Chapter 14
14
Lismay
1985
It was four weeks before she and Cyrille talked one to one again. Lismay kept her distance during the classes, trying to concentrate on her cooking skills, but she watched him from afar, noticing he wasn’t as fierce as he made out. He spent time with every student, giving them gentle encouragement and praise to build their confidence. He was thoughtful and generous. That didn’t help make him a less attractive proposition. Far from it. To know there was a softness under that ebullient exterior made him even more appealing.
She was aware of something inside her that was drawn to Cyrille that she needed to suppress. Even though their encounter had been fleeting, she knew danger when she saw it. But it wasn’t all that surprising. Things were no better with Piers. He had come and gone for another week, distracted by work and keeping her at a distance. He had gone back earlier than expected, too, and Lismay wondered if it had been necessary. He’d pleaded a meeting with a big client, but she’d been suspicious. Was their marriage effectively over? This wasn’t how she wanted to live. Perhaps it would be better when the chateau was open? They were both juggling a lot – there wasn’t much time for them to spend on themselves. She clung on to the thought of Christmas – three whole weeks together. Maybe they’d be able to talk. Maybe they’d be able to—
Making love seemed like a distant memory.
Meanwhile, her culinary repertoire was expanding and her kitchen skills were improving with every lesson as she learned the important of mise en place – basically, getting everything ready before you started. She realised her cooking had been mildly chaotic up until now, inevitably getting halfway through a recipe before realising she was missing a key ingredient. She was adding to the list of equipment she needed for the kitchen at the chateau – a chinois for straining stock, a mandoline for wafer thin slices of potato. As well as organisation, the right equipment was key to good cooking.
This Saturday, they were making parfait. Her pan was filled with foaming butter as Cyrille came to her station and showed her how to toss chicken livers, flipping them with a flick of the wrist. He free-poured brandy onto them, his thumb over the top of the bottle to control the amount of liquid, then pulled out his lighter. As the pan ignited, he seemed to set her on fire too, heat shooting along her veins. She wondered if he noticed the effect he had on her, as he gently shook the pan until the flames died down.
‘ Parfait. ’ He grinned, then clapped her on the shoulder before walking away. She sat down on her stool for a moment, staring at the chicken livers, then grabbed the instructions to try and make sense of the words. Add cream. Purée. Sieve. Somehow she managed to get through the rest of the afternoon.
When Piers came back the next time, everything was much more relaxed. He didn’t seem so preoccupied with work, and everything that had been achieved at the chateau impressed him no end.
‘Bloody hell, you’ve worked miracles, darling,’ he told her as she showed him around, pointing out the cleaned and restored fireplace that took centre stage in the drawing room.
‘It’s not me. I haven’t done a thing, really.’
‘Except keep the whole show on the road,’ he pointed out.
‘I couldn’t do it without Hugo. He knows everything. He even made sure I got a certificate to prove the chimney’s been swept. You need that for insurance. I had no clue.’
Piers didn’t reply, just carried on looking around, his hands in his pockets. She suspected he wasn’t as enamoured of Hugo as she was, but she was still relying on him and Jerry heavily for inspiration, translation and negotiation. She asked them for dinner the night before Piers was due to leave, and this time he seemed happy for them to come over.
‘I need to practise my cooking skills, if I’m going to be feeding all these guests,’ she told him. ‘And they’ll be honest with me.’
‘Of course,’ Piers said. ‘It’ll be fun. I’ll practise my wine-opening skills.’
‘You don’t need to practise them,’ laughed Lismay. ‘But you do need to practise being polite and attentive to strangers. Hosting paying guests is going to be very different from hosting friends.’
‘Yes, I guess my mates are used to me being a complete clown. I’ll have to mend my ways.’
Oh God, thought Lismay, remembering the time he’d set a trail of spilt Sambucca alight and the flames had raced along the table. She didn’t want to dampen his high spirits but he would have to rein himself in a bit and learn to keep a distance.
