I laughed; his impression of Craig Revel Horwood fromStrictlywas spot-on.
‘This morning,’ he went on eagerly, ‘Papa took me to this really cool roller-blading stadium and then after lunch – wicked pizza, Mum – we went shopping to get me some new gear.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’ I smiled at the pleasure in his voice. ‘But listen, Carl. Don’t let your father buy you loads of new clothes. You’re growing so fast you’ll be out of them in five minutes.’
‘Mum?’
‘What, love?’
‘Are you seriously suggesting I can stop Papa doing anything he wants to do?’
I smiled to myself; he sounded so grown-up. ‘No, okay,’ I conceded.
‘But thereissomeone you might be able to stop doingsomething.’
‘What? Who? Is someone giving you a problem?’ I was instantly on alert.
‘Nonna,’ my son said firmly. ‘My grandma, my Italian grandma.’
‘Why? What’s the matter? Is she being horrible to you or something?’ A tiny flutter of panic, and fury – the old bat – rose in my throat.
‘No, no, of course not. In fact, she’s being very nice to me,toonice in fact.’
‘What do you mean?’
As my mother had earlier, Carl dropped his voice as if worried someone might be listening. ‘She won’t stop,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘feedingme.’
‘Feeding you?’
‘Yes.Feedingme. Every time she lays her eyes on me she insists on stuffing me with more… like…food.’
I laughed in relief. ‘Well, it makes a welcome change from you constantly raiding the fridge at home. I’m beginning to think your nonna has the right idea. But if it’s too much, just say – politely, mind – that you’ve had enough or you’re not hungry.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ my son said gloomily. I could just imagine him, mouth turned down at the corners, eyes sorrowful, shoulders drooping – oh, as well as being a good mimic, Carl is superlative at the sad clown act. I almost felt tempted to video call him to enjoy the performance, but we’d agreed to restrict that. Instead, we chatted on for a while longer until I noticed the time, rang off and, in something of a panic, sprinted for the kitchen. It was gone six o’clock. I’d have to get a wriggle on. Butthen, that’s nothing new.
For some unknown reason, speed goes hand-in-hand with professional cooking these days. Whether they’re on television or in a restaurant kitchen, every chef is on a race to the death. I would ask you if you have any idea why this should be the case, but I don’t expect you know either.
Chapter Five
I need not have worried. Although she had not started on the actual cooking, in the kitchen I found Nicole at the sink carefully washing a beautiful antique soup tureen with a matching ladle. A quick look into the dining room showed me that she had laid the table – perfectly – with polished glasses and damask napkins at each place folded into a neat rectangle, even making for the table a lovely central arrangement of the bunch of mixed white flowers I had bought earlier in the market entwined with trailing tendrils of ivy which she must have filched from the garden. On either side of the flowers, two gleaming silver filigree candelabra were waiting to be lit. She had opened the sliding doors from the dining room to the salon and laid and lit a fire in the latter’s grate. All the table lamps in the salon had been turned on as well as the overhead pendants, including spots over the pictures. The brilliant light meant I saw with some surprise what Ihad not observed when I had entered the dimly lit room in the early hours of that morning: it was in fact distinctly shabby. There were still the elegant pale linen sofas and ranks of blue-striped ticking cushions, which Nicole had evidently plumped, but they were on the grubby side, the sofa material worn in places, almost threadbare on a couple of the arms. The Matisse cut-outs still shone in their magnificence of course, but under the spotlights their heavy gilt frames looked cheaper somehow, chipped and blotchy as though someone had rather amateurishly had a go at renovating them. In a way, however, this all made the room look more welcoming, more like a sitting room in an ordinary house that was loved and lived in.
But there was no time for reflection. Nicole was hopping from foot to foot, eager for instruction about what to do next, so, having got us both back to the kitchen, I quickly set her to preparing the vegetables for the main course while I started on the soup. She proved to be the most tremendous help, not only doing everything I asked of her but genuinely interested in learning whatever cookery wisdom I cared to impart. She paid the greatest possible attention to everything I said, then did whatever I’d asked her to do carefully but quickly and efficiently. I did not have to say anything twice to her, with the result that, by aquarter to eight, all I had left to do was pop the tarte tatin I had made for pudding into the oven. But I would do that once everybody had started on their soup. The girl was a miracle.
‘You’re a miracle,’ I said to her.
She blushed prettily but made a modest gesture of dismissal. ‘Je m’amuse. I am enjoying myself,’ she translated with a happy smile.
‘Good. Now, wine and drinks. Will Mr Mandeville see to all that?’
She nodded. ‘Oui. Always M’sieur Luc do the drinking.’
‘Fine.’ I smiled back at her. (Perhaps that was his problem!) Then, finishing off the arrangement of a platter ofamuses bouchesto go with whatever pre-dinner drinks were to be served, I put it down on the kitchen table and wiped my hands on my apron. ‘Now, I’m just going to nip back to my room to put on a clean apron and tidy myself up. Will you be okay for five minutes or so? Just give the pan of soup a gentle little stir now and then, if you don’t mind, while I’m gone. I won’t be long.’
She nodded, her eyes bright with intelligence, and I beetled off down the corridor.
No sooner had I re-plaited my hair, changed my apron, smeared on a discrete slash of lipstick and was about to add a light touch of perfume, however, than I heard the unmistakeable squawks of the elusive Susan Mandeville’s shrieky voice emanating from the kitchen, sounding anything but happy. I rushed back.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ I cried, shoving down on the table the box of Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps thatI had bought on the plane and had been on the point of unwrapping. Before me stood Nicole, her head bowed like a black tulip in a thunderstorm and looking as though she were about to be horsewhipped. Facing her, and in her case looking as if about to administer such a punishment, was the smallest woman I have ever seen in my life. I stepped forward to introduce myself, my hand outstretched. Susan Mandeville ignored it.
