The Woman Who Wanted More Read online

  Praise for

  ‘Beautifully written, full of insight and food. This is one of those I carried round the house wanting to read it every spare second’

  KATIE FFORDE

  ‘A beautiful, thoughtful read about love, friendship and food with shades of Nora Ephron’s Heartburn and Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. Read it and then give a copy to all your friends’

  TASMINA PERRY

  ‘Wise, warm, witty and mouth-watering – this wonderful book has it all . . . Hungry for a love story with added bite? With deliciously real characters, a sprinkling of humour, a pinch of pathos and huge helping of wisdom, this book has all the ingredients to become this summer’s must-read’

  ISABELLE BROOM, WOMAN & HOME

  ‘If you’re at a stage in your life when you’re querying your relationship or career then this is the book for you. A fabulous read about finding your way; about friendships and letting go. I adored it’

  NINA POTTELL, PRIMA MAGAZINE

  ‘A mouth-watering treat of a book that celebrates food and female friendship . . . An irresistible novel!’

  KATE HARRISON, AUTHOR OF THE SECRET SHOPPER’S REVENGE

  ‘I simply adored this book . . . Please do yourself a favour – read this book and nourish your soul!’

  SOPHIE JO’S BOOKSHELF

  Praise for Vicky Zimmerman’s

  previous work as Stella Newman

  ‘Funny, feisty and fresh’

  MANCHESTER EVENING NEWS

  ‘With really likeable characters, a witty turn of phrase, moments of real poignancy and, of course, mouthwatering details of food, it’s rather delicious’

  SUNDAY MIRROR

  ‘Combines our two dearest loves: food and romance’

  COSMOPOLITAN

  ‘Hugely entertaining’

  THE LADY

  ‘Deliciously good stuff!’

  FABULOUS MAGAZINE

  ‘This book will leave you happy and hungry in equal doses!’

  TAKE A BREAK

  ‘Her writing is witty and snappy . . . hilarious’

  WENDY HOLDEN, AUTHOR OF FEMME FATALE

  ‘Reminded me of a lemon meringue pie: sharp and sweet and satisfying all at once’

  KATE LONG, AUTHOR OF THE BAD MOTHER’S HANDBOOK

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  PART THREE

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  PART FIVE

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  EPILOGUE

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Photographs from the Author

  Copyright

  In loving memory of Matt Janes, an exceptional friend

  Prologue

  CECILY FINN IS NINETY-SEVEN and a half years old. Her hair is as stiff and bright as a firmly beaten egg white, and her dark eyes hold the look of a permanently unimpressed owl. She claims that all she wants is death, because boredom and institutional fish pie are worse than dying – but Cecily has endured far greater horrors than overcooked haddock.

  Over the many weeks Kate Parker has been coming to visit her at Lauderdale House for Exceptional Ladies, Cecily has shared with her a smorgasbord of tales, of love and rebellion, triumphs and travels. Kate used to wonder about embellishments, fabrications, memories warped by time – but not anymore. Cecily’s mind and tongue are sharp as lime juice on an ulcer.

  Cecily often tries to pass off Shakespeare quotes as her own. She talks in metaphors that take an age to decode. Nothing’s ever good enough for her: no biscuit crisp enough, no posset set right. She never holds back, and if there’s a choice between bitter and sweet, she’ll take bitter every time. Still, Cecily has taught Kate several valuable lessons – not least the perfect menu for what Kate craves most in the world.

  Kate turns forty today. Last night she cooked for friends – the meal was delicious, everyone had fun – and tonight she’ll be celebrating with Nick, gentle, handsome Nick. He’s taking her to an amazing restaurant, and if there’s one thing Cecily and Kate can agree on, it’s that good food matters. In a few weeks’ time Kate and Nick will move in together, it is happening, and all the doubts Cecily has scattered in Kate’s mind will be brushed away like black pepper spilled on a pristine tablecloth. Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re always right about everything. There are many ways to find happiness in this world, to beat loneliness, to live well.

  So why does Kate feel, as she stands outside Cecily’s door, that in spite of all the barbs and bristle that come with the package, Cecily is the one person who can help rid her of this gnawing ache that’s lodged itself deep in the pit of her stomach? That if she doesn’t speak to Cecily right now she might lose herself completely?

  Kate takes a deep breath and knocks on the door, waiting for that familiar haughty voice to tell her to come in.

  Come in.

  PART ONE

  Hunger is never delicate.

  Samuel Johnson

  Chapter One

  Five months earlier . . .

  KATE PARKER IS RAVENOUS. She sits on a deck chair in Nick Sullivan’s tiny patch of North London garden, gazing contentedly at his back as he stands by the barbecue. The smell of chargrilled meat is making her stomach audibly rumble but there’s no point hurrying him, this man does things in his own sweet time.

