Mike nods in agreement.
‘Aww, thank you.’ Flavia beams at them. ‘And now tell me your own favourite places visited and type of holiday.’
‘South of France and wine-tasting,’ says Mike immediately.
‘Oh my goodness! Me too!’ Judith exclaims.
Mike exclaims back at her, and then they all look at me.
After a moment of brain freeze – whatdoI like doing on holiday? – I say, ‘I like an active holiday. I love skiing. I skied a lot in North America when I was living in New York, which was amazing.’
‘I’ve never been skiing,’ Flavia says. ‘I’d love to try, although going by my complete lack of balance when it comes to ice skating I think I’d be terrible.’ She sounds so cheerful that none of us bother to reassure her.
‘Did you say you ended up living in Australia for a while?’ asks Mike. ‘I worked in Sydney for six months a few years ago. Loved it.’
‘Yes, I did. I agree, Sydney’s beautiful.’ And then Flavia buries herself in demolishing the remainder of her pancakes, suddenly much less keen to share her experiences. I presume it’s because she doesn’t want to talk about her ex-husband and the breakdown of her marriage.
I can’t help feeling curious, again, about how she ended up living in Australia, married to an Australian. It’s absolutely nothing to do with me, clearly, but the thought of her as someone else’s wife is just odd. Not that she would ever have beenmine, obviously.
I really don’t think anyone should have to talk about things that make them feel uncomfortable, though, so when Mike asks her a couple more questions, I step in and turn the conversation in the direction of the wine-tasting trips Mike mentioned that he enjoys.
Judith has a lot of questions for Mike and soon they’re deep in conversation about different French grapes. I love my wine too, but I’m distracted by looking at Flavia and wondering how she’s feeling about her ex-husband and their divorce.
‘I was sorry to hear about your divorce,’ I say, making sure that no-one will overhear.
‘Thanks.’ She places her knife and fork on her plate. Askew, to the side, like you do in many European countries, not nicely neat and tidy like we do in England. ‘Those pancakes weregood.’ Clearly, she does not want commiserations. Fair enough.
‘I cannot believe you finished them,’ I tell her. ‘That was a lot of food.’
‘I was hungry. Did you order a dessert?’
‘Dessert? For brunch? No?’
‘Oh.’ She looks genuinely surprised. ‘Well… you can share mine if you like.’
I stare at her. ‘You’ve ordered dessert as well as a massive plate of sugary, creamy, syrupy pancakes?’
‘There was compote.’
‘At least fifty per cent sugar.’
‘Seriously.’ She glares at me. ‘You arefunin a brunch setting.’
I laugh. She carries on glaring.
About half the group ordered desserts. Flavia’s is a large chocolate brownie, accompanied by a lot of cream.
‘Youshouldhave a couple of mouthfuls at least,’ Flavia tells me, putting her spoon down and proffering her unused fork. ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t. Being on holiday is not the time for salad.’
‘I like salad. Also, I had steak.’
‘Hmm,’ she says.
‘Hmm, what?’
‘Just… I don’t really think of steak as a brunch food.’
In the end, I pick up Flavia’s fork and take a mouthful of the brownie. Itisvery nice, I concede. But I really don’t want more than one mouthful.
