Page 117 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘I could get you there if that’s what you want.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘I know it’s not. And you’ve got to stop talking to me like this. I’m going to dinner with my fiancé.’ Even if I’ve been anxious about it all day. I pick up my keys and tell him to enjoy the movie he’s about to watch. Then I let myself out of the house.

The cab is waiting.

#NotLookingForwardToThis

Chapter 32

Ariel

Talent is helpful in writing but guts are absolutely essential.

Jessamyn West

I didn’t really have to come into the office today. I could have worked from home if I’d wanted to work at all, given that it’s Saturday. But one of my authors sent a message about a misprint in their latest edition, and I don’t have a hard copy of the book at the apartment, so I came to the mews to check it out. It could have waited, of course. It’s not like I can do anything about it now. But I’m nothing if not efficient.

The author is right about the misprint, so I take a photo of it and send it to the publisher. Then I sit at my desk and work my way through a list of minor tasks I didn’t get around to during the week. I like working on a Saturday when I know I’m not going to be distracted by phone calls and emails and sudden publishing emergencies. When I’ve finished, I take a few photos of my tidy desk and overfilled bookshelves and post them to the agency’s Instagram account: #LiteraryLife. I’m not as good as I should be on social media, even though I do Charles’s for him. Thinking of him distracts me and I look up the garden towards the house. I don’t know if he’s there. He might have met his mother and Ellis in town before their dinner this evening. But if so, will Iseult have met them then too? Or will she be unveiled, so to speak, later?

The dinner is at 7 p.m. I know that because he asked if I could get a chef from our usual catering company to cook it for him. I was very tempted to say that his personal life was nothing to do with me any more, but I didn’t want to be petty, so I contacted Ash O’Halloran, who arranged for someone, although she said that given the short notice, the meal couldn’t be from their premium menu selection, which needs additional prep. I told her that whatever menu they had was absolutely fine, so Charles and his family will be having salmon with garlic potatoes and green beans, a meal I could have cooked for him myself with my eyes closed. But there you go. If he wants to spend a fortune on getting someone to do something that’s quick and easy, it’s entirely up to him.

I close down my laptop and take my jacket from the back of the chair, then look up at the house again. I feel a sudden desperate need to walk along the garden path and go inside, but I clamp down on it. As I pick up my bag, it vibrates with my ringing phone.

It’s Ash. I ask if everything is OK and on schedule.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she replies. ‘We have a problem. James’s father passed away today. He’s been ill for a while so it’s not entirely unexpected, but it was sudden. James can’t make it.’

James is the chef.

‘I’m very sorry for his loss.’ The words are automatic. ‘Who have you got instead?’

‘That’s the problem,’ says Ash. ‘We’re catering for a really big party this evening and I have two other events as well. James was doing this job as an extra, and I don’t have another spare chef. I thought . . . well, it’s only for four people, isn’t it? The starters are individual quiches, the main is salmon and the dessert is a tropical trifle. It’s all very easy stuff. I wondered, if I brought everything ready prepared, would Charles be able to do it himself?’

After a moment of shocked silence, I erupt into laughter. Ash doesn’t know that the absolute limit of Charles’s culinary abilities is oven chips. And even then he frequently scorches them so that they’re rock-hard sticks of black crunchiness.

‘Not an option?’ she says.

‘Oh, Ash. It’d be funny if it wasn’t such a disaster.’

‘How about you?’ she asks. ‘I can have everything prepped for you and deliver it in a box on my way to Wicklow. I’d give you a printed list of timings and instructions. It couldn’t be easier, Ariel, I promise you.’

‘I can’t . . .’ I begin, and then I hesitate. Because I can. I was only thinking earlier that I could cook the salmon with my eyes shut. The tropical trifle doesn’t need cooking. I’m not sure about the individual quiches, but if everything is ready to go, and Ash leaves me with clear how-to instructions, how hard can it be? All the same, it’s cooking for Charles and Iseult, Ma Miller and Ellis. Cooking is not in my job description. Why would I even consider it?

I suddenly think of the plot line in Janice’s latest cosy crime, where dinner guests are poisoned one by one by the cook who’s catering for a party. There’s only one intended target. The others are red herrings. Though obviously dead red herrings. Naturally I’ve no intention of poisoning Iseult or Ma Miller myself. All the same, if I have control of the kitchen, I could . . . Stop it, I say to myself. Just stop.

I ask Ash to explain the prepping and the recipes.

‘It’s dead easy,’ she assures me.

‘Even the quiches?’

‘They’re a doddle,’ she says.

And so I agree to cook dinner for Charles, his sister, his mum and his fiancée.

I must be out of my mind.