by Minna Howard
‘Yes, I cooked for my family and friends, but I chose to work in picture restoration instead of…’ she was about to say slaving over a hot stove all day, but changed it to, ‘well I thought cooking both for a job and for my family was too much. I like to cook, believe in feeding my family well, but that’s different to doing it professionally.’ She was tying herself in knots in her effort to explain. She didn’t want to let him down and yet she felt she had to fess up now that she had never even cooked one dish professionally.
Lawrence sighed, ‘I don’t want a picture restorer,’ he said darkly, ‘I suppose my father was trying to be helpful, but it looks like he’s dumped me… both of us in it. Look, Eloise, we have some very tricky clients coming for Christmas. They were determined to come to Verbier but left it too late to have one of the modern, luxurious chalets further down in the village, so we start off with them not wanting to be here anyway and if the food…’ he tailed off.
The tone of his voice infuriated her. ‘Just because I chose not to cook professionally doesn’t mean I can’t cook,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve given dinner parties, fed my family and no one’s died of food poisoning. I can do the same here, but I’m not the sort of chef you see on MasterChef. You know, sort of work of art on a plate with lots of clever little bits and pieces scattered about, covered with some complicated jus that probably took longer to cook than the rest of it.’
A ghost of a smile hovered on Lawrence’s lips. ‘No, I don’t expect that, but you’ll have to produce good food, these guests are used to dining in the top restaurants in the world and can’t be fobbed off with shepherd’s pie and chips.’ He eyed the phone slightly desperately, no doubt itching to contact this Aurelia person and beg her to come round with her upmarket takeaways. But Eloise, who had minutes before yearned for home, safe and cosy with her box sets, wine and chocolate, was now desperate to stay here, surrounded by the massive beauty of the mountains, the snow sparkling in the sun, the air so crisp you could cut it. Though perhaps she’d see none of it, be confined – like Cinderella – to the kitchen, without a moment off. But she wanted to give it a go.
‘I understand,’ Eloise said with more confidence than she felt. ‘Tell me what meals I’m to cook and I’ll make out a few menus and you can decide, and sometimes,’ she remembered some of Harvey’s business colleagues she’d entertained for dinner over the years, ‘people who dine out in top restaurants all the time just want something more simple – well cooked food made with good ingredients.’
‘I suppose I must give you a chance.’ Lawrence reluctantly turned away from the phone. ‘You’ll be expected to cook breakfast – the guests usually like porridge as it gives them energy for a day’s skiing, eggs and bacon, toast, and coffee. Strong coffee, none of that pale brown liquid that some people pass off as coffee. Then a cake or home-made biscuits to serve with drinks before dinner and a proper three-course evening meal. I will organize the wines,’ he said fiercely as if that surely was something she was incapable of.
‘Harvey… my ex-husband…’ just saying his name hurt, ‘we both did a Christie’s wine course, so I know a bit about wine,’ she said, determined to show him she was quite capable of choosing the right wines for a meal.
Lawrence looked dubious, ‘You seem to have done a lot of courses, but none of these are professional, and we’re talking professional here, Eloise. The people who come to this chalet expect the best; we rarely have families who are happy with anything warm and filling to eat. They can’t afford the weekly rate.’
‘Understood.’ She didn’t think she’d like the sorts of rich people who came here at all.
Lawrence must have guessed her feelings from her expression for he said, ‘You’re not here to like the guests but to cook for them. They arrive tomorrow evening for the week, then leave before Christmas. I want to see the menus for dinner and for the next week. You can cook us a sample dinner tonight; I’ve invited some friends to come round. Make a shopping list and Theo will take you to the shops shortly and tell you which ones we use, but you can take one of the jeeps and go yourself after that.’ She remembered she’d seen a couple of sand-coloured jeeps parked outside.
‘You just buy the food, not the drink, you’ll have a credit card to pay for it and I want all the receipts given in to me every week, is that clear?’ He was frowning again, a look of desperation in his eyes. ‘Your salary will be paid into your bank account at the end of every week. You get a free ski pass and have one day off a week, the changeover day, which is usually Saturday, though I expect a dinner to be cooked for the new guests that evening. If you want to ski, you must fit it in around your work, do you understand?’ He stared balefully at her as if he was certain she did not.