The night Hugo and Jerry were coming for dinner, she missed that Saturday’s cookery session, because Piers was back and she didn’t want to waste their time together. Cyrille had given her the recipes the week before so she could do them at home.
‘I am sorry you will be missing this lesson,’ he told her as he handed her the photocopies. ‘Let me know how you get on.’
She cooked goose with chestnuts and apples and chocolate and orange mousse with tiny almond biscuits. With her newfound discipline, she got the portions and the timings just right. She thought Cyrille would be impressed.
Hugo and Jerry certainly were.
‘Darling, they’re going to be queueing up to stay,’ proclaimed Hugo, putting down his spoon. ‘It’s a triumph.’
‘I told you Cyrille would transform you,’ Jerry agreed.
‘Oh, he’s amazing. We all love him. He’s such a character,’ said Lismay blithely.
‘A character. That’s one way of describing him.’ Jerry’s tone was filled with ironic longing.
‘Don’t start, Jerry,’ laughed Hugo. ‘Honestly, he didn’t stop going on about him for weeks when he was doing the course. If I didn’t know Cyrille’s reputation with the ladies, I’d have been worried.’
‘Is he a ladies’ man, then?’ asked Piers, and Lismay tensed.
‘You could say that,’ said Hugo. ‘Though he knows if he went anywhere near Lismay, we’d ruin him.’
‘He’d be eating his own sweetbreads,’ said Jerry.
Everyone roared with laughter.
How she hadn’t blushed, Lismay didn’t know. Just hearing his name made her insides feel like a pan of butter and sugar turning to caramel. There were only two more Saturdays of the course to go. After that, she could turn Cyrille into a memory that would gradually fade.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Piers as they said goodbye at the airport.
‘I’m proud of you too. It’s not easy for you, is it?’ Lismay was aware she was the one having all the fun and adventures and challenges while Piers had his nose to the grindstone.
‘Not long till Christmas, darling. Then we’ll have three whole weeks.’
‘Christmas!’ said Lismay, trying to inject joy into her voice.
‘Our first French Christmas. It’ll be wonderful.’
He gave her a tight squeeze. It was the most physical contact they’d had all week.
Lismay went to the last cooking class with a heavy heart. She had loved her Saturdays, and it wasn’t just because of Cyrille. There was something so soothing about learning to cook, and she’d grown very fond of the others on the course, especially Marianne. They were doing very challenging dishes now, accomplishing things they never dreamed they’d be capable of.
On the last day, they were doing a Christmas menu: coquilles St Jacques , venison en cro?te and Mont Blanc , a quivering mountain of creamy chestnut purée. They were having a feast together at the end, to celebrate their achievements and to say goodbye. Soon the air in the kitchen was filled with the scent of browning butter, bubbling wine and rising dough. Lismay found herself moving around with confidence, grabbing the right implement, knowing instinctively when to turn up the heat or pull something out from under the grill. She’d come to love the pressure, paying attention to the timer in her head, using all five senses to judge what needed doing next – pressing a thumb into a piece of meat to gauge how well it was done, sipping a tiny spoonful of sauce to calculate the amount of salt needed.
As the cooking time came to an end, she pulled a perfect brioche out of the oven, slid a shell filled with scallops and cheese sauce under the grill, and spooned extra butter over her fondant potatoes.
‘We’re almost professionals,’ she laughed to Marianne, who was at the station beside her. Then she frowned. Marianne was looking decidedly queasy. ‘Are you all right?’
Marianne was slightly trembly. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I hope.’ She put a hand on her stomach, her eyelids fluttering as she looked at Lismay from under her lashes.
‘Oh God,’ said Lismay, realising immediately what the matter was.
‘I’m not telling anyone,’ said Marianne. ‘Just in case. But I’m pretty sure we’ve got us a honeymoon baby.’
‘Oh darling.’ Lismay put her arms around her neck. ‘ Un bébé en lune de miel. It sounds so much nicer in French.’
