Prologue
Prologue
“Love at First Dip”
Mavis and Lumpy had decided to get married, and they planned a small do with a “hot and spicy” theme, a few close friends, and a celebrant on Skype.
“We want no fuss,” said Mavis. “Just lots of food, great photos, and belly dancing.”
Mavis and Lumpy have been an item for about a year – and a happy Mavis has taken a bit of getting used to. While I’ve spent the past year on my own, struggling with blocked drains and leaking roofs, Mavis has moved in with her soulmate – a man who loves to cook, occasionally cleans, and has even been seen stocking up on massage oils at the chemist.
Lumpy has turned out to be quite a catch. Not only is he comfortable with a hammer, he cooks like a pro – his latest passion being all things hot, spicy, and foreign. He can take mincemeat, mashed potatoes, and even toasted cheese to a new level of exotic, tongue-tantalising, “what the hell is burning my mouth?” treat. Nothing, according to Mavis, passes his lips without a hint of turmeric or a dash of ginger.
And Mavis, it seemed, was happy – until the Taj Mahal reopened.
The Taj Mahal is the only Indian restaurant for miles and had been closed for years One day, with no warning, the “Closed” sign was turned to “Open,” and soon there was a queue on a Friday night. The pakoras are legendary. A police shift is never complete without a bag of them, and The Roadworks Man, who has practically lived at the place since it opened, swears by their aphrodisiac qualities. Although I have yet to see any evidence.
Lumpy took one bite of Tenzam’s pakoras and stated that they were “the dog’s bollocks.”
At first, the chief took offence – until he saw Lumpy’s review on TripAdvisor. Lumpy talked of pakoras like they were as elusive as truffles and as succulent as fillet steak…
“His chicken is as soft as butter, coated in batter that snaps, crackles, and pops. One bite and you’ll never look at a battered sausage again. As for any vegans out there, the chief will rustle up a tofu that would fool a Texan.”
What a Texan had to do with tofu I have no idea, but it rubbed the chief up the right way – so much so that Lumpy began to put on weight.
“Pakoras are the way to go,” he was fond of saying. But Mavis, it seems, was beginning to suffer…
She was finishing up her shift at the post office when I walked in. Normally, she would want a coffee so we could talk about her wedding plans, but this time she looked frazzled. I made a joke about spice being more than just a mouthful, expecting a smart comment back, but what I got was a glum look.
Mavis pulled out a peppermint and began to crunch. “I had no idea that pleasing a man would involve so much… indigestion.” She swallowed.
I thought I saw a tear in her eye, and I asked her what was wrong.
“Lumpy knows I’m a korma woman at heart,” she huffed and pulled out a tissue. “I may occasionally venture into a jalfrezi, but this whole spice thing…” She dabbed at her nose. “…it’s too much! I mean, green chilli and eggs for breakfast? How can anyone face that over breakfast TV?” She blew her nose.
“I see,” I said.
She slammed the till shut. “Why should Lumpy always have what he wants?”
I was taken aback. I looked at Mavis. It wasn’t that long ago she was saying the opposite – “Why shouldn’t he have what he wants?” – and had even made jokes what she “did” for love.
“I laugh in the face of heartburn,” she’d said. Mind you, she’d been at the Bag Lady’s sloe gin at the time.
I stared at her wilted face. What had changed her?
“He spends more time with that chief than me… and the chief hardly speaks English. I mean, what have they got to talk about?” She slapped some coins into a bag and tossed them into the safe. “Every time I look for Lumpy, there he is in the takeaway, chomping into something extra large and triple fried. What’s that doing to his heart?”
Mavis walked to the door, pulled the sign to “Closed,” and stared at me. “And they are always watching some Bollywood film full of young women, half dressed and dancing in the rain. What’s that doing to my heart?”
Lumpy had always been partial to dancing, but I didn’t have the heart to remind her.
“I never see him anymore,” she muttered.
“Maybe it’s wedding nerves,” I said with little conviction.
“Yes, well,” she snorted. “Weddings are all about compromise, and now it seems he can’t even spell the word!”
