Sometimes, publishers ask for changes to a submitted manuscript, and most of the time, I agree to them. On the rare occasion, I do not. I was asked to remove this opening chapter from The Missing Ingredient because they felt it was like a prologue of sorts and did not add to the story. However, I have always believed this extra scene gives the reader an insight into Raine and Tom, seen through the eyes of Marcus, years before the actual story begins. 

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I hope you enjoy reading this and hopefully get to fill in some gaps in the story.

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*****

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Eight years ago.

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No place on earth did miserable like Britain. 

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At least, that was how Marcus Vine saw the world as he squinted through the rain-blurred windscreen of his Toyota on that dreary, arctic Sunday morning. Sea storms had hit the south coast hard in November; chill, unpredictable and unrelenting, when not even the warmest, water-resistant of overcoats could prevent errant trickles of rain from breaching bodily barricades and violating warm skin.

 

As instructed, he pulled off the main road into the almost empty car park of Chadley Common. He parked in the far corner beneath a large oak, probably not the wisest of choices given the blustery winds, but at least the thick leafless branches provided some shelter from the downpour. Switching off the engine and adjusting his waterproof, he propped open the driver's door with his Wellington booted foot and unfolded his rainbow golf umbrella into the grim day. Frozen air flooded the toasty interior, sending ominous shivers rippling through him.

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Two minutes trudge from the sanctuary of his ancient car, and, like an augury, Marcus felt the first icy finger of rain trace his spine. By the time he had slogged across the muddy field towards the scattering of hunched and darkly attired spectators skirting the football pitch, he had almost lost feeling in all his extremities: fingers, ears, toes and the tip of his nose.

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Not that he minded ogling a bunch of bedraggled footballers in their wet, skimpy shorts and tight, sopping football jerseys. He just would have preferred to do so from the warmth and comfort of his living room sofa. But today, he wasn't there for the men. His blonde-haired target stood on the other side of the pitch, a lighthouse on a stormy night, forcing a smile to his lips. Decked out in a shiny white PVC hat, hot pink wellingtons, and a bright yellow sou'wester, she looked like a Liquorice Allsort.

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Lorraine--Raine--Fowler. A nickname befitting the day.

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Childhood neighbour, best friend since primary school, and emotional advice guru Raine vetted potential men for him, and he did the same for her. To say that he did a lot more vetting than her would be the understatement of the millennium. Most of the men Marcus fancied turned out to be straight or way out of his league--more often both.  Already, she had spotted him and waved him over enthusiastically, jumping up and down like an excited kid, raindrops bouncing off the floppy rim of her hat.

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In the warmth of her cheerful welcome, he realised how much he had missed her. After winning the three-month work experience break from college in Julien Carbonne's Paris restaurant--an experience he had relished even though the work had been brutal and relentless--he had seldom seen his best friend. But then his passion for cooking and desire to become a professional chef had meant so much to him that she had almost dragged him onto the Eurostar. Finally arriving back Friday night, this had been their first opportunity to get together.

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Raine Fowler. A rare combination of beauty plus intelligence, she could afford to hold out for a very specific type of man. Solicitors, accountants, brokers, managers, and anyone who pushed a pen or worked in an office didn't get a look-in. Blue collar workers were her thing: bricklayers, plumbers, electricians, even policemen-men who carved out a living with their hands. But they also had to be sensitive, have a strong personality, be intelligent, have a good sense of humour, and above all, be reasonably good-looking. Alpha males found more often in Marvel Comics than in GQ mag. But then Raine had matured into a man magnet. Unfortunately, the ones that managed to pass the test tended towards immature and conceited, macho fuck-wits who either quickly fell out of favour or ended up treating her badly. One lowlife turned out to be married. Most left her an angry and sobbing mess at Marcus' door in the college halls of residence.

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As her male best friend, she insisted Marcus meet and screen potentials even though, of late, his opinion had rarely mattered. By then, she'd already made up her mind. And whatever she told them before meeting him--she would never let on, but he felt sure she used the 'G' word--put most of them on guard. He could smell their homophobia through the mix of confusion followed by suspicion, realisation, and then abject disgust when they deigned to shake his hand. Not all, though, and with at least two of the parade of hopefuls, he had sensed a definite vibe. But the whole curious attention left him cold. No matter how good-looking, bisexuals did nothing for him, who was at heart a gay thoroughbred. Neither of the men had lasted more than a few months with Raine.

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"You came, darling," she said, unselfconsciously throwing her dampness around him. "In time for the second half."

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"Of course I came. You said you needed me. And one does not ignore a royal decree. So which of these Neanderthals am I cross-examining today?"

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Pulling back from him, her big blue eyes went wide.

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"Marky," she said, her voice going low. She was the only person who ever got away with calling him that particular pet name. "I think he might be the one."

