Chapter Eighteen #2
‘Quite soon I expect glasses to become obsolete.’ Luc sighed, shaking his head in despair.
‘That will be good,’ said Emma, quite unperturbed. ‘Save on world resources.’
‘Lunch at twelve?’ I confirmed before blood was shed.
‘Fine. I’ll be back for then.’ Luc hurried off with his drink.
‘Where’s Nic?’ Emma asked me as her father disappeared.
‘Gone to the mosque,’ I replied, putting the plate of charcuterie on the table whereupon she immediately seized a slice of salami, rolled it up neatly and popped it whole in her mouth. ‘She said to give you her love.’
‘Oh, thanks. Has she gone to show off her pashmina to the serious ladies?’
I chuckled. ‘Not this time. I think she lost her nerve at the last minute.’
Contemplating a sliver of garlic sausage, Emma wrinkled her nose. ‘Poor woman. I can’t imagine what it must be like to feel restricted about what you’re allowed to wear.’
‘Yep.’ Putting the pan of peas on a low heat, I sat down opposite her to chop some lettuce and spring onion.
‘Hey, Alix,’ said Emma, helping herself to a cornichon and more salami. ‘I must tell you, something really great has happened. Dad and I have had a really ace discussion about uni, and he’s going to help me speak to the Dean about changing my course.’
‘Oh, good, I’m so glad. What are you going to do instead of history?’
‘I think I quite like the idea of psychology,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘After you mentioned it, I, like, got interested and did a bit of surfing online about it. I do find, like, people more fascinating than anything and I’d like to know more about what makes us tick.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Yeah, but get this.’ She selected another slice of garlic sausage. ‘Dad reckons it’s better that I stop uni now and start again next October with a fresh course. Then I won’t have missed a whole first term.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I’d say that’s pretty good advice. But what are you going to do in the meantime?’
‘Well, this is the best bit.’ Looking excited, she swigged some beer and then wiped her lips on the back of her hand. ‘I don’t think you know, but back in the summer I got this, like, offer to do some modelling.’
‘No, first I’ve heard of it.’ I stood up to check the peas.
‘Dad knows about it, but he wasn’t keen – fashion world and all that, you know? Well, in fact, these friends of Josh’s parents – you know Josh – are starting up a small fashion house, the clothes all ethically sourced and so on. A bit like Toast – do you know Toast?’
I confirmed I loved Toast clothes but could seldom afford them.
‘Yeah, they’re pretty expensive. Well, I think this’ll be the same sort of thing, but quite small and select, you know?
A bit above high street stuff but not haute couture.
Well, they want, like, a new identity in a model, someone not just unknown but someone who looks, like…
’ she hesitated a second before finishing with emphasis, ‘someone ordinary-looking.’
‘I know what you’re getting at, but I don’t think you do look ordinary.’
I considered her across the table as she picked at the plate of charcuterie.
As I have said, she wasn’t pretty but there was a coolness, a pleasing symmetry about her features.
Then there was her height. Despite a slight gawkiness, the legacy of adolescence, there was something arresting in the supple way she moved herself that caught the eye and held it.
This morning dressed in skinny blue jeans which showed off her endless legs, a navy-blue cropped jumper over a classic boyfriend striped shirt and her tawny hair in glorious disarray over her shoulders, she looked a million dollars.
‘You’re very striking.’
‘Thanks.’ She looked up and smiled at me. ‘But what I think they mean is not someone who is, like, supermodel super beautiful – which I certainly am not.’ She pondered. ‘They want someone wearing their clothes who the ordinary woman can identify with, who looks attainable.’
‘Okay,’ I said slowly. ‘But what does your father think about it?’
‘Well, he was, as I say, first, like, wary about it. But two things, Alix.’ She gathered herself together. ‘Firstly, I’m grown-up now, obviously; I’m eighteen and I have to do what I think is right for me. Dad is adamant I must not ever do stuff just to please him.’
‘I’m so relieved to hear that.’
