Magdalene was mixing up a fruitcake as I entered the kitchen. The table was lined with pans, but it still reminded me of the headmistress’s desk as I presented myself in front of it.
“I’m truly sorry, Magdalene, that I am so late down.” The hall clock struck eleven in slow, heavy emphasis. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. No special reason, you understand. First, I couldn’t nod off and then I kept nodding awake. I do feel dreadful, neglecting you like this.”
Raisins showered into the mixing bowl, and Magdalene plunged a wooden spoon, which was too tall for her, round and round.
“Don’t worry about me, Giselle, I am quite capable of taking care of myself and Ben. He went off to work with a proper breakfast inside him. Gammon and tomatoes, just the way he likes them. He told me you don’t cut the crusts off the fried bread, but we all have our different ways.” She was scraping batter into a tin.
Would it make her like me better if I asked to lick the bowl? What were a few extra calories in so good a cause? Obviously she didn’t hear me or see my outstretched hands because the mixing bowl went bobbing in the sink.
“If you like to have a lie-in every morning, Giselle, you won’t get a word of criticism out of me.” She pushed at the sleeves of her grey cardigan. “I’ve always had to get up early, so as to get to Mass before the shop opened.”
This was getting worse. I needed a calculator to tabulate my sins. Why hadn’t I thought to ask Magdalene whether she wanted to go to daily Mass? A splotch of batter stared up at me from the table; I stretched out a finger, then snatched it back. “Would you like to come down to the village when your cake comes out of the oven? The Catholic church is just off Market Street; you could pick up a timetable and have a kneel there while I take care of some things at Abigail’s, then I could fetch you over to see Ben and-”
“Have a kneel! I don’t think so, thank you, Giselle. In fact”-her lips quivered-“I can’t hope to get to church for awhile… We can miss without fear of mortal sin in… times of illness, flood, blizzard, and other… sincere reasons, such as…”
I caught some words that sounded like “fear for life and limb.” I should have asked her what she meant. So many things might have been different if I had, but my mind was on my reconciliation with Ben.
If ever a day was a good omen, this one was. The snow had vanished, leaving a vibrant greenness. I could smell the promise of blossom in the air. Deciding against taking the Heinz, I walked to the village. The breeze was nippish, but I didn’t mind. Everything was going to be all right. Ben and I would rediscover the bliss of our early married life, my in-laws would discover they couldn’t live without each other, and Abigail’s premiere would be a mad success.
Mad was the word for the chaos which greeted me as I stepped into the foyer of the restaurant. A glance at the ceiling made me catch my breath. Straddling the second floor bannister railing and some other (invisible) prop was a plank. Tippy-tilting on this perch were a couple of painters, their brushes swooshing the ceiling in a Charlie Chaplin pantomime. A splatter of paint made me dodge sideways and collide with the plumber, who was staggering around in circles, a toilet clutched in his arms.
“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with this, lady? Your husband had it straight from the horse’s mouth that all sales is final!”
“I’m sorry!” I had to shout over the radio music blasting from all sides. Over it, or under it, I could hear the voice of the world’s greatest upholsterer-Monsieur Rouche-Babou. I was about to charge into the Bluebell Room and pacify him when I saw Ben emerge from his second floor office and duck around the painters’ aerie. The man with the paintpot dangling on his arm seesawed upward. When I opened my eyes, Ben was coming down the stairs.
“I got your note, darling,” I said, as he reached me. His lips smiled but his eyes weren’t quite focused.
“Good.” He moved; my lips grazed his ear. Shuffling a half-dozen menus in his hands, he scowled at the plumber, who set the toilet down and sat on it, arms akimbo.
“Ellie, we’ll have a romantic evening. Just the two of us… and Mum.” Ben’s fingers touched my arm as he strode forward, the menus slicing the air. “I want that toilet out of here, Johnson. I don’t care if you have to put it in your living room and plant daffs in it. How many stars do you think I will get docked if word ever leaks out that it had been misinstalled in my kitchen?”
I regained his attention, meaning his gaze lit on me in its travels and turned blank. He was surprised I was still here; but pleased. He pointed the menus at the Bluebell Room, nearly taking off my ear in the process.
“Talk to that twerp you hired to do the upholstery, Ellie. Spell it out for him that if he can’t get his fringes to lie flat by this evening, he’s out on his arse.”
“Ben,” I said gently, “I can’t run roughshod over a man of Monsieur’s calibre. I’ll bring him a posy of flowers and ask him nicely.”
“Whatever it takes.” Ben ran a finger across his brow. “Would you also go down on your knees to your wallpaperer. Take a look at that area by the front door!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Come on, Ellie! It looks like a rhino’s back.”
Maybe I needed glasses. Two inches from the offending section of wallpaper, I couldn’t see anything. Wait a minute! My fingers found a hairline crease. Annoying, but due to an imperfection in the plaster.
“Darling,” I countered, slipping my arm through his, “let’s go into the kitchen. You’ve been holding out on me with the new menu, and I’m dying to see what you have settled on.”
His smile missed me by a quarter-inch, but on entering the kitchen, he handed me a menu. A special one, in a leather, gold-tooled folder. “Tell me what you think.”
“I will, I will. But do let my imagination savour this captivating cassoulet! I can almost smell the bouquet garni in which it is lovingly simmered for three hours…” My voice petered out. My eyes did a zigzag down the page and came to a shuddering stop. The words that zoomed out at me couldn’t… couldn’t be.
“What’s up?” Ben was moving along the stainless steel counter, assessing how well he could see himself in its surface. “You are not upset that I added an extra veal entree, are you?”
“Not a bit. I am somewhat surprised…” My eyes returned to the menu, then flinched away. “I am very surprised by item number four in the luncheon section-the ‘D’Ellie Delight.’ Not that I want to make a big deal about it…” My bright smile slipped and I had to clench my teeth to keep it in place.
Ben was now leaning against the counter, feet crossed at the ankle, laughter dancing in his eyes. Usually I melt like snow on the stove when he strikes that pose.
“Ever thought you would see the day, Ellie, when you would lend your name to such a classy restaurant?”
“That has never been one of my prime-time fantasies, but had I experienced such hopes, I… might have pinned them on being featured in the dinner section.” The menu twitched in my hands. “And I would have aspired to something a little more glamourous than a corned beef sandwich.”
Ben’s smile went out. “And I”-he swept a hand sideways, sending a glass shattering into the sink-“I thought I was paying you the highest possible compliment in giving your name to a dish which I consider uniquely mine.”