Eating With the Angels by Sarah-Kate Lynch Read Free Book Online

ordered everything I could think of, groaning with delight when the order was delivered in a heated trolley, its tabletop set as if for visiting royalty. From a huge silver tureen I ladled out a bowlful of the most unbelievably creamy, buttery, salty, silky porridge I have ever had. It smelled divine and tasted heavenly although I thought I could detect a funny aftertaste, a sort of bitter sweetness, a bit like cough syrup. I chased the porridge down with fresh melon and a selection of pastries that I just could not leave alone. The coffee sucked, but then I had high standards on that front — it had to come from Colombia and have two shots with just a suggestion of steamed full-fat milk — but it helped get rid of the medicinal hint of sourness lurking at the back of my throat. I ate so much I had to lie down again. I can pack away a lot of food — it never fails to amaze, and sometimes frighten, people who’ve not eaten with me before. I think it’s because I’m tall with decent hips. There’s a lot of me to fill. One of the questions people most often ask about being a restaurant critic is if you ever get sick of food; I think the fact that my answer was always no was why I was not bad at my job. Even then, lying on my bed at the Hotel Gritti, my stomach swollen with carbohydrates and animal fats, I was thinkingabout lunch and where I might have it and what it might be and what Tom would or wouldn’t like about it. But then I decided I would not let myself think about Tom and made a point of lying on his side of the bed, which up until that point had remained smooth and empty.
    Trying as I was not to think about him and all, it took me a while to realise that I missed his smell. He always smelled so good, Tom. And it’s not like he wore an aftershave: he had no time for that sort of thing. But he had a sort of sweet, base man smell, mixed with a bit of garlic and the faint suggestion of sage, one of his favourite herbs, and that kitchen sweat that most people found disgusting but I found delectable. The thought of it propelled me to reach for the phone again and without thinking about it too much, I dialled our home number.
    ‘Hello,’ Tom said, sleepily, when he picked up. ‘Hello?’
    So, he was there. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. He was not dying of a ruptured scrotum or dead in a ditch. He was lying in bed. Alone. In New York.
    ‘Hello?’ he said again, sounding more awake, sounding angry. ‘Who is it? Jesus Christ, did you hear me? I said who is this?’
    Who do you think it is, I silently screamed at him. It’s your wife, you freakin’ asshole. The one you didn’t come on vacation with. I’m lying in bed. Alone. In Venice.
    I was so taken aback I hung up. I know! I hate it too when people do that in movies but in that split second I just could not for the life of me think of anything better to do. I lay there, my heart palpitating for a few minutes, wondering if my breakfast had digested. If he didn’t give a fat rat’s ass about me, then I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose another moment worrying about him. Now that I knew he was alive and well, as I had suspected, and not just doing it in some place else, doing it in the same old place, I was going to get on with having the time of my life. I leaped up, pulled on jeans, a tank top and my most sensible shoes, which weren’t really that sensible, and headed out into the still empty alleys of Venice.
    The nerve! The cheek! The … How could he possibly — I mean how
dare
he? Actually, I was at a loss to articulate my anger at what my husband could or couldn’t do or had or hadn’t done. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m telling it as I saw it. I was furious with him, of course I was — not to mention hurt and confused and anxious about the future — but the fury felt sort of one dimensional or fake or something. Inside me lurked a suspicion that I knew more than I was letting on but how could I? I couldn’t