‘And secondly, not only will I be able to earn a bit of money, but there’s no reason why I can’t continue with my education and do this. I mean, look at Lily Cole. She did the same thing and that’s when she’s much cleverer and far more academic than me.’
Wow. The girl had really thought it all out. ‘I think it’s fantastic,’ I said aloud. ‘And I very much hope it works out for you. Just one word of advice if you can bear it.’
‘What?’ Emma held her breath.
‘The second you hear even the faintest whisper of the word “diet”, run for the hills.’
Emma exhaled in relief. ‘You bet I will.’ Grabbing another slice of salami, she waved it in the air. ‘Me – diet?’ She laughed. ‘The very idea.’
By one forty-five they’d gone, two steaks à point disposed of with relish alongside generous helpings of peas and potatoes.
When it came to food, Luc Mandeville and his daughter were the easiest people I’d ever cooked for, including Carl, who, though in general the original human dustbin, is possessed of a peculiar but deeply rooted objection to anything pink, which rules out a surprising amount when you come to think of it.
Despite my success with the ad hoc lunch, however, I felt curiously flat.
Nicole still being out, the silence of the Villa Matisse with only me in situ seemed palpable.
Odd as it is to say, I knew even if Nicole had been quietly studying in her room, the stillness would have felt less disturbing.
Notwithstanding this, I very much hoped Tom did not see fit to reappear once he’d dropped everyone off.
Weird silence was infinitely preferable to his company any day.
I could see he’d driven Luc to distraction earlier, farting around with Emma’s empty suitcase and raising pointless questions and quibbles when they were simply trying to get on the road.
Luc had kept his temper admirably. It was Emma who’d eventually told Tom to stop wittering and get driving.
You didn’t need a crystal ball to predict Tom’s days at the Villa Matisse would very shortly be at an end.
Alone, I got myself something scrappy to eat from the meagre remains of the potatoes and a bit more charcuterie followed by a tranche of by now very runny but entirely delicious camembert.
Thinking about Nicole’s and my dinner this evening, I took two more steaks out of the freezer to defrost, although we’d have to have them with rice or pasta, which would be on the strange side.
The hard cheese had been finished, which meant Nic would not be able to indulge her Welsh rarebit passion.
I would have gone shopping, except Luc had not been able to give me any money because he had claimed to be short of cash.
It occurred to me, however, that despite various inroads there was still quite a lot left from the funds he’d passed me for the Christmas dinner food, as well as what I’d already had unused from the first disastrous dinner party, more than enough to buy what we needed for a day or two at least, but I would check that.
Tidying up the kitchen and making my way up to my room, I decided therefore to go down into town and raid the market.
In any event, it would be good to get out of the Villa Matisse and leave the pervading silence to its own devices.
And it was then that I got a shock.
My system of submitting a client’s account is highly structured.
Because I work through an agency, if I am shopping for clients – they occasionally prefer to buy the food themselves for me to prepare, almost always getting it wrong, which means a frustrating amount of extemporising on my part – I keep a rigorous record of precisely what I have spent, backed up by receipts.
That is then submitted to the agency. The client pays the agency direct, and they then pay me my fee, reimbursing any expense for food I have bought.
I am totally vigilant about this. You have to be in my line, particularly as from time to time clients seem to be bafflingly ignorant of what certain food items cost, despite demanding to be served them.
A memorable instance of this, causing considerable unpleasantness on both sides, was a woman who ordered turbot for a dinner for eight guests.
Despite my respectfully cautioning her that turbot was extremely expensive, she poo-poohed my warning, indeed accusing me of insulting her by suggesting she could not afford turbot.
She then threw an absolute fit when the eventual bill was presented, claiming I was trying to defraud her.
Enough said. You learn, as they say, you learn.
Now, however, as I sat down on my bed sorting through the money left from Luc had already given me alongside all the receipts for everything I had bought with it, I made a worrying discovery. I was three hundred euros out, or rather, three hundred euros was missing.