Page 17 of Too Busy for Love

‘I suspect it’s a tactic. Check up on us the first day to make sure we behave for the rest of the week.’

‘Well, he’s certainly put a dampener on my mood. I was just about to say how much I’ve enjoyed myself today, but now all I can think about is the fact that we’re not free. Not properly, anyway.’

He comes over and pulls me into another hug. ‘Don’t let him spoil it. He was just doing his job and he’s gone now. Don’t think about him; think about the good things. Think about the sloth, and the “Miserere” in the Abbey.’

‘I did like the sloth,’ I say to his chest as I secretly soak up the pleasure of being in his arms again. I’m not normally a particularly physical person, but then this isn’t a particularly normal week.

‘Did you know that a sloth’s internal organs are stuck to its ribcage to make it easier for it to breathe when hanging upside down?’

‘Where do you learn that?’

‘It was on the sign next to the enclosure. Pretty cool, huh? Apparently, they have so little spare energy because of their diet that trying to breathe against the weight of their internal organs would exhaust them otherwise.’

I pull away and look up at him. ‘Who needs David Attenborough when I’ve got you, eh?’

‘I do what I can. Now, dinner. We’ve got loads of prawns, so I could make a prawn cocktail to start if you’re feeling retro, or I could do them with garlic, chilli and lemon if you prefer.’

‘What’s prawn cocktail in French?’

‘No idea. It was the one retro dish Madame hated, so I was never allowed to put it on the menu.’

‘Let’s have that then, just to piss her off.’

He smiles. ‘OK. Fish, meat or vegetarian main?’

‘Canard à l’orange?’ I suggest.

‘No. I’ve got oranges but no duck. If you’re very good, I’ll do youcrêpes suzettesfor pudding. How’s that?’

‘Ooh. Will you bring the trolley and flambé them at the table like you did for the guests?’

‘No, because I always felt incredibly self-conscious doing that and, frankly, it’s naff.’

‘And prawn cocktail isn’t?’

He sighs. ‘Do you really want them flambéed at the table?’

‘I know you’ll probably think less of me, but I kind of do. I’ve never been to a restaurant where someone has flambéed something at the table for me.’

He laughs. ‘Where have you hidden this side of your character? The Beatrice I thought I knew would never get excited about something like that. She’d be far too busy checking that the napkins were perfectly ironed.’

I open my mouth to challenge him, before realising that he’s probably right. ‘Attention to detail matters,’ I tell him defensively instead.

‘Of course it does. Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘I’m not upset, but it must be the same for you, surely? You wouldn’t send something out if you weren’t a hundred per cent happy with it, would you? Even if it’s only a sodding potato croquette.’

He holds up his hands in surrender. ‘Fine. We’re both obsessive about our work. Anyway, your wish is my command and I will flambé for you. Now, mains. I’ve got steak, chicken, some nice halibut or wild mushroom tortellini.’

‘If we had steak, I could open a bottle of the South African Pinotage to go with it. How big are they?’

‘Various sizes. Madame liked to sell them by the hundred gram; she thought that gave them a “fresh from the market” vibe.’

‘I’ll have a small one. Have you got any of those matchstick fries?’

‘Pommes de terre frites à la julienne? Yes, I think so.’

‘Let’s have some of those as well then. Do you need a hand?’

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