by Myers, Amy
‘Ah, that’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ Maisie said more cheerfully. ‘I won’t be obeying you after all.’
‘Comment?’ he enquired blankly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I won’t be marrying you.’
He stared at her, speechless, and she went on quickly, ‘I’m very fond of you, Auguste, very fond indeed, but it wouldn’t be right. I know it wouldn’t. You think about it. You’re a master chef used to ordering people about and all that, you want a little wife who’ll obey your every word.’
‘But—’
‘Not someone like me.’
‘But—’ Auguste broke off and stared at the remains of his filets de perdrix, for once with unseeing eyes. Not marry him? But he loved her. She loved him. She was his Maisie.
‘There, Auguste,’ she said anxiously, ‘don’t take it amiss. You’ll find someone much better than me. Tatiana—’
But Auguste was not to be mollified. He suspected the real truth. ‘Does this have anything to do with—?’
‘Yes, I’m going to marry Summerfield. He doesn’t know yet, but he’ll see it my way. Someone has to protect him from his mother. I can’t wait to see her face.’
‘Summerfield,’ said Auguste in tones of disgust. ‘And will he hold you as I have held you, make you laugh as I have done, love you as I have loved you? Have you not enjoyed my arms about you?’
‘Oh yes, that was ever so much fun,’ she said robustly. ‘But Summerfield needs me. You don’t. And I’ll be able to rule the aristocratic roost. You’d never let me do that.’
‘I am just a cook, hein?’
‘Oh, Auguste, no.’ She was hurt. ‘Now I never said that. You’re the maître. Didn’t Monsieur Escoffier say that only you could cook his birthday dinner?’
‘That is true,’ said Auguste, brightening just a little.
She patted his head in a motherly fashion. ‘I’ll go now. He’s waiting, bless his heart, further up the road. No more, though.’ She donned her mantle, drew on her gloves, walked up to the door and looked up Wellington Street. A patrician opera-hatted figure was standing by the Summerfield carriage, saw her, but did not move. It waited. Then, as she vigorously beckoned and waved, slowly, reluctantly, it climbed into the carriage to approach her. She turned for one last look at Auguste, smiled and was gone.
He watched the carriage drive off down the Strand into the January night, amid a path of twinkling yellow lights. With a slight sigh he turned back into the empty restaurant. He was cold, he was alone and something seemed to be blurring his eyes. He rubbed them impatiently. When they could see again, they fell on the rejected cod. Grilled cod! Who could make a dish out of grilled cod? It was not even at its best in January. What could one do with grilled cod? Nothing. Maisie, his Maisie. Gone. Never again her arms round him in bed. Never again hear her happy laughter . . .
One could add French wine sauce – not sherry, too heavy – and oyster – cream of oyster perhaps and – and – he felt excitement rise within him – a Chablis. Had not Tatiana herself always declared the superiority of Chablis over Muscadet in a sauce? Tatiana, with her black hair and dark eyes. Yes – and not oyster sauce but shrimps – puréed. Mon dieu, that was it! That was what one could do with grilled cod. He would serve it tomorrow. He would call it: Cod au crème d’écrevisses Maisie.
