Page 34 of Can I Tell You Something?
Once we’ve parked, we grab the biggest trolley they have and make our way inside. The store is heaving with shoppers, but we don’t mind. The longer the shop takes, the more random treats we get.
Dad has the shopping list for Christmas provisions, but I have a separate list in my head, purely for my own gastronomic pleasure.
We browse in silence, pointing out things we like the look of, marvelling at the quality of the fresh produce. Ripe tomatoes in deep reds and bright golds, artichokes the size of my face, endive lettuce and radishes in the richest pinks and purples.
Dad loads up on potatoes, herbs, and green beans before we head to the poultry counter to find a turkey, pre-stuffed with traditional chestnuts.
“Do you think we should get a goose now we’ve got one extra for lunch?” he says.
“No, we always have turkey. Even when Grandma was here, we had turkey.”
“Yes, but she ate four mouthfuls and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking straight Dubonnet.”
“Ooh!” I bounce on the spot. “We should get a bottle and have a little glass for her.”
Nobody does butter like the French, creamy yellow and studded with salt flakes. I like it spread thickly on fresh baguette, but truthfully I could eat it on its own with a spoon. I add two blocks to the trolley along with cherry flavoured yoghurt, pots of grated carrot with Sicilian lemon juice, spicymerguezsausage, plump shrimp drenched in garlic butter.
In the soft drinks aisle I find my favourite Teisseire syrup inmenthefor water, andpamplemousse rosefor adding to gin.
“We might need a second trolley for the booze,” Dad points out.
We don’t need much from the bakery, thanks to the boulangerie in the village, but that doesn’t stop me adding madeleines,langue de chatbiscuits, and an enormous rosemaryfougassethat I’ll dip in olive oil and balsamic vinegar we have at home.
“Cameron seems nice, doesn’t he?” Dad says while we browse the cereal aisle.
“Sure,” I shrug, suddenly engrossed in a packet of pink sugary loops with a unicorn on the box.
“I think he’s got a thing for you. Are you seeing anyone?” The question is as casual as if I’d like a coffee in the morning. We don’t talk about this stuff, not since the last relationship ended so badly.
“Oh God, Dad, please stop.”
“All I’m saying is, it wouldn’t hurt you to have some fun once in a while.”
“So what, I’m supposed to have a holiday romance with a man who doesn’t live anywhere near me?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t need to be your boyfriend. God knows you don’t need that distraction.” I press my lips together, not willing to tell him that since I discovered Cameron’s audios, he’s been a most welcome distraction. Every single night.
“This is so un-Dad-like. Aren’t you supposed to warn me that boys are the devil and convince me to join a nunnery?”
We both laugh. Truthfully, he’s never been that sort of Dad, the kind that opens the door with a baseball bat, but it’s good to know he cares about my happiness.
We turn into the next aisle. “That’s how me and your Mum got together, you know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Holiday romance.”
I spin around. “You never told me that.”
“I was on a friend’s stag do in Skegness. Got chatting to your mum at a rave, ditched my mates, and she moved in with me a few weeks later.”
I am gobsmacked. I don’t know which part of that story is weirdest, to be honest. “A rave?”
“Oh yeah, the nineties were something else, kid. I tell you what, though. You can have a holiday romance,” he says, throwing the world’s biggest bag of potato chips into the trolley. “But don’t ever let me catch you at a rave.”
Mac'n'Please
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