‘Of course.’ She stared him out; she may feel terrified inside but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
He went on. ‘I’ll give you the list of this week’s guests. I always ask them if there are any foods they can’t eat so that you can steer clear of those. Some people don’t eat things for religious or health reasons,’ his voice was edged with boredom as if she ought to know these things, which she did, but he seemed to think he must point them out. ‘I assume you can produce good vegetarian and vegan dishes?’ he finished.
Vegetarian wasn’t difficult, she loved vegetables and often cooked a vegetable dish at home, but she wasn’t sure exactly what vegan entailed and she wasn’t going to ask Lawrence. ‘And what happens if you don’t like my cooking?’ she eyed him firmly.
‘Well then you’ll have to go home and I’ll have to buy in expensive food from a friend of mine which will cut my profit margin almost to the bone, which I can ill afford to do. I’ve lost enough money over this chef business as it is.’ He handed her a list of the guests and told her to come back in half an hour with her menus for the week, ‘And if we like the dinner you cook for us tonight you can do the same menu tomorrow as well.’ He threw the remark out as if he was awarding her a prize as she escaped from the room.
Four
The kitchen was another shock. It was more like an operating theatre. Eloise remembered the cluttered cosy room it used to be – the hub of the chalet – that drew them all in, with its ancient, temperamental cooker that demanded a high level of TLC, and a huge free-standing fridge that hummed and hawed to itself in the corner. An old wooden table had stood in the centre of the room where they congregated to eat, write postcards to their friends, or just chat and joke with each other or whoever was cooking, whilst the children would draw or build something out of Lego.
All that had gone and been replaced by a cruel-looking steel cooker with a long row of shiny knobs. Instead of the table a great cube stood in the middle of the room with various slots in it, housing baskets with other kitchen paraphernalia arranged in them like a display in a shop. Above was a high steel pole with pans and other cooking utensils hanging from it like instruments of torture. The walls once decked in posters, drawings, holiday photos and postcards now held severe-looking cupboards, which, she assumed, hid yet more kitchen appliances.
The room, with its aura of stark professionalism, seemed to mock her, as if deriding her cosy, home cooking. Fighting down her panic, she sat on the window seat with her folder and began to go through it. Tonight’s dinner was to be her test and, now she was here in the thick of it, she was determined to combat Lawrence’s obvious fears of her incompetence. She checked through the list of guests arriving the following evening, worried about finding they all had impossible food intolerances.
There were six people on the list – four men and two women – and to her relief no one seemed to have any intolerances, or they weren’t listed.
She took longer than half an hour to make up her menus. She would have liked to go to the shops first to see if they had all the ingredients she needed, but they were down in the village, and would take too much time to walk to. Before she had finished making a shopping list, Theo came in, with Bert skittering behind.
‘La
wrence has had to go,’ he said, ‘but I’m to take you to the shops for the food. Here’s your credit card.’ He handed it to her; ‘I’m ready when you are.’ He looked wistfully out of the window at the mountains now disappearing in the dusk and she guessed he’d much rather be out there skiing on the last run down than trailing round a supermarket, but then so would she.
She’d been fortunate to learn to ski as a child and taken a skiing holiday most years in various resorts, though it was three years since she’d last been. Now back here, in a once familiar and loved place she yearned to go out again, to rediscover the places she used to know. But that was for later, now she must grapple with this cooking lark and produce a meal fit for Lawrence’s discerning guests.
As he drove her back into the village, Theo told her the best shops to use. ‘We always buy the cheese from the shop on the square and the meat from the butcher a little further down. Lawrence won’t buy meat from the supermarket; he says it has no taste. But you can buy other stuff there,’ he said. ‘And if you need wine for cooking, ask Lawrence and he’ll order it.’
She nodded to show she’d heard his instructions while deciding to forget that last one about the wine, not being prepared to wait until Lawrence was available for something she was more than qualified to do herself. He could choose what wines they drank but not the ones she wanted to use for the cooking. She was the cook, or rather the chef, and barring food intolerances, she’d put what she wanted into her dishes.