She held on to her for a few moments while she gathered herself. She wasn’t sure how she felt. Thrilled, of course, for Marianne and Brad were adorable. But there was something else she could feel under her ribs. A stab of something. Was it jealousy? She hoped not. That was a nasty character trait. She’d always tried not to be jealous of anyone. She sat with it for a moment, trying to identify the hot, sharp little digs.
Anger. It was anger. Shocked, she stepped away from Marianne to grab her shells from under the grill. She looked down at the cheese, bubbling away, clenching her fists. Why was she so angry? She thought she’d come to terms with her lot, and accepted that she would never have children of her own. She couldn’t be angry with Piers, for it wasn’t his fault. How could she hold it against him?
As she sliced up her brioche, her mind ran through the possible reasons for such a visceral reaction. And she realised that Marianne had the one thing she was missing in her life. It wasn’t the baby she resented at all. It was the fact that Marianne and Brad were having the one thing she was craving, and Piers was withholding.
Sex.
Why was he punishing her? And why couldn’t she talk to him about it? He was shutting her out, closing her down, and it was only now she realised how very much it mattered to her. She just wanted to be held, to be loved, to feel part of someone else, to let herself go. To feel passion. Not to feel as if she was slowly dying inside, withering from neglect.
‘ à table! ’ shouted Cyrille, who was putting the finishing touches to half a dozen small tables laid out at the front of the room.
Before they sat down, Lismay slipped away to the loo. She ran some cold water over her wrists and looked in the mirror. She looked pale and drawn. Her eyes were a bit dead. Pull yourself together, she told herself. She couldn’t fall apart every time someone told her they were having a baby.
She tugged her hair out of its ponytail, for she could have it free now they weren’t cooking. She fluffed it up, then dug in her handbag for lipstick, dabbing the frosted pink onto her mouth. That was better. She looked a bit more glamorous.
When she came out, everyone was sitting down. Marianne waved at her to join her and Brad. Lismay made her way over, smiling blithely, as if everything was all right. She sank into the chair, and realised there was one spare space next to her.
And only one person left to sit down.
Cyrille.
He smiled as he joined them. Lismay’s heart pounded. Was it fate? She certainly hadn’t engineered it – she would never have had the nerve – and she didn’t think Cyrille had. It was just how the cards had fallen.
‘Ten more days in Provence and we’re home just in time for Christmas,’ sighed Marianne. ‘I can’t believe how quickly it’s gone.’
‘You’ll be back though,’ said Lismay. ‘Won’t you?’
Would they, though? Would a baby stop them doing the things they wanted?
‘We’re going to check in to the Chateau Villette as soon as we can!’ Marianne looked over at Brad, who nodded his agreement.
Lismay thought of the wrought-iron cot. The one that had caused an argument. She’d better get that mattress sorted. ‘Why don’t you come for lunch next Sunday, before you leave? Piers is coming home for Christmas on Friday.’
‘Oh wow,’ said Marianne. ‘We’d love that, wouldn’t we, Brad?’
‘Sure. Except I’ll never hear the end of it on the flight home. She’s going to be wanting a chateau in her stocking,’ joked Brad.
Lismay noticed that Cyrille was looking a little crestfallen. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. ‘Cyrille – would you come too? Piers would love to meet you.’
She wasn’t quite sure that was true.
She was aware of Marianne’s eyes on her as Cyrille smiled. ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘And we’ll make sure to send our guests here. Honestly, Cyrille, this course has been life-changing. I feel as if there’s nothing I couldn’t tackle in the kitchen now.’
She was babbling. Talking utter nonsense just to cover up the thrill that had gone through her at the thought of Cyrille walking up the steps of the chateau. She imagined opening the door to him, dressed in ice-blue satin, her hair in …
For heaven’s sake, Lismay, she told herself. You’re not bloody Pauline Bonaparte. She stared down at her plate, regretting her impulsive invitation. What had she done? What had she done?
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Brad and Marianne would be there. And Piers . It was perfectly fine. There was nothing wrong with extending the hand of hospitality to say thank you to Cyrille for everything. Nothing wrong at all.