Chapter Twenty
‘Oh, to have proper roast potatoes, how do you do it Emmeline?’ Lexy asked as if Emme was a clever puppy who had just performed a trick.
The Harringtons had got back from Italy just an hour ago, to the smells of roast chicken, roast potatoes and stuffing. Bill had taken Bella off for a bath in the hot tub, and Harry had wailed because he wanted bratwurst for dinner again.
Apparently he only ever wanted bratwurst for dinner, even when he got to dine at society weddings, five-star hotels, Michelin-starred restaurants, or on the KristallKit concierge food service.
Lexy had shared this with Emme as if to say you know what kids are like, as Emme prepped the veg, but she didn’t really.
Her own niece and nephew always seemed grateful with whatever dinner was put in front of them.
After the way he’d discarded his Paddington bear and now this, she was starting to get the impression that Harry seemed like a bit of a bratwurst himself.
Now the kids were showered, bathed, and sitting at the table with their parents and Emme, while Lexy reflected on a wedding that would be the talk of the region – as was the fact that Lysander Steinherr was back in town.
That part delighted Lexy especially, as if Lysander Steinherr were Ryan Gosling.
Now Emme was sharing her tip for the perfect roast potatoes:
‘Par boil for six minutes, drain, fluff them up, add a little flour and roast in hot olive oil!’ Emme smiled, thinking about all the roast dinners she and Tom had shared: in the kitchen of her Balham flat, or his flat in Dulwich; or at a thousand pubs in between, while they read the Sunday papers and played boardgames.
Then it hit her like a ten-ton truck. Emme had never felt so dowdy, talking about her mother’s perfect roast potato recipe while the blonde glamazon from the café was probably back in Tristan Du Kok’s apartment, coming down his schlong.
At least that exquisite image had nudged Tom out of her thoughts.
Perhaps this was the distraction she needed.
‘They’re really very good …’ nodded Bill, looking at his plate as if it were a mirage in a desert.
Emme looked at Bill, the harangued husband.
He had caught the sun at the wedding. His blue eyes jumped out against his silver hair and he looked nicer in his Sunday lounging gear than he did in his stuffy work suit.
Tomorrow he’d be heading back to his Zurich bolthole for the week, and Emme’s job would begin in earnest.
Get stuck in, she thought, relishing that she could start work proper and forget all the noise in her head.
But while Lexy returned to wedding gossip – this time the bride’s Givenchy wedding dress – Emme smiled and nodded, and thought about how, only streets away, across the river, that damn man from the airport – Tristan Du Kok and his roguish grin – could be distraction enough to keep her occupied here in the mountains.