  Dinner’s a prime example – tonight it’s taken forty minutes but in real terms it’s taken a whole year. Nick embarked on Project Burger last July. Nick’s a database engineer (Kate still can’t explain fully what that means) and he’s applied his intellectual rigo
ur and ceaseless enthusiasm to honing every element of the American classic. Kate’s never seen a face light up the way Nick’s had the night he mastered The Order of the Seven Layers.

  He was a solitary eater before they started dating, relying on takeaways and the odd home-cooked sausage sandwich. Kate had been saddened by the loneliness this seemed to imply, and the missed culinary opportunities. She’d offered to teach him some favourite recipes, he’d accepted, and over the last eighteen months he has emerged from his culinary shell – slowly at first but with increasing confidence. Kate isn’t the greatest cook but her mother Rita is such a dire one that Kate learned to fend for her stomach from an early age.

  Kate loves cooking with Nick, and has watched him flourish with gentle pride. Normally she chooses the recipe, he the music, and whatever they’re cooking they both agree: the more butter used the better. They have compatible styles – he’s hard-working and patient, and can chop a dozen onions without making the slightest fuss about eyes watering or hands smelling; she’s more chaotic but can juggle multiple tasks, and although he’s smarter she’s always two steps ahead – nothing’s ever burnt on her watch.

  It’s a beautiful summer’s evening, and Kate savours a moment of sheer happiness – the warm breeze scented with jasmine, the sky only now fading from blue. She closes her eyes and thinks about tomorrow. It’s been a long time since she’s been in a relationship where she’s felt relaxed enough to think about tomorrow. Tomorrow Nick will wake up early and pop out to buy the ingredients for breakfast burritos. They’ll cook together, go for a walk and in the afternoon, if the weather stays fine, they’ll sit back out here, Kate devouring a novel, Nick reading one of his incomprehensible coding books. Their life is not lavish but it’s full of priceless treats: lemonade poured into glasses he keeps in the freezer for extra coldness; box sets and BLTs on rainy Wednesday nights; elaborately competitive games of cards, with Minstrels used for gambling chips.

  When she opens her eyes, Nick has turned to give her the ‘Mustard, now!’ look – one brow raised in mock severity. She springs up with a smile and hands him the French’s Classic like a scalpel to a surgeon, watching intently as he traces parallel lines of acid yellow onto the meat, the finishing touch.

  This burger has taken time but it’s worth the wait: six ounces of minced steak, crowned with bacon and a perfect square of melting, tangy Cheddar; delicate concentric bangles of red onion; tomato, lettuce and Magic Sauce – a mixture of Tabasco, mayo and ketchup, to add heat, creaminess and tang. Then the bun: Kate and Nick have spent more time researching this bun than some couples spend choosing a car. Initially, Nick enquired whether the buns they sold at Fletchers, the supermarket chain Kate works for, were any good? She’d laughed a mournful response. Fletchers’ buns were cheap but flavourless and papery, and though they claimed to be brioche, on the back of the pack was the ominous phrase ‘brioche-style’. After much trial and error they’d found perfection at a bakery near Kate’s flat in Kilburn. And the final ingredient – one sour dill pickle, for added crunch.

  Kate is not religious, but looking down at her plate makes her want to say grace: thank you, Universe, for this man, who has a lovely flat with a reasonably clean bathroom; who has restored my faith, after several years of late-thirty-something dating starvation, that there are kind, clever, decent men in London. Thank you for a man who puts so much effort into making my dinner; into making me happy.

  She picks up her burger – oh, such heft – and holds on for dear life. Once in motion there’s no stopping – hesitate or show fear and it’ll fall apart in every direction. Nick looks at her tenderly. It’s impossible not to love him. Not only does he cook her spaghetti with meatballs if she’s having a bad day, but she can eat them with full abandon and he won’t judge her greedy or unfeminine; he relishes her appetite almost as much as she does.

  Sated after their last bites, Kate reaches to wipe a smudge of mustard from the faint stubble on Nick’s jaw. He has such a sweet face, handsome in an unassuming way, a button nose that enhances his boyishness. His brown curly hair is thinning but the short cut suits him well. That old blue Atari T-shirt makes his eyes even greener, and when their eyes meet now he flashes her that smile of his that rarely falters, no matter what’s thrown at him. She’s so impressed with how he’s handled these last three months of unemployment; his optimism is extraordinary.

  ‘Not long now till France!’ says Kate, moving to clear away the plates.

  ‘I can’t wait – think of all the baguettes,’ says Nick, his eyes lighting up. ‘Are you positive Kavita doesn’t want any money for letting us use her holiday house?’

  ‘She had a fit when I even suggested it.’ Kate hasn’t told Nick she’s bought Kavita a case of good wine as a thank-you. He’d offer to pay half even though he’s skint, and the thought of embarrassing him when he’s always so generous is intolerable.

  *

  ‘That was a perfect dinner,’ says Kate, as they stand contentedly at the sink, washing up. ‘Those were particularly fine burger accoutrements.’

