“You agreed to marry me. If it hadn’t been for your title, I would never have had a penny, and I’d still be doing the make-up in a second-class theatre.”
“Shall we make peace?” I ask her, raising my paper cone of popcorn.
“Peace,” she does likewise and we toast to our truce.
“After all this, the least I can do is win a teddy bear for you.”
49
Jemma’s Version
The great thing about Cécile’s visits is not having anyone annoying (Ashford) or nosy (Delphina) around.
I’m totally and completely free now, no longer forced into assuming awkward postures or limiting my movements and gestures for matters of etiquette.
We are out on the patio, lying blissfully on two circular deckchairs. Between us, there’s a huge cart laden with food and – wait for it – we can eat it! Do I want a canapé? I’ll have one. Do I want another one? I’ll put it on my plate. Cinnamon rolls? I get as many as I want. And so does Cécile.
“I wish these afternoons could last forever,” I sigh.
“We can have as many as you want. We can do it every day.”
“Yes, but between one relaxing afternoon and the next, there are those awful high society evenings. It’s torture for me. I have to be tested, hear the laughs behind my back and get disapproving looks every single time,” I say, giving a snort of frustration. “I did my best: I read every book Jane Austen wrote! Ask me something, come on! Anything!”
“I don’t need to, I can see you’ve worked on yourself.”
“Would you believe it was completely coincidental? It all started with a film I saw by chance, then I got really passionate about the genre and my interest grew, so much so that I sought out all the other stories by the same author.”
“You see? ‘coincidental’ is a word that you wouldn’t have used a few months ago!” Cécile exclaims, while adjusting her big sunglasses.
“But it’s not enough, is it?” I say unhappily. “I’m always ‘too much’ or ‘too little’ of something, I feel like Don Quixote fighting windmills.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the audience, the literary references continue!” Cécile teases me.
“Are you doing it too, now? Making fun of me? As if the fact that I read and got interested in topics which used to be unknown to me was so unlikely!” I protest.
Cécile suddenly gets up, looking around in search of something.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Yeah, no worries. I might know what to do to explain something to you, but first I have to think of the right example.”
“Can’t you try in your own words?”
“Stay there, I’ll be right back.” So saying, Cécile takes the food cart and disappears through the service door. After a little while she’s back, with her hands hidden behind her back.
First, she hands me a crumpled sheet of newspaper with half a crumbled cream puff inside; the icing is all messy and the cream is dripping from all sides.
“What do you want from me?” I ask her.
“Caramel topped puff filled with Chantilly and whipped cream.”
I look at her sceptically.
Now, with her left hand, she’s showing me an exquisitely decorated Limoges porcelain saucer and a silver fork. At the centre of the saucer, there’s a similar cream puff half, but this one is intact and perfectly golden. The Chantilly cream looks voluptuous below the pastry top, accompanied by regular soft peaks of whipped cream and small drops of shiny caramel. On the saucer, there’s also a freshly picked daisy.
I’m even more intrigued.
“Caramel topped puff filled with Chantilly and whipped cream,” she repeats.
