Page 7 of Kept 2
‘Jesus, get a grip. I’m thinking like a brain-damaged squirrel – Squirrel Nutkin, I’m that squirrel now.’
“Is everything alright, Madam?” my waiter asks, seeing me pause, menu in hand, to stare at the fire.
“Oh, yes, thank you, I was just thinking.”
I look up at him with sad eyes and receive a brief smile before returning my attention back to the menu.
The dishes are written in French and English, which I find a little gauche – I wonder if the English rich are not as well educated as the American rich if they need their French translated. I find dishes more attractive if they are written in their native language. Still, I was a bit of a food snob like that, which is probably why, I snort to myself, Margarita and I got on so well. She was a shoe snob, I was a food snob, between us we had gourmet tastes on a canteen budget.
Of course, if she could see the shoes I was wearing now, she would have a cow.
My feet are already aching in these heels, even though I am seated, but I hadn’t had as much ease finding footwear as I had clothing last night. I’d had to shop for both dressy clothes and day-to-day wear on a tight budget and a tight timeframe, given that I’d dashed out of my apartment back home with just the clothes on my back.
Consequently, the Camden markets last night had proven themselves to be worth their weight in gold. I had spent a total of seventy-five U.S dollars on my current outfit. It was designer, an old 1950’s label; a little black dress doesn’t date, the cut was great. The shoes are tight, but I don’t think you can go wrong with plain, black pumps, and the make-up was dime-store cheap. This outfit would service me in fine restaurants the world over. I’d also picked up a sleeping bag, some funky overalls and plain black joggers, a few T-shirts and a pair of old, faded jeans that fit perfectly. The bookstalls were mesmerising, so many wonderful tomes I wish I had time to read. Although I didn’t have the money for it or the room in my bag, I couldn’t resist a recipe book and ended up paying one pound for The Dairy Lover’s Cookbook which, I rationalised, might just save my life one day. I hadn’t managed to get any underwear, so I am going commando at the moment, but I will try to find a cheap shop tomorrow and rectify that.
The markets though, had provided everything else I had needed, including some much-needed mental clarity on my predicament. I’d wandered around the stalls and eaten a kebab and what the English call ‘chips’ in a paper bag, which were actually fat fries, and forced down two strawberry milkshakes before catching a taxi home before midnight. Strangely, the crowds, the noise, the cooking smells, and the interesting accents had soothed my rattled nerves and prevented me from worrying about anything other than retail therapy - until I returned to my room, that was.
Then, and only then, could I cry for Blake.
I’d spent much of today doing that, crying, cowering, biting my nails, before boldly dressing and following through on the plan I had pretty much come up with at the markets last night.
I will eat, drink, and be merry.
I will find my way to Ereston if I can. I will see if I can discover a way to avenge Blake and destroy this vampire before he can catch me.
“At the very least,” I told myself as I did my makeup, and sternly looked myself in the eye, “I will not give Lord Nicholas Montague the satisfaction of ruining my last few days or weeks on earth by turning me into a hysterical mess.”
I look up and smile at my waiter now, pointing to my first order of the evening. It seems to me the meals here are less adventurous than those in some of the Vegas restaurants. I can only hope that when I make it to Paris, which I am now determined I will do, that I can try more avant-garde meals.
“I think I will have the flamiche aux poireaux (leek flamiche) with an Alsace, for my main meal,” I begin.
“Madam will not take the sommelier’s recommendations?”
“Sommelier?”
“Yes, the wine attendant.”
“You have a special attendant just to pair the wine and food?”
“We have five working the floor every evening,” he smiles.
‘Wow, I mean, I knew that was a job, but I’ve never had one attend me before.’
I try to compose myself and act nonchalant.
“How many people do you employ here?”
“Five sommelier’s and thirty wait staff work here every evening.”
“Can you tell me,” I ask, suddenly keen to find out as much as I can, “why do you write the menu in English and French?”
“It is what they do in English restaurants, it is expected,” he smiles, “but not in France. There the menus are in French only, naturally.”
“I thought so,” I smile and sigh, “I mean, I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”
“May I call the sommelier?”
I nod, and he walks out, returning momentarily with a short, bald man.