They arrived at the centre of the village and she looked eagerly out of the window to see how much it had changed, but to her relief, among some new and bright-looking shops, she saw some of the old, familiar ones.
‘Do you live out here?’ she asked Theo as he slowed down to park, thinking how much Kit and Lizzie would envy his life.
‘Sort of,’ he said, ‘for the skiing season anyway, and then I go to Mum, who lives in Italy, for the summer.’
‘Lucky you, so you have the best of both worlds.’ She wondered who his mother was, but she didn’t ask.
‘Yup, but I want to be a skiing instructor, so I’m hoping to train for that next year, and study languages – French, German and Italian,’ he said. ‘I can do all that out here, fit it in while helping Dad.’
She was touched by his enthusiasm, her heart aching with missing Kit and Lizzie and their bright faces. She felt incomplete without them. Theo parked the car and they got out.
‘Eloise… I don’t believe it.’ A female voice cut through her thoughts like a clarion call. She spun round and saw Saskia Williams whom she’d last seen – some years ago – as a harassed mum at the primary school gates in London.
‘Saskia, what a surprise.’ She was enveloped in a bear hug.
‘Are you out here for Christmas with Harvey and the twins?’ Saskia released her. ‘So good to see you.’ She squeezed her arm, grinning with pleasure.
‘And you.’ Eloise stared at her. Saskia looked good, her face was tanned and her dark hair pushed back by a wide blue band covering her ears. Mixed feelings chased through her. This often happened when she met girl friends, especially ones she hadn’t seen for ages, as she wondered if they’d slept with her ex-husband.
But all that was behind her and she must forget it. It was amazing to find Saskia here. It was ages since they’d last seen each other because Saskia and her family had moved to Norfolk when her children went to secondary school and they had lost touch.
‘So you’re here with Harvey, Kit and Lizzie?’ Saskia repeated.
Eloise was aware that Theo was getting impatient. She said quickly, ‘No, it’s a long story and I haven’t time to tell you now. Harvey and I are divorced, Kit and Lizzie are in Tibet on their gap year and I’m out here to cook in my godfather’s chalet, Jacaranda. This is Theo…’
‘Of course, I’ve seen you around,’ Saskia exclaimed, smiling at Theo. ‘Lawrence is your father, owns Jacaranda.’
‘Yup, that’s right,’ Theo said, edging towards the shops.
Saskia regarded Eloise with sympathy. ‘Really sorry about your divorce, love. Toby and I have been divorced for ages. I live with Quinn Pearson now… you know, the food writer, although he’s lost his sense of taste.’ She lowered her voice, ‘He’s much older than me but cosy and…’ she leant in, dropping her voice still lower, ‘he’s fabulously rich and I got so tired of never having enough money with dear Tobes, always having to worry if the next bill would be paid or if there’d be bailiffs smashing down the door.’ Noticing that Theo was getting impatient, Saskia said, ‘Might see you tonight if you’re staying at Jacaranda. We’re coming to dinner to try out the new chef.’
Five
Eloise could feel Lawrence’s impatience smoking off him like dry ice as he explained how the gleaming oven worked. He was waiting for them, pacing like a prowling panther when she and Theo returned from shopping, and when Theo had lugged it all into the kitchen and scooted off with Bert, to meet up with friends, she was left, much to her consternation, alone with Lawrence.
‘Show me the menu for tonight so I can choose the right wines,’ he demanded. ‘I need to put the whites in the fridge, and bring up the reds from downstairs.’
She pulled her menu for dinner out of her bag; the paper was creased and tattered now – rather like she felt. She was still struggling to overcome her panic that Quinn Pearson, the renowned food writer – with or without working taste buds – was coming to dinner tonight. This really was a baptism of fire.
Lawrence took the menu from her, smoothing it down on top of the fearsome cube, the steel cooking utensils gleaming on the rail above his head. He frowned as he read the list, his mouth tight, as if trying to contain his displeasure. She was about to explain that she was going to copy it out more neatly when he pushed the crumpled menu back at her.