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Seeing her earnest expression, he managed to refrain from voicing the cynical thought forming in his head. There had been a few 'ones' over the past two years. None had lasted more than three or four months. But he couldn't help loving Raine's unshakeable faith in the fact that 'the one' was out there, waiting to free-fall in love with her--and vice versa.

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As they stood watching the closing minutes of the second half, and while she clung to his arm, Raine got him up to speed while pointing out her new hopeful, Tom Bradford. Only child, self-employed builder with his own company, educated with a degree in business management from Brighton University--apparently, his parents insisted he finish his studies even though he wanted to go straight from school into a bricklaying apprenticeship--amateur footballer, non-smoker, Chelsea supporter, and all-round good guy according to his mates. He ticked all her boxes. By the time the final whistle blew, Marcus had not only watched the man mountain thundering around the field but witnessed his temper, both vocal and physical, wantonly body slamming anyone who dared to get in his way.  Without voicing his fears, he truly hoped that rage was confined to the football field.

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At the game's end, stern faced Tom Bradford shuffled towards them like a weary warrior leaving the battlefield. Signs of the hard-fought encounter clung to him, slick mud glistening down one side of his body from where he had made a sliding tackle, the muddied sock of one hairy leg rolled down to the ankle, dark hair damp with rain and sweat plastered to his forehead and cheeks. Fists bunched at his hips, his heavy breaths produced steamy plumes, his large chest visibly rising and falling. On a first impression, Marcus mentally summed Tom up in one word: intimidating.

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As the man in question approached them, a shorter player caught up with him--heart-stopping good looks, the red-haired guy chatted amiably before peering over towards Marcus and Raine. Gingerbread hunk even held Marcus' gaze for a decent amount of time, making his stomach squeeze. When the pair of them stopped walking and turned to speak privately to each other, and over the gentle fall of rain, Marcus could not be sure, but he thought he heard the ginger guy use the word 'fag'. Colour flooded his cheeks then, and he turned to see if Raine had picked up on the slight, but she was oblivious, her gaze trained adoringly on the larger of the men.

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Eventually, ginger bigot slapped Tom on the arm and trotted past them, giving Marcus a cursory glance. When Tom stumped over, Raine let Marcus' arm go.

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"Tom. This is my bestie, Marcus."

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"Hi, Marcus. I would shake your hand, but--" said Tom, holding his muddy hands and arms aloft.

 

"Okay, so you two boys have a quick chat while I go and use the 'loo." Raine bumbled off, leaving Marcus and Tom standing, watching her go.

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"What the heck does she look like?" asked Marcus, gently shaking his head as they both watched her go.

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Next to him, Tom snorted.

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"I like that about her," said Tom, the smile on his face more one of affection than desire, something Marcus didn't miss. "Like she doesn't give a shit what people think."

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"How long have you known her?"

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"Two weeks."

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"And you've already figured that out. Top marks."

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"So, Marcus," said Tom, turning to him. "Is this the official interview?"

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"For the starring role of boyfriend to Raine Fowler?" said Marcus. "Yes, something like that. So what has she told you about me?"

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"A lot, actually. Warts and all."

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Marcus bristled at that. Warts? Was that a tasteless joke? Was this going to be about his sexuality? Was Tom going to turn out to be a homophobic prick like some of Raine's other disastrous matches?

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"So?" asked the unsmiling Tom, his gaze cold and unwavering. "Is it true?"

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Marcus did not like the man's tone one bit. Even in the cold air, he felt his cheeks redden.  If Tom had a problem with him, then best get this out in the open. And if he did, then he could bloody well be upfront and say the words out loud. Marcus was not about to make things easy for him just because his best friend had a crush on this gorilla.

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"What do you mean? Is what true?"

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"I think you know exactly what I mean?"

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Despite feeling a slight tremor at the man's tone and hard stare, he dug his heels in. Or rather, he thrust his hands deep in his jacket pockets and waited for Tom to continue.

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"Are you really...? You know?"

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"Am I really what?"

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This time, Tom swiped a large hand across his cheek in an attempt to remove a mud clump but only succeeded in spreading more around his face. Had Marcus not been feeling so irritated, he might have laughed.

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"Are you really a Crystal Palace supporter?"

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When Marcus saw the glimmer of a smile twitch Tom's lips, he couldn't stop the involuntary chuckle that issued from him. They had known each other for barely a few minutes, and the guy was already ragging him. Well, two could play at that game.

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"Could be worse. I could have been a Chelsea supporter."

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Raine had told him that her new beau supported another South London club.

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"I'm a Chelsea supporter."

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"Figures."

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"What's that supposed to mean?"

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"The way you play. Ball-hogging, glory-seeking. Blaming everyone but yourself. Swearing at your goalie for letting in a goal when it's your defence players who need a good kick up their backsides. And at some point, your captain will need to sit you down and explain the concept of passing. Oh, and if you're going to play midfield, Tom Bradford, then play midfield. Don't constantly head off down the right wing, leaving the pitch wide open for the other team's attackers. Because, you know, each team only needs one player per wing. It's in the Dummies Guide to Football. Honestly, I've seen better strategy in primary school playgrounds."

