‘It is.’ Solange’s eyes brightened with a rare twinkle. ‘First of all, we have to make the pastry. Puff pastry.’
‘Make it!’ Hattie took a step back. ‘That sounds difficult.’ Didn’t puff pastry come ready-made in packs from the supermarket? She’d made it once, a million years ago, in a home economics class, which, she vaguely remembered, involved a lot of faff with complicated folding and turning.
‘Mais oui. C’est simple.’ With a touch of mischief on her face, Solange handed Hattie an apron, led her over to the long cool marble counter and began assembling the ingredients. Her posture changed subtly as she directed Hattie to collect butter from the fridge. Now she was more like a general commanding her troops. There was a glimpse there of a more formidable character that had once been in charge of this large and beautiful home.
‘You can make a yeast dough as the base but I prefer pastry and that would involve more time,’ said Solange, deciding they would both make a quantity of pastry each. ‘Then you can have some in the freezer for another time.’
She taught Hattie to rub the flour between the tips of her fingers, to keep the butter as cool as possible and used iced water to bind the resultant crumbs together. Her movements were quick and deft and she made Hattie feel like a lumbering carthorse in comparison. However, she was also very patient and an excellent teacher.
‘That didn’t take any time at all,’ said Hattie, when they put the wrapped blocks of pale pastry in the fridge to chill.
‘It’s just a question of being organised and focusing on one thing at a time. Now we will do the onions.’
Hattie, slightly nervous in the presence of someone who was so adept, waited to see how Solange chopped her onions. The other woman, seeing her hesitation, paused and showed her the best method.
Solange held up one of the brown onions, running a knife over the skin. ‘I always think that there is magic in an onion. The dried skin is so smooth on the inside, that unique paper texture, almost like luxury wrapping paper. Then the flesh is so moist, you can hear the juice as you cut. And then it folds itself into perfect pieces when you chop it like this. There’s more sorcery in the flavour, so different raw to the rich depth when it is cooked.’ Solange closed her eyes, almost in prayer.
They sautéed the onions very gently in butter in a cast-iron pan, adding pinches of tiny fragrant thyme leaves from the herb garden on the patio. ‘Always use a good heavy pan like this,’ explained Solange. ‘We want to cook them very, very slowly so that every last bit of goodness oozes out.’
An hour later, Hattie was extremely proud of herpissaladière, with its lattice of anchovies and dotted with black olives – thank you, Solange. Hattie wasn’t sure she could have made it look quite that professional. She was also rather proud of the quiet bond they’d built today, working side by side both in the ball room and the kitchen, as well as Solange sharing her memories of the château. Hattie was grateful for Solange’s motherly guidance. While dinner was cooking in the oven, she managed a lightning-quick shower, washed her hair and put on a pale pink cotton dress that was quite worn now and a little shapeless. She pulled a face at herself in the mirror. She’d really let herself go. When had she stopped caring what she looked like? Maybe she should put her jeans back on. At least they showed off her shape, which was more than this dress did. Her only other dress was red and she was worried it would look like she was obviously dressing up. With the soft fabric of the skirt swishing around her knees, she returned to the kitchen keenly aware of the flutter of anticipation in her stomach.
Flirting with Luc had been the touchpaper to memories of being feminine and attractive. It had been a long time since she’d felt desirable or even bothered to dress to show off any of her assets. She wasn’t even sure she had any these days. She brushed away that annoying little buzz of disloyalty. Officially she was single and there was nothing to stop her sleeping with someone else if she wanted. Sleeping with… She was jumping ahead a little. But why not? If she wanted to. She could. The idea bounced around her head like a snowball increasing in size. She did want to. She wanted Luc Brémont. Wanted the touch of his skin and the muscle of that gorgeous body against hers. She wanted to know what it would be like to feel again.
He might have teased her about seducing her but there was nothing to stop her from seducing him. She surveyed the kitchen and decided she needed to set the scene. Decision made, she nipped along to the dining room to retrieve some of the newly washed china and snipped a couple of extra sprigs of thyme from the pots, which she tucked between the napkins and napkin rings. Raiding the dresser she selected fine wine and water glasses for each place setting. Last but not least, she found some more tealights as the previous ones had burned away, put them into a couple of small bright red earthenware bowls and set them on the table.
‘Très confortable,’ drawled a husky voice from the French doors.
Hattie jumped. What was it with people in this place creeping up on her?
‘Hello,’ she said. And took in the full glory of the woman in front of her, who was even more glamorous than Yvette if that was possible.
‘You’re the English girl,’ she said and walked in, pushing outsize glasses onto the top of her head, holding back a cloud of glossy brunette hair as she tucked a Chanel clutch bag under her arm. ‘I’m Marine, a friend of Luc’s. Is he around?’
‘Er, yes. I think he’s still upstairs changing. Would you like me to—’
Before she could finish, with a sure-of-herself smile, Marine sauntered past Hattie in a swirl of bright designer silk that put her cheap dress to shame. ‘It’s okay, I know my way to Luc’s bedroom. He’ll be pleased to see me.’
ChapterEleven
Hattie couldn’t have been more mortified when Luc came into the kitchen, a smear of bright pink lipstick on his lips, with Marine’s hand tucked through his arm.
‘Marine is staying for dinner, is that okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Hattie in that overbright tone that meant what-the-hell-else-am-I-meant-to-say. ‘Let me just lay an extra place setting.’
Marine stood there, light amusement touching her lips, while Hattie gathered the extra plates and cutlery and Luc opened a bottle of wine.
‘It all looks very romantic,’ said Marine with a sly smile directed towards Hattie, before sitting herself down at the head of the table directly between the other two places and pushing her chair back to hold out her wine glass for Luc to fill.
The subtle power play was not lost on Hattie. With ease Marine had claimed the top spot as Luc’s guest and Hattie, much to her annoyance, had somehow been relegated to skivvy. It felt horribly familiar, as if she were back in Chris and his mother’s kitchen again, looking after them.
As he moved around the kitchen, Marine talked to Luc in fast-flowing French. Hattie clenched her fists inside the oven gloves as she went to remove the onion tart from the oven. So much for impressing Luc. He and Marine were so deep in conversation, she might as well have been a fly on the wall. What on earth had she been thinking? That Luc might be interested in someone like her?
She slid the plates in front of Luc and Marine, who barely stopped talking to acknowledge the food. Bringing over her own plate, she sat down. ‘Bon appétit,’ she said and Luc did look her way then.
‘Merci, Hattie.’ He said something else in French and Marine responded as she poked at the tart with her fork.
‘Would you mind speaking in English?’ Luc might not be interested in her but she wasn’t going to put up with rudeness when she’d cooked dinner.
