From Pasta to Pigfoot Read Free

he said, dismissing his family’s fury at the school fees wasted on his education with a philosophical shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘But the truth is that I was just living a cultural lie – do you know what I mean? Honestly, living with those guys who were so real and so connected really showed me how out of tune I was with my culture and my spiritual roots. They taughtme about black music, literature, art – all the stuff I’d never learnt growing up. I mean, look at the people I went to school with,’ he nodded with derision in the direction of the hall. ‘Anyway, I didn’t want to be a doctor. I decided I wanted to do something that would keep me close to my ethnic consciousness.’
    Faye had never met anyone like Michael. Black consciousness was not a big topic of discussion in Hampstead, and she listened, mesmerised, as he spoke. ‘So I took a course in African-Caribbean Discourse and Communications and then applied to one of the local papers for a job,’ he explained. ‘It was just a trainee position to start with, of course. Most of the time, I was sent out to report on events like the meetings between the police and the local Afro-Caribbean community leaders, which really taught me a lot about what was going on with our people. But after a while I wanted to do more creative reporting – especially when I really got into the cultural stuff. Anyway, I got lucky after a couple of years and got an offer from The Black Herald – where I’m working now – to do their arts and culture reviews. I’ve also got my own column and I blog on a number of black consciousness sites,’ he added, trying to sound modest.
    Faye was oblivious to the cool October night air blowing up the very short dress she had worn that night as she sat listening to Michael. The combination of the two large glasses of red wine she had absently downed during the long meal, and the hypnotic effect of his penetrating dark eyes, made her uncharacteristically bold. Almost as if it were someone else speaking, she heard herself offeringto cook him a meal the following weekend.
    â€˜Hey, that would be great!’ he said enthusiastically. After a short pause, he eyed Faye thoughtfully and added, ‘Would you mind very much coming over and cooking at my flat? It’s just to save me having to get across town when I’m still feeling, well… emotionally down, you know?’
    She didn’t, but Michael, assuming her silence to mean that she had agreed, then changed the subject back to his theme for the evening. Shaking his head slowly, his voice dropped and a pained expression crossed his face. ‘I still can’t believe it. After all I did for that woman, how could she just walk away like that…?’
    Faye listened without interruption until William came looking for her, dragging her off before she could say more than a hasty goodbye to Michael and punch his number into her mobile.
    All that week at work, she had buzzed with excitement at the thought of an evening alone with Michael and on Saturday afternoon she spent an hour in the supermarket, happily blowing her budget for the week on food. Laden with two carrier bags, she had driven down to Michael’s flat in Streatham ready to cook away any memories of his old flame.
    As a self-confessed addict, as far as Faye was concerned, pasta was the obvious answer to any situation. Celebrating good news always called for a generous plate of fun, shoestring-like stringozzi, while a big bowl of steaming linguine with clams was guaranteed to ward off any looming depression over credit card bills. A hard, unsatisfying day at the office was best forgotten with a bowl of soup packed with cavatappi, her favourite corkscrew-shaped macaroni,while, as far as she was concerned, the antidote to any form of heartache was always to be found in the soothing curls of garlic-infused tagliatelle.
    Taking no notice of Michael’s