‘That’s disgusting,’ I muttered.
Nicole nodded again, more vigorously. ‘Disgusting is a good word, I think.’
‘Not to a chef.’ Loading up a tray with three plates, I told her to serve the Acorns and Jules. ‘I’ll do the top end of the table.’
‘And what is this?’ demanded Susan Mandeville – as I had by now known she would – the very instant I set down a plate in front of her.
Taking a deep breath, I assumed my best French accent, which isn’t saying much, but we can’t all be perfect. ‘Poulet de Bresse avec la sauce soubise.’
‘Oh God, not chicken,’ groaned Mandeville as if sounding a death knell at precisely the same moment asJules cried, ‘But this is my favourite!’
Mandeville stared at him for a second or two and then started to laugh again. Quite what was going to happen next I’d no idea, so mesmerised was I by the flashing of Luc Mandeville’s even, white teeth – normal-tooth white, that is, not the cosmetically bleached version that makes you look as though you’ve got an miniature American picket fence in your chops. He should laugh more often, I thought. The Caroline woman seemed fixated by her host’s teeth as well, I noticed, but was also looking peeved, as though she hadn’t quite bargained for any of this.
Then suddenly I remembered.Hell! In all the hoo-ha I’d forgotten to put the wretched tarte tatin in the oven…
Chapter Six
When I opened my eyes the following morning, my first thought was that I simply could not believe the previous evening had happened. I’ve cooked for some pretty weird dinner parties during my career, quite often the guests not speaking or not seeming to evenlikeeach other, but this one took the laurel wreath. In the first place, it had never been clear, to me at least, who was actually the host; was it Luc Mandeville or his appalling mother? And if it was the latter, then why wasn’t she staying at the Villa Matisse? Unless my memory was failing me, she had effectively claimed ownership of the place; ‘myhouse’,she had said quite distinctly when making a prat of herself over the mistaking the sound of the word ‘pistou’. And then, in the second, or perhaps it should be first, place, why did everyone suddenly leave? Because that is exactly what they had done. A few minutes after Nicole and I had served their main course, every single one of the guests simply… left.
With a groan, I levered myself out of bed and threw on some jeans and a T-shirt. It wasn’t late, about eight o’clock, but I thought I’d better see how the land was lying as soon as possible.
In the kitchen I found Nicole sitting at the table, simultaneously drinking coffee and eating a croissant, breaking off occasionally to scribble things in a notebook by her right hand.
‘Are you writing it down to make sense of what happened yesterday evening?’ I nodded at the notebook.
She frowned as she worked out my question. Then, ‘Oh, no, no,’ she cried. ‘I am writing my English vocabulary. If I write him, I remember,’ she explained.
Pouring myself a bowl of coffee, I sat down opposite her. I didn’t feel like having anything to eat. The shenanigans of the previous evening had left me totallyunhungry.
‘Is there anyone around?’ I asked. ‘Any resident of the Villa Matisse in need of my services?’
‘No.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I knock on the door of the room of M’sieur Luc this morning but nobody respond. I think he never come ’ome last night.’
Probably too busy peeling off Caroline’s bodycon frock, I thought sourly and then wondered why I thought that sourly. It wasn’t as if I fancied Luc Mandeville; I didn’t even like the man. Drinking some coffee, I looked carefully at the French girl.
‘Tell me something. Why do you think they all suddenly scarpered?’
‘Excuse me, what is “scarpered”?’
‘Oh, um, sort of slang for “left” or “went”. All I am asking is, why did all the guests suddenlyleave?’
***
We’d hardly said anything to each other the previous evening. All Nicole and I knew was that five minutes after we’d served the main course and got back to the kitchen, a huge row broke out in the dining room, voices raised to such a pitch – Susan Mandeville’s being by far the highest decibel – that although you could not hear what was actually being said or shouted, the voices had been audibly angry and hence angrily audible in the kitchen. A dead but lasting silence had then followed, after which I slid tentatively through the swing door only to find the dining room devoid of human presence. All the plates of chicken and sauce soubise were untouched, save for theelderly English couple’s two. Judging by the mess they’d left, it looked as though they’d had a bloody good go at getting as much of it down their throats as possible before they were removed. But were they removed? And why?
Speechless, Nicole and I simply exchanged shocked looks.
‘Did a bomb go off?’ I asked her. ‘And we didn’t hear it?’
Nicole looked awed. ‘I think he is a big bomb,’ she said, nodding at the wreckage. Apart from sauce soubise enamelled on the surface of the table at the Acorns’ end, someone had knocked their wine glass over, creating a mini lake of Macon Villages. A ragged slice of chicken had somehow found its way into Nicole’s flower arrangement. One of the dining chairs lay flat on its back as if someone had punched its lights out, and several knives and forks seemed to have been more airborne than Covid. What with restoring order there, dousing the fire and tidying up the sitting room, not to mention the chaos in the kitchen with congealing satay and sour cream everywhere – and a half-cooked tarte tatin – all we both felt like doing after that was going to bed.
***
‘I cannot say,’ Nicole muttered now, in answer to my question but looking uncomfortable.
Well, I wasn’t going to pump the girl. It wasn’t fair. She was too young, apparently employed by the family, and it wasn’t my business anyway.
‘Okay.’ I flexed my shoulders. They ached withtension. In fact, my whole body felt as though I’d been flogged, and for some crime I hadn’t committed. ‘What are you doing with yourself today, then?’ I asked her. ‘Do you fancy us going out somewhere together?’ I glanced through the kitchen window at the cerulean-blue sky beyond the glass. ‘It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.’
