Page 41 of Kept
“That’s what I’m saying. Pest control came and took away the cat. Several cats, two nights ago.”
“What? Oh Mrs Swinstone, you didn’t report it?”
“No. What do you take me for? I know young Margarita is fond of the ugly thing. A man came, said he was here for it and set traps. Came back the next day and took the pussies away.”
I stare at her, upset and confused.
‘Who would do such a thing?’
“Well, just thought I’d let you know,” she mutters, pulling her head back inside her door like a tortoise in a shell.
Still upset by this news, I take the package inside and place it on the coffee table before, distracted by my musings about the cat, making my way into the kitchen.
Tonight, I will cook something special for Blake, and hopefully Margarita will stroll in, boxes of new shoes under her arm, and tell me all about her hot weekend.
I open my mother’s recipe book and smile.
The dish I am cooking was one of my father’s favourites, ‘Daube d’agneau à la Normande. Really it was a classy form of lamb casserole, one my mother used to make for him. A combination I expect of satisfying his Irish American love of plain food and also catering to her love of French cuisine. Before the cirrhosis finally killed him, he asked for it regularly. But later, as he became very ill, he lost his appetite, and nothing could tempt him. Still, I had happy memories of this dish and given that Blake looks like he comes from hearty Anglo-Irish stock, I’m sure this one will be a hit.
I’m a little nervous as I begin preparations, it has been a long time since I’ve had a date. But soon the cooking takes my mind off everything, and in my focus on the ingredients, I completely forget about the package on the coffee table.
When the lamb is marinating in the onions, carrots, leeks and cider, I move on to slicing the apples and potatoes in preparation for the layering. Normally I would like to marinate the meat for 24 hours, but I’m confident I can still infuse it with flavour even with two hours in the fridge.
I open the cabernet sauvignon to air and move on to the dessert preparation.
I’ve chosen something classic and simple, a Charlotte aux fraise. I smile at my mother’s notes in the margins for this one. She called the biscuit lining ‘boudoir biscuits,’ but in the U.S they are called Ladyfingers. Both, I think, are nice names, for myself I like ‘boudoir biscuits’ it lends a kind of sexiness to an ordinary dish. I arrange them as my mother did, putting them on the bottom of the dish too, to create a perfect rosette or star, and brush them with egg white to stick them together, rather than soaking them in the raspberry liqueur; another little trick of hers.
When the dessert is prepped, I place a heavy dish on the top to flatten it and pop it into the freezer. Again, ideally, I would like to chill it overnight, but a blast in the freezer and then a few hours on the top shelf of the fridge should set the gelatine enough. I will serve this with a muscat beaumes-de-venise.
I cut up cheese and fruit for afterwards and finally, a small glass of liqueur in hand, flop onto the couch for a brief respite before I begin panicking about what to wear.
As I stare vacantly at the coffee table, I see the package and, sighing, unwrap it. There is a small note inside.
‘This is safer with you – James.’
I see immediately it is another manuscript, bound the same way, same inscription on the leather cover; ‘Death Seizes All Things.’
“Oh, you mother fucker.”
I lay in his arms and smile as I run my hand over his chest, lightly covered in a soft down of blonde.
I know I’ve sworn off blonde men with blue eyes, ever since the cheating bastard who broke my heart – but perhaps I was hasty. Lying here now, I feel safer and more content than I have since moving to this city. Certainly, safer than I had felt since finding that stupid manuscript.
“What are you thinking about?” he murmurs, his voice sleepy.
“I was just thinking how safe I feel,” I smile.
“Well, I’m glad I was able to improve your mood,” he chuckles.
I smirk and snuggle my face deeper between the crook of his arm and his chest.
Our dinner had gone by the wayside not long after he entered the apartment and we fell into bed. I smile as I think back on our last few hours of passion; it seems I had not been the only one feeling a little pent up. I’m sure we had both benefited from a little athletic activity, I for one, felt more relaxed and clear-headed than I had in weeks. The sex, if I had to dissect it, as I’m sure I will for Margarita, was pretty ordinary, as most sex is with someone who doesn’t yet know your body, but I’m sure, with practise it will improve.
“I’m sorry about my bad mood,” I scowl into his chest, “it’s just this guy at work. You will probably think I’m crazy but, I’m starting to think he is totally insane.”
“Dangerous?” he asks, suddenly listening carefully.
“I’m not sure. I know you will think I imagine things. But all sorts of weird stuff has been happening to me and around me, ever since he started work at our school.
