Page 120 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘I heard you were responsible for Charlie’s shift in genre,’ says Ellis. ‘What an influence you’ve had on him!’

Her words are kind, but Mrs Boyd-Miller purses her lips and says she hopes I haven’t caused him to ruin his career. ‘All that effort establishing himself as a proper, serious author, and for what?’ she adds. ‘To be laughed at.’

‘He won’t be laughed at,’ I say.

‘Who won’t be laughed at?’ Charles returns with the bottle of champagne. Nobody tells him we were talking about him, and he doesn’t pursue the question. Instead he fills four glasses and hands them around. ‘To Iseult,’ he says, raising his. ‘The love of my life and my wife-to-be.’

‘You have to get rid of the old one first,’ says Mrs Boyd-Miller. ‘Though that’s not a hardship.’

‘It’s all in hand.’ Charles sounds irritated, but I like that his mother isn’t an Ariel fan. Though given what she said about me potentially ruining Charles’s career, I’m not sure she’s a fan of me either.

‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘tonight is about moving forward and letting you get to know my darling Iseult.’

‘Tell us about yourself.’ Mrs Boyd-Miller looks at me. ‘How did you move from being with the revenue inspectors to helping Charles with his book.’

‘I work in Customs, not Revenue,’ I tell her. ‘And I didn’t help Charles with his book.’

‘Oh, but to listen to him, you practically wrote it for him!’ cries his mother. ‘He credits you with everything. Which is great if it goes well, not so good if it’s a terrible flop.’

‘It won’t be a flop,’ I say.

‘I love your confidence in it.’ Ellis raises her glass.

‘The success or failure of my book has nothing to do with Iseult,’ says Charles. ‘It’s all down to me. I’m the author, after all. Do you want to see the proposed cover?’

There’s a chorus of yeses, and he takes out his phone to show us a Caribbean location with a corpse on the beach. It’s bang on trend for cosy crime, though Pamela thinks it could be more noir.

‘Xerxes are doing a good job,’ concedes Charles. ‘Now come on, everyone. Time to eat.’

We walk across the hall to the dining room, which overlooks the garden. Charles has turned on the outside lights and they illuminate the bare branches of the trees. I can’t quite believe that very soon this will be my house and my garden. As I take my seat at the polished mahogany table, I feel my phone buzz in my bag. I check the messages and see Steve’s name.

This movie is crap

I don’t reply.

Ariel

Even though Ash has provided ready-baked pastry cases, I’m nervous about the quiches. I’ve never cooked quiche before, and something in the back of my mind tells me it’s probably like a soufflé and could go horribly wrong. I’m peering in through the glass door of the oven watching them anxiously when Charles comes into the kitchen.

‘Something smells good,’ he says.

‘I hope they taste as good as they smell.’ I check my watch even though the oven is on a timer and there’s three minutes to go.

‘I’m sure they will.’ He walks around the kitchen island looking at the plates onto which I’ve already placed the accompanying rocket, pecan and cranberry salad. The salad is bright and vibrant against the plain blue plates, and the quiche will only add to the colour.

‘Don’t touch them,’ I warn him. ‘Everything is exactly so.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘You can bring up the bread,’ I tell him. ‘It’s in the basket, along with some pats of butter. Then come back for the quiches.’

He nods and disappears with the bread, and I release a sigh of relief. I’m not comfortable with him looking over my shoulder, and I’m terrified that if he stays in the kitchen too long, someone will come to see what’s going on. I really don’t want to be outed as tonight’s chef. The mortification level would be huge.

The oven pings and I take out the quiches. I allow them to cool slightly before arranging them neatly on the plates. I’m pleased at my efforts, even though one of them has far too much bacon and another has hardly any. I think of the cosy crime again and look at the quiche with too much bacon. I tell myself that everything will be fine.

Where the hell is Charles? I told him to come back straight away; he’s obviously chatting to his guests. I take out my phone and message him, but it’s nearly a minute before he returns.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says. ‘We were talking about book covers and interior design.’

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