‘I can’t believe Electra was keen enough to give provisional dates,’ said Lizzie.
‘Well, no, actually it was Hugo,’ said Alexandra.
‘I think he was a bit embarrassed by Electra’s high-handedness about those buttons,’ said David.
‘So which date shall we choose?’ said Lizzie, feeling further protest would be futile. ‘Meg? When would suit you? How did it go last night – have you got a job now? If so you’ll be working in the evenings.’
‘I can do that date,’ said Meg, looking at the list Alexandra had scribbled down. ‘The Thursday. But book me now. Don’t want to boast but the caterers loved me! It seems my waitressing skills will be in demand – the caterers are extremely busy during the season. The other girls I met were very like the girls at Mme Wilson’s. Apparently it’s a socially acceptable thing to do.’ She reflected for a second. ‘I think maybe they appreciate someone who really needs to work.’
‘They’re very lucky to have you,’ said David.
‘OK,’ said Alexandra, after a suitable pause. ‘Lizzie, I’ve got Electra’s number and she’s in charge of Hugo’s diary. Ring her and tell her that’s the date.’
‘Absolutely not!’ said Lizzie. ‘She already thinks I’m a seamstress for hire. If I telephone her, she’ll think I’m a secretary. Besides, I hate ringing people I don’t know.’ She really meant that she hated ringing people she knew despised her.
Alexandra studied her. Lizzie felt she was being read like a book.
She was relieved when Alexandra nodded. ‘I’ll do it. Now, who else shall we ask?’
‘More importantly, what are going to cook?’ said Meg. ‘David? What do you think?
‘What’s the budget?’ asked David.
‘Budget?’ said Lizzie and Alexandra together.
‘You know, cost per head?’ Meg looked at her friends with a slight frown.
‘Well,’ said Alexandra, looking crossly at David, who was laughing, ‘why don’t we think what we’d like to serve and then work out if we can afford it?’
‘How many people do you want to invite?’ said David. ‘My favourite for a dinner party is six.’
‘No!’ said Lizzie passionately. Then she went on, ‘I mean, there are three of us: we can’t just invite three more people. One more, actually, if Hugo and Electra are already coming.’ Had she sounded as if she cared too much?
‘Well,’ said Alexandra, ‘there are twelve chairs that fit round the table in the dining room. But I suggest we have ten people.’
David sucked his teeth. ‘That’s quite a lot to cope with, if you haven’t got staff.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Lizzie, who was delighted by the prospect of Electra and Hugo being lost among a large group. ‘We don’t need staff! There are three of us girls who are nearly trained chefs—’
‘Not quite chefs, Lizzie,’ said Meg. ‘And staff would be helpful. I could ask the people I work for if—’
‘No,’ said Alexandra. ‘We’d have to pay staff. Lizzie is right, we may not be trained chefs and we won’t even be trained to entertain for our husbands’ – she glanced at Lizzie – ‘for another couple of weeks, but we can certainly cook and serve a jolly good meal for ten people. Between us.’ She looked at David.
‘OK,’ said David. ‘But we need to choose the menu carefully. More Elizabeth David than Fanny Cradock.’
The three students of the Mme Wilson School of Cookery looked at him, disdain etched clearly on their faces. ‘Don’t even say Fanny Cradock to us!’ said Meg. ‘Mme Wilson told us very firmly that piping is vulgar.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘It’s not often that I appreciate being told something is vulgar because it’s usually something I want to do, like eat in the street, or go out without gloves or something. But I’m very happy not to pipe anything.’ She frowned. ‘Although I’m not sure how you’d write on a birthday cake without piping … Sorry! Thinking aloud!’
‘Can I suggest pâté to start?’ said David. ‘With melba toast. You can put it all on the table before they sit down.’
‘Won’t the melba toast be tricky?’ said Alexandra.
‘No! I have a handy hint for that I learnt the other day,’ said Meg. ‘Not at Mme Wilson’s sadly. You toast sliced white bread, cut off the crusts and teasethe two halves apart. Then you dry it off in the oven.’
‘OK,’ said Alexandra. ‘What sort of pâté?’
‘Kipper,’ said Meg. ‘My favourite.’
