Page 121 of The Honeymoon Affair

I raise an eyebrow. Charles and I had many interior design conversations in which I tried to interest him in fabric and colours but failed miserably.

‘Iseult wants to redecorate. She follows some woman on Instagram and likes her stuff.’

I make no comment, but tell him to get upstairs with two of the plates then come back straight away for the others.

The one in your left hand is your mother’s. The other is for Iseult,’ I say.

‘What difference does it make?’ he demands.

‘Just do what I say, for heaven’s sake.’

‘I’ll be knackered running up and down like an eejit,’ he complains. ‘I don’t see why you couldn’t have got someone to serve. I’m sure if you’d insisted, the catering company would’ve managed it.’

I think about hitting him over the head with the baking tray, but I don’t. Instead I get the salmon ready for the oven by pouring Ash’s glaze over it. The garlic potatoes have already been cooking for a while, so they should be ready at the same time as the salmon. I don’t need instructions for the green beans.

I pour myself a glass of sparkling water. I’d really like to raid the wine, but I need a clear head, at least until the main courses are upstairs. I sit on the sofa and allow myself a sigh of relief. The things I do for my clients. Admittedly this is exceptional, but I’ve been known to rush out and buy Strepsils for an author who suddenly developed a sore throat before a reading (in the middle of a forest, a half-hour drive to the nearest village and back again), or lend one of my female authors my own bra when the strap on hers broke at a literary festival. Not exactly as crazy as celebrities’ agents, I know, but problem-solving all the same.

The oven pings and I check the salmon, which is perfectly done. The potatoes are done too, and the garlicky smell is making me hungry. I’m about to text Charles, but then remember I haven’t done the green beans. I swear under my breath and turn on the hob.

‘Ariel? What on earth are you doing here?’

I spin around and see Ellis standing in the doorway with two empty plates and the accompanying cutlery.

‘Shh,’ I hiss.

‘Are you cooking?’ Her voice is a whispered squeak of disbelief. ‘You can’t be. Not our dinner.’

‘It was an emergency.’ I fill her in, and she stares at me.

‘Are you mad? We could have eaten out. Or ordered in. You shouldn’t be cooking for us, for heaven’s sake!’

‘It was far too late to get reservations. Besides, Charles wanted a proper dinner for you.’

‘To meet his fiancée?’ Ellis snorts.

‘How’s it going up there?’ I definitely wish I’d opened the wine.

‘Mum is giving her the third degree, but she’s holding up quite well.’

‘Charles said you were talking about the book cover.’

‘Oh yes. Mum thinks it should be more noir. The fiancée is pretending to agree with her.’

‘For feck’s sake!’ My cry isn’t because of the stupid book cover (although it could have been) but because I’d forgotten about the beans and the water has boiled over.

‘Sorry, I’m distracting you,’ says Ellis. ‘I didn’t think you were such a great cook. Those quiches were wonderful.’

‘Not all my own doing,’ I admit as I turn off the hob and deal with the water spillage. ‘Why are you down here anyway? It’s Charles who’s supposed to be helping.’

‘He was chatting away to Mum and Izzy. He told me not to bother, but you know what he’s like. I thought I’d help. You can’t cook and wait tables. You shouldn’t be doing it at all, for God’s sake.’

‘I know it’s a bit mad, but I’ve done worse.’ I shrug. ‘I did actually wait tables when I was at college. I’d probably be better at that than Charles.’

‘Mum was a bit surprised when he turned up with the starters all right.’ Ellis grins. ‘He said the kitchen was short-staffed.’

‘He’ll get the short end of my staff in a minute,’ I mutter.

‘Let me give you a hand.’