‘So the canapés to have with the drinks are Parmesan wafers, raw vegetables with a creamy dip, and spiced nuts, followed by the starter – a tomato sorbet garnished with avocado and chives – then lamb in red wine, and Moroccan oranges… whatever’s that?’
He reminded her of a difficult child picking over the food on his plate. ‘It’s the pudding. A salad of fresh oranges with chopped dates and cinnamon,’ she eyed him firmly, ‘and to go with it, baby meringues made with brown sugar.’
‘Quite sweet, perhaps a Sauvignon Blanc,’ he murmured to himself.
She waited for him to ask her what wine she would use for cooking the lamb, but to her relief he did not. To distract him further, she said, ‘I saw a friend of mine in the village who I haven’t seen for ages, Saskia Williams… maybe she’s not called that now as she’s divorced. She said she was coming to dinner this evening.’ Eloise wondered how well Lawrence knew her.
‘Did she mention her partner Quinn Pearson…’ he watched her carefully as if wondering whether to tell her Quinn was a famous food writer.
‘The food writer, yes I know. Are they married?’ she asked nonchalantly, determined to conceal from him how daunted she was by the prospect of feeding Quinn.
‘I’ve no idea. I doubt it. Anyway, I’m deciding which wines to serve with the meal. And while we’re on the subject, what wine will you use to cook the lamb in?’ he frowned at her.
Her spirits fell – she had not got away with it after all. ‘I bought one like I use at home, a heavy-bodied Burgundy. It’s always been a success and I wanted to get all the ingredients I need for the dinner, so I could get on with it. I know you choose the wines to drink with the meals.’ She smiled at him as if it were no big deal.
‘Fair enough, if you are going to cook with it,’ he said, skimming through the menu again, sighing heavily as he wondered aloud if he had the right wine to drink with the lamb or would have to go out and buy some.
He sighed even more when she asked him to run through the instructions again as to how the cooker worked. They sounded so complicated she hadn’t taken them in the first time he’d told her. She’d have a dummy run when she was alone. She was relieved when the telepho
ne rang and he left her to it.
She’d given many a dinner party over the years, so she decided she’d pretend this was just the same, she’d cook dishes she knew and hope for the best, and if her best weren’t good enough… Better not go there.
To suit the part she wondered if she was supposed to dress as a ‘chef’ in a gleaming white uniform, not that she possessed anything like that, and anyway these auspicious guests would surely not expect to meet her, so she decided she would wear her apron, a present from the twins that she hadn’t yet used. She pulled it out from its packet and saw that it had, ‘Kiss the Cook’ written in large letters over the front. It was hardly professional, but it would have to do, she didn’t have another. It made her smile thinking of them, bringing them closer.
She turned on the oven and to her relief it began to heat up. Looking through the cupboards, she found a deep dish for the leg of lamb and settled it in with the wine and herbs and put it in the oven to cook.
Theo was the waiter for the evening and, judging by the amount of food he stole and nibbled, the chief food taster too. ‘Great, wow these are great,’ he said, sampling the Parmesan wafers, ‘and those tiny meringue things,’ he stole one, ‘do hope there’ll be leftovers.’
‘Aren’t you eating with the others?’ she asked, while she sliced up the oranges and dates for the pudding. She was glad he was here, his enthusiasm for her cooking upping her confidence.
‘No, I’m helping serve then I’m going out,’ he said. ‘We’ll stack all the plates in the dishwasher and Vera will clean up – you’ve met her, haven’t you?’
‘No, who is she?’ Eloise asked.
‘She cleans. She comes every day, but perhaps you missed her today. Lawrence nicked her from someone else who treated her badly, wouldn’t even let her have a glass of water without asking.’ He exclaimed, ‘Some people.’
‘I look forward to meeting her, I’ll try not to make too much mess.’ She was relieved that she didn’t have to do the clearing up as well. She was exhausted and she was only halfway through cooking the dinner. She cleared a place on the cube to set out the bits she needed for the starter, wishing that battered old table that had so much more space was still there in the middle of the room.
