Page 34 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

It’s real French Champagne—Louis Roederer Cristal 2015. I have no idea whether that’s a good year, but knowing Joel, I’m betting the bottle wasn’t buy-one-get-one-free down the local supermarket.

“Yes please,” I reply, throwing all caution to the wind. What’s the point in being snooty and saying I’m not going to accept this very generous present? Before I left my room, I Googled the definition of ‘gift’, and it said, ‘a thing given willingly to someone without payment’. I’m not in Joel’s debt. But there’s nothing worse than giving someone a present and then having to listen to them saying, ‘You shouldn’t have,’ and, ‘Oh, I didn’t get you anything,’ until you wish you hadn’t bothered. I need to accept it as gracefully as I can and enjoy it in the manner in which it was meant.

Joel takes off the foil and the wire cage, wrestles with the cork, then pours us both a glass. He offers some to Isamu, but he declines and says the food is nearly ready, so we should take our seats at the table outside in the courtyard.

We pick up our glasses and Joel collects the bottle, and we head out. We both stop as we see the scene before us.

“Ah,” Joel says. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

Someone—either Isamu or another member of staff who came with him and has since departed—has laid the table and decorated the courtyard. They’ve covered the table with a white cloth, and each place setting has white plates and bowls and an assortment of silver cutlery. But what caused Joel’s exclamation was presumably the candles, the bowl of red roses, and the rose petals scattered on the surface as well as around the table on the flagstones. Jazz music is also playing from a speaker hidden in one of the bushes. It’s a beautiful and very romantic scene.

I burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

“I’m really sorry,” Joel says again. “I didn’t point out that it wasn’t a romantic dinner.” He looks worried enough to suggest he’s telling the truth.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him with a grin, taking one of the seats. “It looks amazing.”

He blows out a breath and sits in the chair opposite me. Someone has placed citronella candles around the courtyard to keep away insects, and they’ve also switched on a string of fairy lights that make the place look like a grotto. I won’t say it to Joel, but it’s absolutely beautiful, and I love it.

I sip the Champagne. I don’t know much about wine, but it tastes of citrus fruits and there’s a touch of almond, I think. “It’s lovely.”

He has a mouthful, too. “Mmm. Very nice.”

“You’re such a showoff.”

He chuckles. “You don’t have to drink it.”

“Like I’m going to pass up on real French Champagne.”

He grins and leans back as Isamu comes out with two dishes and places them before us. “Savory steamed egg, chicken, and blue paua,” Isamu says, “and this one is Hokkaido scallop and Paradise prawn gratin with buttercup.” He smiles and leaves us to it.

“Wow, it looks incredible.” I stare at the dishes, then look at Joel, and we both start laughing as we help ourselves.

More and more fantastic dishes follow. Iwate Wagyu, kombu salsa, buckwheat, and Asian mushrooms. Bluefin tuna and pickled daikon rolled sushi. And grilled alfonsino—a fish also known as red bream, eggplant puree, yuzu, and komatsuna—a mustard spinach leaf. I learn all the names and ask Isamu about each dish as he delivers it. The flavors are spectacular and complement each other perfectly.

Joel eats as enthusiastically as I do, clearly hungry after our day on the water. We talk about the dives, and I can see how pleased he is that I enjoyed it so much. Gradually the sun descends toward the horizon, and the gorgeous array of southern stars begin to twinkle in the darkening sky.

As the meal progresses, and we have another glass of Champagne, we start to relax, and our conversation gradually turns more personal.

Finally, I feel able to ask him, “Will you tell me about your conversation with your father last night?”

Isamu has delivered our dessert—a cheesecake made with Yame matcha, which is a rich and nutty tea, served with matcha ice cream, and decorated with slices of kumquat and strawberry. We’re both stuffed full, but there’s no way we’re not going to eat it, so we take tiny bites and let them slowly slide down through the gaps.

Joel concentrates on separating a spoonful, studies it, then eats it, lifting his gaze to mine. For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer me, but finally he sighs and says, “Dad called about Elora.”

My eyebrows rise. “He phoned you to talk about your sister?”

“Yeah.”

“He did know you were at the awards dinner?”

“I had told him, but he’d forgotten.”

I frown. Joel meets my gaze evenly, then looks down and has another spoonful of dessert.

“Is Elora okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, she’s fine. He called about Linc.”

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