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Tom Bradford stood open-mouthed, glaring at Marcus. As soon as Marcus finished, however, he tipped his head back and roared with laughter.

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"You cheeky bastard."

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"Touché."

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Okay so he liked Tom Bradford. Officially. Seal of approval given.

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"She loves you to death, you know?" said Tom, out of the blue, as they tramped back to the clubhouse. "Says you're going to be a famous chef one day. Says you're going to be the godfather to her kids, whether you like it or not. Ought I to be a little jealous right now?"

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"Of course not. We're like brother and sister, always there for each other. She and I will always be friends, Tom, but I--uh--I--"

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Marcus stopped speaking, unsure exactly how to continue.

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"Bat for the other team?" asked Tom.

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Once again Marcus found himself laughing along with the man.

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"She bloody told you, didn't she? Honestly, love her as I do, she cannot keep a secret. Something you need to know upfront."

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As they ambled forward, Raine suddenly appeared, heading towards them just as the drizzle began to turn to heavy rain.  

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"Can I ask you something?" asked Marcus.

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"Go on."

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"That red-headed guy you were talking to."

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"Jamie," said Tom, suddenly laughing. "Yeah, I thought you might have clocked that. Although he plays for our Sunday team, he also bats for yours, if you know what I mean?"

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"He's gay?" asked Marcus, shocked.

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"As Christmas tinsel," said Tom, making Marcus laugh again. "If you want I can introduce you. He's huddled round the back of the hut having a ciggie."

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And just like that, the penny dropped. Earlier, the man hadn't been rude about Marcus. He'd been talking about having a fag, a cigarette. Shame because smokers were uppermost on Marcus' list of no-no's when it came to hook-ups. But this also confirmed the fact that Tom had no problem with the whole gay thing.

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"I'll pass, thanks. You go and get cleaned up, and we'll see you down the Fox. Have you got a ride?"

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"Yep. You take care of my little lady, and I'll see you down there."

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Tom stopped briefly to peck Raine on the lips and whisper something in her ear. She giggled like a three-year-old and then pushed him away towards the clubhouse.

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"So come on, Marky. What do you think? Is he a keeper?"

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"No, he plays midfield, darling. Or pretends to."

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"Be quiet. You know what I mean."

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"Yes, then. I think this one's a keeper. With only one huge flaw."

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That got Rain's attention. She stopped walking and grabbed him by the forearm.

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"What's wrong with him?" she said so quietly he could barely hear. Even with rain dripping from her plastic hat, he couldn't bear to see her genuine concern.

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"He doesn't have a gay twin brother."

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Her smile at that remark lit the grey skies. Hooking her arm in his, she hauled him closer and dragged him onwards again.

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"You fancy him?"

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Marcus had to think about that. 

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"No," he lied. "He doesn't quite do it for me. Too--um--big and macho, too physical, if you know what I mean? But I like him because he doesn't have a problem with me. More importantly, he's seriously into you and I can tell he's genuine. And it won't do you any harm having a dose of both of those things right now."

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"He's thirty-one."

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"Okay."

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"Ten years older than us."

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"And?"

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"You don't think he's too old?"

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"For what? Can he still manage to get it up?"

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"Marcus," she said, her voice aghast. "The man's energy is boundless. And considering the amount he has to get up, if you know what I mean, he is more than adequate. Three times last night. And on top of that, when the man goes down--"

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"Okay, enough," said Marcus, putting his fingers in his ears. "Sorry I asked."

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"--it's like he's at an all-you-can-eat Smorgasbord."

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"Eee-yew. No. Stop. Too much information."

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Following a trail of other bedraggled spectators, they made their way in comfortable silence back to the car park as the rain continued to fall around them. 

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"I'm really happy for you, Raine."

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"One day, Marky. One day, you're going to meet the most amazing man who is going to sweep you off your feet."

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"We'll see."

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Maybe, thought Marcus, but not today. More importantly, he had made up his mind not to hang around waiting. If the last few months had taught him anything, it was that he had a rare but natural talent in the kitchen. Even Julien Carbonne had noticed--that tiny raise of the left eyebrow after tasting Marcus' béchamel sauce--even though he had said nothing aloud. And then, on his final week, the offer of a full-time kitchen role from the assistant manager, clearly sanctioned by the man himself. One that he'd had to turn down because he wanted to finish his studies. Yes, Marcus Vine would be going places. Everything else could wait.

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But today? Today was Raine's day. And there was something new to this man. In the way Tom Bradford had talked about his best friend, had looked at her, had seen her.

 

Despite the chill day, he had a warm feeling that she might have just met the one.