Chapter 5 #2
Nikolas discovered flower arranging could be done in the living room.
And, amazingly, could be done whilst lying on the sofa, watching a movie.
And drinking a bottle of red wine (if he used large glasses, he’d discovered he could drink the whole bottle and stay within his three-glasses-a-day limit).
Which was a shame for Ben, as his new hobby needed him to stay in the kitchen.
And swear apparently. Every so often, Nikolas heard, “Fucking hell!” or “Shit!” wailed to increasingly desperate levels of incredulity.
He was glad he had a moment away from Ben anyway.
He dug out his mobile phone and made a quick call.
He still had some friends left in his old life. It was useful.
* * *
He’d never been so glad to be a billionaire when he was finally invited into the kitchen to eat, because even when Ben apologised sheepishly, “I’ll clean up later, yeah?
It’ll get cold if I do it now,” all Nikolas could concentrate on was the thought of calling his cleaning service and then ordering in all new pans to hang up, pristine, where they should be.
But he was gracious enough not to let any of this show on his face as he sat down in the place Ben had laid for some reason with a screwed-up napkin.
“That’s a swan.” Sometimes Ben read his mind too easily.
The table was nice, Nikolas thought, with his…
rose?…lily?…Some flower or other in the empty wine bottle.
Artfully pushed in, if he said so himself.
The first course looked very good. On the plate.
Decorative. Green cucumber rinds and the pink of the shrimp made an appealing contrast in colour and texture, so he was told.
He complimented Ben and took a bite. His throat froze.
His eyes actually started to water. To cover, he rose and fetched a bottle of chilled white wine from the fridge, staying with his back to the room longer than necessary in order to swallow.
Suddenly, he heard gagging noises, and Ben rushed to the sink, spitting. “Fucking hell! What is this?”
Nikolas had to agree: what was it indeed?
Upon consultation, they decided tsp didn’t mean the large stirring spoon Ben had ladled the hot chilli sauce in with.
It was the only explanation. That course was cleared, and after splitting the bottle of wine companionably between them, they were able to face the next.
Obviously, if he started with red wine, it didn’t count on his three-glass limit if he then switched to white.
Besides, he was only drinking to keep Ben company, so that didn’t count anyway.
The lobster promised to be very good. They both ate a lot of lobster, as Nikolas rarely ate meat and could afford to eat what he liked when they went out.
He took a forkful enthusiastically, prepared for it to be not as good as at his favourite restaurant, but…
not for it to spring back when he tried to bite it.
And spring again, like a little piece of rubber in his mouth.
Ben was poking his, talking knowledgeably about choosing the right lobster.
Nikolas murmured his agreement, but delicately and unobtrusively spat his chewy hunk into his napkin.
He clicked his fingers for Radulf who, getting that stealth was required, slithered unobtrusively from his basket and came over.
Nikolas dropped the offering to the floor.
Radulf snapped it up. A second, larger piece went the same way.
All Nikolas got was jaw exercise and some cold, congealed butter to savour.
“…so, anyway, I decided I didn’t really need one.”
Nikolas took a long (very long) swallow of wine and asked politely, “Sorry? What? Need what?”
“A thermometer. I didn’t have one. Said the beurre monte had to be just the right temperature or the meat would be chewy.
Pretentious crap.” He took a large mouthful.
Nikolas watched with interest out of the corner of his eye as he prodded the vegetables.
He wasn’t an expert, but he’d eaten at the finest restaurants most of his life, and he was fairly sure snow peas couldn’t be substituted with normal peas still in their pods.
Hey ho. He eyed Radulf, but the dog was still trying to swallow his third offering of lobster.
Ben was still trying to chomp through his first—until that went the way of the shrimp, with a similar explosion of profanity.
Nikolas normally didn’t let Ben swear—not because it bothered him, but because he liked telling Ben off—but he let it go this one time. He felt like saying fucking hell, too.
Ben cleared it all away and produced his pièce de résistance.
Again, Nikolas was no expert, but even he could have told Ben that soufflé was ambitious for a beginner—and chocolate?
Ben didn’t even attempt to explain it away.
They just stared at it for a while. Nikolas was tempted to point out that he’d seen similar things on pavements.
“You opened the oven?”
Ben nodded.
“Although it cautioned not to?”
Again a nod. “I had to see it, didn’t I?”
“Apparently not. Shall we adjourn to our favourite restaurant?”
Ben pouted but nodded. He glanced at his watch and sank lower in his seat. “Four hours.” He stared at the kitchen and sank his head into his hands. Nikolas readjusted his wilting flower. Then he chuckled.
“What?”
“I was just trying to imagine Nigel and Justin attempting to pass themselves off as Special Forces…”
* * *
Ben had cheered up considerably by the time they got home, as had Nikolas, because, obviously, wine drunk at restaurants didn’t have to get added to wine drunk at home when calculating your three-glass limit.
That was so obvious it shouldn’t really need explaining.
Nikolas had even managed to sneak up to his office in the glass tower and smoke a couple of cigarettes on the pretext of fetching some paperwork.
The taste of the congealed butter had finally gone away.
It was unfortunate, therefore, that he padded back down to the kitchen in bare feet later that night. He was averting his eyes from the mess, concentrating on finding a clean glass for some water, when he stepped in it.
The lobster hadn’t agreed with Radulf either, only its effects had taken longer to work on his digestive system.
* * *