‘I know I’m going to regret asking, but what is a rôti sans pareil?’
‘It is when a series of birds are stuffed inside each other, smallest to largest. The culinary term for it is engastration which doesn’t sound particularly appetising.’
‘It sounds more like a surgical procedure.’
Phoebe chuckled. ‘It is a surgical procedure. You have to debone each of the birds, and tie them together, as if you were wrapping it up like a present, with a layer of stuffing in between. Most chefs are content with four or five birds, but Pascal insisted on serving twelve.’
‘I am not remotely surprised to hear that.’
‘The customers loved it. Pascal always came out of the kitchen to carve. If he had not been a chef I think he would have been on the stage.’
‘By the sounds of it, he treated the restaurant as his stage, and his customers were his adoring audience. What happened if they didn’t adore him?’
‘He would have them summarily ejected. How dare they question his cooking! His notoriously temperamental nature added to the sense of theatre, much as like Monsieur Ude.’
‘Do you intend to be equally volatile?’
Phoebe rolled her eyes. ‘You know that I am not a performer, I want my food to speak for me. Now I’ve completely lost the thread of what I was trying to explain to you.’
‘Engastration.’
‘Oh, that was just an example. In fact, it was not Pascal’s invention, though he claimed it was. The recipe was published in the Almanach des Gourmands, which is a sort of gastronomist’s periodical, about ten or fifteen years ago. Pascal had a complete collection of them, and I read them. I didn’t tell him that I knew he’d purloined the idea for his own though.’ She waved her hands dismissively. ‘What I’m trying to explain, Owen, is that I don’t want to cook that kind of food. I don’t want to prove Pascal wrong by imitating him—though Crockford’s demonstrated very clearly to me, that in fact Pascal has been imitating Monsieur Ude. But I don’t want to give London another Crockford’s either. I want our restaurant to be the very opposite of both of those establishments. It will be a place where people will feel comfortable, as if they were sitting down to a meal in their own dining room. The food will be excellent...’
‘Of course!’
‘But it won’t be like a piece of art to be admired. I would like us to have restaurant more like a Parisian café, you know, with a real mix of people. What do you think?’
‘Well for a start, we’ll have to look at rather different premises.’
‘I know, I’m so sorry I’ve wasted your time.’
‘No, don’t be sorry, my little revolutionary.’
‘Is it so radical? Too radical?’
He laughed. ‘I have no idea, but my eye for a business opportunity is telling me that London is ready for something new and different.’
‘I thought you only had eyes for me.’ Owen smiled down at her, and her heart skipped a beat. ‘So, we are decided then,’ Phoebe added, feeling not a single twinge of doubt.
‘It seems we are,’ Owen said, kissing the tip of her nose.
‘Such a huge decision merits a proper kiss, don’t you think?’ she said, laughing.
He swept her into his arms, and her laughter faded immediately as their lips met, to be replaced with desire. ‘As ever, my lovely wife, you are absolutely right.’
Christmas Day
The house was unnaturally quiet, since all the servants were enjoying a rare official holiday, leaving Owen and Phoebe to their own devices. Which suited them very well indeed. The festivities began with Owen bringing Phoebe breakfast in bed, before snuggling in beside her to share the simple repast. The tea had grown quite cold by the time they were ready to drink it.
It had been very tempting to remain in bed all day, but the snow which had been threatening for the last week finally started falling so they had ventured out, walking through St James’s park then round Hyde Park and on to Regent’s Park, following Owen’s old running route. Their footsteps were muffled on the snow-covered footpaths, the vast expanses of grass a smooth carpet of white, the trees decorated with clumps of snow clinging to branches.
On their return, they had drunk mulled wine in the kitchen, Owen sitting at the table inexpertly but happily carrying out the more menial tasks, Phoebe bustling about happily in her element, preparing Christmas dinner. Now, with the feast over, they had decamped from the dining room to the parlour, curled up together at either end of the sofa like bookends, Phoebe’s stockinged feet resting on Owen’s lap.
‘My parents always spent Christmas in Dublin when we were growing up,’ she said. ‘So we never exchanged gifts or made much of a fuss. It was different at Elmswood Manor, Aunt Kate held a big party for all the tenants, and there was a village fayre too. Last year in Paris, Christmas was a working day, cooking other people’s dinner. Now this year, I’m here with you.’
‘Still cooking dinner, too! My compliments to the chef.’
‘My compliments to the sous-chef.’
Owen laughed. ‘You re-chopped every diced onion I handed you, and you had to dig the eyes out of the potatoes.’
‘I hoped you hadn’t noticed.’
‘I notice everything about you. It really was a delicious dinner, Phoebe, thank you.’
‘It was a pleasure. If all our customers are as easily satisfied as you, then I shall have a very straightforward time of it in the kitchen.’
‘You think me easily satisfied?’
Her eyes had drifted shut, for he had been playing with her toes, but now they flew open. He was smiling at her, one brow slightly raised, that smile of his that instantly made her pulse race. She wriggled her foot free, to rest it on the top of his thigh. ‘On the contrary, I think you might be insatiable.’