  ‘Burger Accoutrements . . . one for our list?’ he says. It’s one of their running jokes – ridiculous names for their future children.

  ‘Burger Accoutrements Parker-Sullivan? Fine, but you can pick him up from the school playground when the other kids beat him up.’

  ‘If we have twins, please can we call the other one Pickleholic?’

  ‘I’m not sure a pickle addiction is a sound aspiration for our firstborn,’ says Kate, laughing. She gazes at him standing there in his T-shirt and Levi’s, with his forty-four-year-old burger-lover’s slight pot belly and feels a sudden throb of love so intense it makes her heart hurt.

  He catches her look and returns it with a smile, suddenly self-conscious. He pauses, then reaches for the spatula she’s washing. ‘You’ve got a wider one of these at home, right?’

  ‘Yup,’ she says, reaching for it as he moves it slightly out of reach.

  ‘We need yours here – for the barbecue.’

  ‘I’ll pick you one up from John Lewis in the week.’

  ‘Kate,’ he says, putting down the spatula as he turns to face her. ‘I think we need all your utensils here.’

  ‘All of them?’

  He nods decisively.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘And your clothes. And shoes,’ he says, tenderly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘And your three hundred cookbooks and seven million novels . . .’

  ‘Two hundred at most,’ she says, struggling to contain the burst of joy blossoming in her chest.

  ‘Oh, and one other very important thing that John Lewis doesn’t sell.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Which is you, Kate, you,’ he says, his smile as big as the world.

  Thank you, Universe, thank you. Finally: a man she loves, who loves her too. He’s been worth the wait.

  *

  The following night Kate stretches out in her bed, her normal Sunday-night blues replaced by excitement. She and Nick are off to France in two weeks. She’ll move into Nick’s the weekend they return.

  She’d been anxious about breaking the news to her flatmate, but then the thought of never again having to clean Melanie’s fish fat from the splashback had given Kate a surge of courage. Nick has his flaws, but passive-aggressive, slovenly and light-fingered with other people’s special-occasions-only olive oil are not among them.

  Melanie had been surprisingly encouraging, and had even suggested Kate start moving her stuff before France. Their conversation had gone far better than Kate had anticipated.

  It’s always the things you worry about most that turn out fine.

  And vice versa.

  Chapter Two

  KATE FASTENS HER SEAT belt and turns to Nick, who is already engrossed in the Listener, a cryptic crossword so fiendishly difficult it makes Kate’s brain ache. Week in, week out, Nick sits absorbed for hours, chip-chipping away – he’s obsessed. If he ever reveals a kink
y side, she suspects he’ll make her dress up as a complex puzzle.

  ‘Four solved already,’ he says, holding it out to her proudly. She glances at the grid and shakes her head: how on earth does that word fit that clue?

  She settles back in her seat and closes her eyes, tired from a 3 a.m. alarm but excited. This will be their first proper holiday together and if she’s honest with herself, which sometimes she isn’t, she’d have liked to have gone somewhere with Nick before now. There are legitimate reasons why it’s taken eighteen months to get Nick on this plane. Until he lost his job in April he was a workaholic, often choosing to work weekends (so not Kate’s style). Then recently he’s had no income. And finally, Nick is s-l-o-w-moving. She’s analysed this a lot, and her mother Rita’s had her two pennies’ worth too: ‘children of dysfunctional parents always need to feel in control’. Well, who doesn’t?

  Nick had entered into their relationship so cautiously, it had triggered Kate’s commitment-phobe alarm after one month, and so she’d asked him straight out: what do you want? He’d told her he didn’t know how to do relationships; he’d only had one short one in his twenties, and another failed interlude in his thirties. A tiny red flag had waved in Kate’s head, so she’d offered him an out before anyone (i.e., Kate) got hurt. He’d looked at her for so long she’d blushed, then he’d held her tight and said, ‘I want this. I want you.’

  From then on they’d gone for it, albeit at a measured pace – one bite, one meal, one day at a time. In the last few months she’s felt him move ever closer. Even so, the moment the offer of cohabitation was on the table, Kate had felt a pressing need to take something significant and heavy round to his flat, as a precautionary measure: a couple of boxes of cookbooks and her hardback copy of The Goldfinch had done the trick.

  Her best friend Bailey had helped her move them last Saturday when Nick was away hiking. Bailey and Kate have been friends since they were four. Kate sometimes wonders if people are shaped by their hair – if she’d been born with Bailey’s perfect blonde locks, would she be perpetually calm and gracious too? Certainly Bailey hasn’t had it easy – a cheating ex, Tom, who’d abandoned her and their young daughters, claiming his duty was ‘to explore his desire’ with any woman who was game. Yet on the many wine-infused nights Kate had spent round at Bailey’s counselling her through her divorce, it was Kate who’d had to be talked down from wanting to murder Tom. Sometimes friends end up feeling the feelings that are too unpalatable to feel for yourself.