other mums would be
thrilled with a floral tribute from Raf Rafferty, even if it was by default.
Thus began fifteen years of accusation, recrimination, retribution and resolution. Every time Delilah confronted him, he eventually
put his hands up, went down on his knees and begged forgiveness, promised to change. She spent fifteen exhausting years trying
to hold it together while bringing up the three girls, wondering every time why she was prepared to have him back. They belonged
together, he was the love of her life, and he was the father of her children. And, she suspected, he needed her. It was only
because of his weakness that he fell prey to temptation.
Delilah often wondered what would have happened if the
Iliad
debacle hadn’t happened. Would they have gone on like that for
years, until eventually she couldn’t take any more humiliation? As it was, the tables turned when he was thrown off the film.
Raf spent two days in the clinic before walking out. He recognised he had a problem, but he wasn’t going to let somebody else
profit from it. If he was going to be dry, he would do it himself. Luckily he had a fantastically sympathetic GP who was a
huge fan of Delilah and had seen the girls through all their childhood ailments. He was able to provide Raf with support,
and sleeping tablets, and encouragement.
Financially, the Raffertys hit crisis point. Raf had to pay his fee back to the film company, they had a huge tax-bill they
hadn’t saved for, the girls’ school fees were due for the smart day school they attended. Delilah ploughed through the paperwork
with mounting horror, added up their outgoings (huge) and their incomings (minimal) and realised they had to come up with
over sixty thousand pounds cash on the spot if they weren’t going to face total ruin, have the house sold from under them
and the girls politely asked to leave school. And that was just to avert immediate crisis.
Raf wasn’t going to be any help at all. If he was to stay on the straight and narrow he had to avoid any situation that involved
temptation and, besides, no one would touch him with a shitty stick. She couldn’t go back to modelling – she was nearly forty
and had had three children. The only thing she could really do was entertain. Could she open a restaurant, perhaps? There
were plenty of people in Richmond wanting somewhere good to eat. But of course she couldn’t – how could she raise the capital
for a venture like that when they were already hurtling towards bankruptcy?
She sat down at the kitchen table with a bulging file of recipes. Some were handed down from her family, others taken from
friends, snipped out of magazines, or secrets she’d winkled out of restaurant chefs. She sorted them carefully into piles
of starters, main courses, puddings, cakes, canapés, trying to establish some sort of order. There were certainly enough for
a book.
There were plenty of serious cook books out there. Worthy tomes that demanded you make your own veal stock or rough puff pastry.
But nothing that was carefree and simple and joyous, just dedicated to giving pleasure to your friends and family. So many
women viewed cooking as torture, and were terrified of it. Delilah dreamed of taking the fear out of cooking and entertaining,
and instead making it into a pleasure.
She invited three publishers to the house. While they were there, she sat them in the kitchen with a glass of very good wine,
and talked to them while she cooked. Each of them sat, entranced, while she casually threw together a mouth-watering feast,
making it look as easy as breathing, then served it up in the conservatory.
Two of them phoned back with the offer of a deal later that afternoon. The third called the next morning, begging her to hold
off from making a decision just one more day. When he finally called the next day, she nearly fell off her chair. He didn’t
just want to do a book. He had phoned a
thrilled with a floral tribute from Raf Rafferty, even if it was by default.
Thus began fifteen years of accusation, recrimination, retribution and resolution. Every time Delilah confronted him, he eventually
put his hands up, went down on his knees and begged forgiveness, promised to change. She spent fifteen exhausting years trying
to hold it together while bringing up the three girls, wondering every time why she was prepared to have him back. They belonged
together, he was the love of her life, and he was the father of her children. And, she suspected, he needed her. It was only
because of his weakness that he fell prey to temptation.
Delilah often wondered what would have happened if the
Iliad
debacle hadn’t happened. Would they have gone on like that for
years, until eventually she couldn’t take any more humiliation? As it was, the tables turned when he was thrown off the film.
Raf spent two days in the clinic before walking out. He recognised he had a problem, but he wasn’t going to let somebody else
profit from it. If he was going to be dry, he would do it himself. Luckily he had a fantastically sympathetic GP who was a
huge fan of Delilah and had seen the girls through all their childhood ailments. He was able to provide Raf with support,
and sleeping tablets, and encouragement.
Financially, the Raffertys hit crisis point. Raf had to pay his fee back to the film company, they had a huge tax-bill they
hadn’t saved for, the girls’ school fees were due for the smart day school they attended. Delilah ploughed through the paperwork
with mounting horror, added up their outgoings (huge) and their incomings (minimal) and realised they had to come up with
over sixty thousand pounds cash on the spot if they weren’t going to face total ruin, have the house sold from under them
and the girls politely asked to leave school. And that was just to avert immediate crisis.
Raf wasn’t going to be any help at all. If he was to stay on the straight and narrow he had to avoid any situation that involved
temptation and, besides, no one would touch him with a shitty stick. She couldn’t go back to modelling – she was nearly forty
and had had three children. The only thing she could really do was entertain. Could she open a restaurant, perhaps? There
were plenty of people in Richmond wanting somewhere good to eat. But of course she couldn’t – how could she raise the capital
for a venture like that when they were already hurtling towards bankruptcy?
She sat down at the kitchen table with a bulging file of recipes. Some were handed down from her family, others taken from
friends, snipped out of magazines, or secrets she’d winkled out of restaurant chefs. She sorted them carefully into piles
of starters, main courses, puddings, cakes, canapés, trying to establish some sort of order. There were certainly enough for
a book.
There were plenty of serious cook books out there. Worthy tomes that demanded you make your own veal stock or rough puff pastry.
But nothing that was carefree and simple and joyous, just dedicated to giving pleasure to your friends and family. So many
women viewed cooking as torture, and were terrified of it. Delilah dreamed of taking the fear out of cooking and entertaining,
and instead making it into a pleasure.
She invited three publishers to the house. While they were there, she sat them in the kitchen with a glass of very good wine,
and talked to them while she cooked. Each of them sat, entranced, while she casually threw together a mouth-watering feast,
making it look as easy as breathing, then served it up in the conservatory.
Two of them phoned back with the offer of a deal later that afternoon. The third called the next morning, begging her to hold
off from making a decision just one more day. When he finally called the next day, she nearly fell off her chair. He didn’t
just want to do a book. He had phoned a
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