worrying. Everything’s fine.”

But other things—barely noticeable at first—had begun to happen. Even though they were having more short-notice encounters, there were no overnight sessions. Tom cited his need to keep his parents from suspecting anything. He’d also canceled once or twice at the last minute due to sudden work engagements—always something that did not form part of the careful household schedule they all followed meticulously. In Tom’s defense, his company had been inundated with work—Moira kept Marcus regularly apprised—and they were struggling to meet the deadline on one of the jobs.

Life had a habit of becoming busy when you least expected. Marcus knew that only too well. And while Marcus’s restaurants on either side of the Atlantic had reached a nice, manageable stride, giving Marcus more time to get involved in other things—approving the final draft of the recipe book Tina had asked him to create with the ghostwriter, final arrangements for the Birmingham opening—Tom’s business had taken on a little too much.

One Thursday, Marcus picked the girls up from school and dropped them off at Moira’s because Tom had a work meeting to attend, and she was busy preparing tea for them all. Moira insisted Marcus stay for a cup of tea and a chat. She always had a subtext for any invitation of this nature, and around seven, just as Tom joined them, the truth surfaced.

“Now Marcus, dear. We’re having a private dinner to celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Nothing fancy, about twenty of us—close friends and relatives. I know you’d probably want us to come to one of your restaurants, but we don’t want all the palaver of arranging transport to come uptown. So we’re going to Fettuccini on the high street. It’s one of John’s local favorites. They have a private dining room with easy wheelchair access. So I wondered if you’d like to come and if you’d want to bring anyone. Maybe Lincoln, if he’s available?”

Marcus glanced at Tom then, whose gaze dropped uncomfortably to the floor. Moira noticed the exchange.

“You can come alone, if you wish. Tom’s bringing someone.”

“I see,” said Marcus, folding his arms, a sudden anxious feeling in his gut. But he vowed not to show his feelings in front of Tom. “Thank you for the invite, Mrs. B. Yes, I’d be delighted to come. But it’ll just be me.”

ONEof the downsides of being a celebrated chef was that you also innately became a harsh critic of other people’s food. Good value was about the best he could come up with after sampling some of the soggy lasagna, overcooked pasta, and bland, uninspiring sauces on the sharing platters at Fettuccini. When the chef came out to say hello—someone had probably let on that Marcus Vine was in the house—Marcus made pleasant comments about the fare to the jolly Welshman who ran the kitchen.

But John and Moira appeared to enjoy the simple food, and after all, this was their special day. As an anniversary gift, Marcus had bought them tickets to see a show in the local theater, one that Moira had mentioned a couple of times to Katie. All in all, the evening went well, apart from the fact that Tom brought along Jeanette, the woman he had dated before choosing Marcus. Marcus liked her because she spoke her mind and came across as capable. What rattled him was that Tom hadn’t mentioned anything to him.

Toward the end of the evening, once most of the guests departed, the five remaining shuffled down to one end of the long table, where John held court in his wheelchair. On the opposite side of the table from Marcus sat Jeanette, with Tom to her left, while Moira sat next to Marcus.

Every now and again, Marcus caught Tom’s eye, the two of them sharing a moment of levity at a remark made by one of the guests. With a few drinks inside him, Tom seemed more like his old self. When Tom excused himself to use the bathroom, Marcus allowed conversations to bubble around him while he sat back and checked his phone. A message from Tina caught his eye, to call him about a few nonurgent matters they needed to get sorted. She had also sent him the article by Kitter that would be appearing in theObservertomorrow, which he flicked through quickly. Beautifully written, of course, but more importantly, essentially positive. Knowing he was out that night, Tina had purposely not called. Not difficult to guess what the message was about: a few more interviews, a few more signings, maybe an update on Birmingham. After popping the phone away, he decided to call her the minute he got home. Get business out of the way in case Tom’s promise of getting away for an hour or two to pay him a late-night visit materialized.

“Tom seems much happier these days. Did you have anything to do with that?” said John, peering down the table. Having taken a mouthful of water, Marcus lowered the glass from his mouth and was about to reply when Jeanette beat him to the punchline.

“You know, I’d like to think so,” she said, tilting her head as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Marcus almost choked on his water. “We had a bit of a rocky start. Both needed time to breathe, I suppose. But yes, I’ve been out with him a couple of times recently.”

“Have you?” said Marcus, unable to stop the words tumbling out. Why had Katie or Charlotte not mentioned that? Or did they even know? More importantly, why hadn’t Tom?

---