He ran his fingers up her calf, stroking circles at the backs of her knees, something which he had discovered made her giddy with delight. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get enough of you. Not even if I live to be a hundred.’
She was stroking him with her foot, the ridge of his arousal clear through the material of his trousers. He gently pulled her towards him, sliding his hand up her thigh, finding the gap in her drawers, to cup her. She pressed against his hand.
‘I’m not the only one who’s insatiable,’ Owen said, teasing her, lightly stroking her.
Phoebe bit her lip, trying not to moan, and he slid his fingers inside her. Sometimes she enjoyed making love slowly. Sometimes, like now, there was an urgency in her that took her breath away. Always, Owen seemed to know exactly what to do, to read her body as if she had given him a recipe for every occasion. She rushed towards a climax, and it was barely over when he helped her upright, where she was more help than hindrance tugging at his clothes, smoothing the sheath which he had procured over his throbbing arousal, then taking him inside her quickly, deeply, with a harsh groan of satisfaction. Though she was on top, once again he sensed her needs, taking charge, encouraging her to thrust, fast and hard, sending her spiralling out of control, as he came, pulling her tight against his heaving chest, saying her name over and over.
* * *
Later, making the most of their deserted home, they returned to the kitchen, where Phoebe warmed the last of the mulled wine and Owen sat at the table watching her. She was wrapped in one of his dressing gowns, a dark green velvet quilted affair which was far too big for her, and made her impossibly endearing. He turned the little box over in the pocket of his own dressing gown, unaccountably nervous about giving her his gift, for it was such an obvious token of love. He had kept his promise to himself not to declare himself, but there were moments every day when he was tempted.
It was never in the aftermath of lovemaking, there was no need for words then. It was when she handed him his breakfast plate, a dainty montage of choice morsels set out with such care and precision, for she knew he had
to be tempted to eat in the morning. Or when she was perusing one of the regular letters she received from Eloise, her face an ever-changing picture of emotions, so that he could guess almost every line of it without her reading it out. Or when she was sitting with her precious book of recipes, staring into space, tapping the end of her pencil on her nose, then she would suddenly smile to herself with such glee, and begin to write furiously. Or sometimes it was simply seeing her face light up when he walked into a room, so transparent with love that he thought his heart might burst.
He knew she loved him, but he sensed that she was still fragile. She might not have loved Solignac as she had thought, but she had still been hurt, damaged by the experience. She needed time to become confident in his love for her, and he was still determined to give her as much time as she needed.
But his love token was like a hot coal burning in his pocket. As he took the glass of wine from Phoebe, chinking it to hers, he decided. This had been such a perfect day, he wanted it to end perfectly. ‘Close your eyes,’ Owen said, ‘and hold out your hands.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a surprise. That’s why I told you to close your eyes.’
‘A nice surprise?’ Phoebe asked, sounding suspicious, though she did as he asked her.
‘I’ll let you be the judge of that.’ He placed the small box in her outstretched hands. ‘You can look now.’
She looked at him first, her mouth trembling, though he wasn’t sure if she was on the brink of smiling or crying. His stomach cramped with nerves, anticipation making him feel as if he might actually be sick. Had he done the wrong thing? Phoebe opened the box and stared at the ring. She took it out, tracing the heart shape of the rubies which surrounded the central diamond, holding it up to the light to admire the delicate pierce work on the gold band.
‘Do you like it?’ he demanded, unable to contain himself any longer.
‘Oh, Owen.’ To his dismay, she burst into tears. Then she threw her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Owen, I’ve never seen anything so utterly beautiful. Thank you so much.’
‘Here, let me put it on.’ Weak with relief, he slipped the ring on to her finger above her wedding band. ‘Does it fit?’
She splayed her fingers out, gazing rapt at his gift. ‘It might have been made for me.’
The truth was, it had been, and at great expense. Now was the perfect moment to tell her he loved her. He was sure of it. There was no point in waiting. She had his heart, that’s all he needed to say, and this was a token.
‘Phoebe, I...’
There was a rushing in his ears and the stone floor seemed to swoop up to meet him. His knees gave way. As he pitched forward, he saw her face, stricken with horror. And then there was nothing.
* * *
‘Owen?’ Fighting back her rising panic, Phoebe dropped to her knees, easing him down with her, placing his head on her lap. How she had managed to catch him as he fell she had no idea. ‘Owen’, she said again, leaning over him, listening with her heart pounding for a breath, holding her own, until she heard him, shallow and faint, but he was definitely breathing. She laid her hand on his forehead. His skin was cold, clammy. Feeling helpless and foolish, she placed her hand over his heart under his dressing gown, trying to time her own breathing with his heartbeat. Just when she was beginning to wonder if she should try to rouse him, he opened his eyes, staring blankly at her.
‘You fainted,’ Phoebe said.
Owen heaved himself to his feet, staring around him as if he had no idea where he was.
‘Sit down for a moment. I’ll get you some water.’
But he was already pushing past her, heading out of the kitchen.
‘Owen?’ She ran after him, grabbing his arm.
He shook her off with a snarl. ‘For pity’s sake just let me be!’
* * *
‘Is there something wrong with your tea?’
‘What?’
Owen smiled at her, indicating her full cup. ‘You’ve normally emptied the pot by now.’
Phoebe picked up her cup, taking a quick swallow of the cold tea. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘That’s the second time you’ve asked me that. I’m fine.’ She was not fine, she was at a complete loss. After Owen had stormed off last night, she had crept with the stealth of a thief to his rooms. Unable to summon the courage to face him, she had listened intently, until she heard him moving about. After that, she’d sat for over an hour in the kitchen, waiting in vain for him to return.
A sleepless night had brought her early to the breakfast parlour, waiting on tenterhooks for him to join her. Which he had, acting as if nothing untoward had happened. If she hadn’t caught him as he fell, she’d have been worried that he’d hit his head. But she had caught him. Had he suffered some sort of apoplexy that had affected his brain? But aside from the fact he was quite oblivious of how the night had ended, he seemed perfectly sane.
Was he pretending that he didn’t remember because he was embarrassed? ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked helplessly.
‘I don’t know what you put in that mulled wine, but it knocked me out.’
But he hadn’t actually touched the mulled wine before he fainted. He wasn’t pretending, he really didn’t remember, she was certain of that much. Could this be some new phase of his illness? Her blood ran cold at that thought. But, no, why should it be, when there had been no other signs whatsoever? Whatever had happened was an aberration of some kind.
Could one have a surfeit of lovemaking? They had been making love at least once a day, often more, almost every day. And Owen had been celibate for over two years, after all. Was it possible to have an excess? Did it deplete some vital bodily humour? She had no idea. What she did know was that she was clutching at straws.
‘Phoebe?’
She blinked.
‘Do you like it? The ring?’
So he had noticed she was wearing it, and he did remember giving it to her. ‘Oh, Owen, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a design like it. The heart, I mean.’ Just before he fainted, she had been so sure he was going to tell her that it represented his heart. She waited, hoping, longing for him to take the opportunity now. But he was staring at the ring as if he had never seen it before.
‘I’m glad it fits.’
‘Yes,’ she said, struggling to hide her disappointment. ‘It’s a perfect fit.’
‘I’ll get you a fresh pot of tea. If you’re up to it, I have a new list of premises for us to explore, but if not...’
‘I’m fine, Owen. I’m keen to find the right place, now that we have settled on a café-style restaurant.’
* * *
‘I think this might be the one,’ Phoebe said, gazing around the room, her eyes shining.
Owen smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘You’ve only just walked in the door.’
‘I know, but I have a good feeling about it.’
The premises was low-ceilinged, and had clearly been some sort of shop, with panelled walls and wooden floors, and two bow windows facing on to the street. Phoebe was right, there was something very reminiscent of Parisian cafés about it. It was certainly not grand, but it could be made to feel extremely comfortable.
‘I can already see it,’ Phoebe was saying. ‘We’ll put seating all around the walls, and rows of little tables—though not crammed as close together as they are in Paris. Then over here, we’ll have some more private seating, tables for four or six. And here, the front desk—see, it’s an excellent position for the waiters to view the whole room. Come on, let’s look upstairs.’
He followed her up the rather narrow staircase.
‘Owen! I think the fates must be telling us something.’
The room was built into the eaves and stretched the full length of the café. The floor was bare boards, rather than black and white tiles, the walls painted an unappealing brown rather than red
, but the resemblance to the top-floor room at the Procope was nevertheless striking. ‘We’d better work out where we might locate the kitchens first,’ he cautioned.
Phoebe caught his hand, pulling him down the room. ‘Do you remember?’
‘Of course I do. Our table was about here, I think.’
‘I think you’re right. Oh, Owen, this is it. This is our restaurant.’ She whirled around, her arms spread, her skirts flying out. ‘This really is it.’
He watched her, rooted to the spot, as she danced around the room, opening cupboards, brushing the dust from the window panes to peer out. She was so lovely, and he loved her so much. Seeing the ring on her finger the morning after Christmas had been a shock. He had no recollection of giving her the present. Phoebe had behaved oddly over breakfast, she’d seemed unsettled, though when he asked her, she said there was nothing wrong. The loss of memory panicked him, but six days had passed without further incident. If he’d had a relapse, it was a minor one. He had been premature, he’d concluded, in giving Phoebe such an obvious token. He should have waited, as he’d planned, until after the restaurant was open. Time to make sure too, that he really was cured.
‘Kitchens,’ Phoebe said, taking his hand again, leading him back down the stairs and then down again, to the basement, where she exclaimed at once, ‘This will do nicely.’
Owen, unconvinced, gazed around the empty room.
‘Trust me, it’s the perfect space,’ Phoebe said earnestly. ‘You just have to use your imagination.’
‘That’s your job.’ He took out his notebook and pencil. ‘You imagine away, and I will make a list.’
A Wife Worth Investing In Page 17