by Carol Wyer
Patrick set about preparing his meal, a simple menu of minestrone soup and chicken in red wine. He fooled about throughout the preparation and having thrown vegetables all over the kitchen top and decided he had not got the right herbs, he took out a couple of boxes of ready-made soup and poured them into a large pan.
‘And as my French guest, Claudine would say, “voilà!”’ he said, wiping his hands on an apron that bore an image of a scantily clad lady. ‘No one will be able to tell. Besides, it’s very good quality soup. It came in boxes. It’s proper posh nosh. I’ll add a carrot piece to each bowl. They’ll never be able to tell the difference between it and home-made soup.’
He then poured a large glass of wine to help him through the next course. He insisted on referring to a recipe book throughout the preparation, making comments about Nigella Lawson and sucking chocolate off a spoon.
‘She behaves like a dirty tart,’ he said. ‘If Gloria licked her finger like that after dipping it in the food, she’d be in trouble. It’s bad manners, isn’t it? You should wash your hands when you cook, not drool all over them and the kitchen utensils.’
He had purchased an enormous chicken for the meal. Since the recipe demanded chicken pieces, he needed to debone his bird, a fact he used to its full advantage as he grimaced and huffed while attempting to attack it with a large knife.
‘I don’t know,’ he complained. ‘It’s a lot easier when I go to the pub and Gloria deals with this stuff. This isn’t a man’s job. Men are on this planet to hunt for food and provide for their women. Women are here to look after us, clean up and prepare the food,’ he claimed, draining a glass of deep red Bordeaux wine. ‘Glor! Come down here a moment, darling. I need your female skills.’
Gloria appeared and with hands on hips tried to guide him through the process of deboning a chicken. Patrick clowned about further and ended up being thrown out of the kitchen by Gloria who not only boned the chicken but prepared the sauce. Patrick set the table and read the newspaper while she got on with it. Much later, Gloria let him back into the kitchen and gave him instructions on how to cook the vegetables and chicken.
Patrick finally sorted out the vegetables and made a big song and dance about his desert; ice cream, scooped from a dish and decorated with a fan wafer. He did a little dance with the wafers, decided he better leave the scooping of the ice cream until nearer the time and cried out, ‘Gloria love, could you run me a bath? I’m pooped. I’d like plenty of bath salts and could you bring me up a glass of champagne too? Lovely. See, ladies, us men are really only cut out for the manly difficult stuff. We should leave the cooking to you.’
Twenty
‘Father Abraham and the Smurfs singing there. Do you remember those lovable little blue people? If you do then maybe you can answer this question: What colour was Papa Smurf’s hat? While you’re thinking about it, here’s another couple of facts about the Smurfs that might interest you: The Smurfs were originally called Les Schtroumpfs and were invented as a result of a silly conversation over dinner. And how about this? The world record for people dressed as Smurfs was set in Swansea, in 2009. More than two thousand five hundred people crammed into a nightclub dressed in blue and white, and in order to count toward the record, they weren't allowed to have any natural skin showing. Can you imagine trying to wash all the blue paint off your skin afterwards?’ She looked up from reading and smiled to herself.
‘And, in answer to my Smurf trivia question, Papa Smurf’s hat was red. Congratulations if you got that correct. How did we get onto Smurfs? Oh, I remember. It all started because Sean brought some jelly Smurf sweets into the studio – very bad for your teeth but extremely satisfying to chomp. Here we go with an appropriate segue – we’re all very professional here on City Hospital radio, you know. This is The Searchers with “Sweets for my Sweet”.’
Charlie chewed on another sweet and wondered how Mercedes was getting along. It was day three of the contest. Today they were filming at Claudine’s house. Mercedes had been too occupied to phone and fill her in with all the details and Charlie was dying to know what the other contestants were like. Mercedes had tackled the cookery challenge with relish and Charlie was pleased she had done so.
She expected there would be a new challenge for her to try soon and part of her was excited. The belly dancing had ended and she was surprised how much she missed the classes, and the girls. They had all changed since the classes began and not just physically. Susannah had just booked a holiday in Morocco with her husband and Marcia having had several different dates since the classes, was now with Mitch, a sports coach she had met on the Internet.
‘There are so many people in Cyberworld,’ she’d told Charlie. ‘I’m so glad I signed up with an online agency. It’s really difficult to find men in the real world. They’re all married, in relationships or there’s something wrong with them,’ she’d scoffed. ‘You have to be careful online too. I’ve been doing this now for almost a year and I have met some right weird blokes. There was one guy who looked really buff. He sent a piccy of himself at the beach and he had pecs to make you swoon. I couldn’t work out why he hadn’t found a woman. He was an Adonis, I kid you not. I agreed to meet him in a bar. It’s always wise to meet in a public place. You never know what they’ll be like. If they’re dangerous at least you’re surrounded by other people.
‘We met in the Wetherspoons pub on the main street. It’s usually busy there. I suggested we meet at six-thirty. That’s a good time because the pubs have a few early doors punters and guys who grab a drink before they go home, but it isn’t too crowded. I walked into the bar and looked about for this hunk. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I was about to go and sit in a corner and wait for him when an old bloke, about sixty and bald as a coot, tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Marcia?’ It was him. He’d sent me a photograph taken forty years earlier. No wonder he was single. I told him he shouldn’t do that and he replied, “Plenty of women do it. Hardly anyone looks like their photo on the dating website. I’ve met some right dogs and I’ve been out with women much older than me. So far, you’re the only one who looks like her picture.” Then he added, “Shame! I’d hoped you’d be a bit older. Never mind. I expect you’re a goer.” Cheeky bastard. I stormed out.’ Charlie couldn’t help but titter at her expression as Marcia had told the story.
‘Then there was the time a married guy met me. He looked tasty enough. He’d put he was single on his profile but I spied a wedding ring on his finger. When I quizzed him about his marital status, he said that he had one of those relaxed relationships where he and his wife banged other people. He got most enthusiastic about it, saying it was incredible the number of people he and his wife had met online who only wanted a casual sexual relationship. They’d tried swinging but they preferred this. And get this, his wife was in the same restaurant at another table with a bloke she’d met from the agency. Talk about crazy.’
Charlie nodded her affirmation at the last comment. Marcia was right. It was nigh on impossible to find male company if you were over thirty, let alone almost forty years old. Charlie did not want to hang about clubs or bars in the hope she would meet a free agent. However, she did not want to try online dating either. She was not sure she had the energy or desire to put up a profile of herself and then follow up all the dating requests. The way she felt at the moment, she was too tired and busy for a relationship anyway. Best to stick to her routine.
‘This is Charlie with you until six o’clock. I hope you’re enjoying the music this evening. We’ve been asking you to come up with songs about the weather and you’ve managed some corkers. That’s songs with titles or artists to do with the weather. I’ve got some great tracks for this half hour of uninterrupted music, starting off with The Weather Girls “It’s Raining Men”.’
She sighed. It was never going to rain men in her life.
Twenty-One
Back home, Charlie was sorely tempted to text or phone Mercedes. Surely the crew would have finished for the day. It w
as almost eight o’clock. She reminded herself that phones were not allowed during filming and Mercedes would be in contact when she could. She took a slug of wine and removed the sponge cake from a tin and tried to imagine what Mercedes would be doing. It had to be more fun than baking cakes and trying to work out what to watch on television.
Meanwhile Mercedes was about to see behind the scenes at Claudine’s house. She waited outside for the door to open with a cameraman.
‘You’ll enjoy this,’ he whispered in a conspiratorial fashion. Mercedes was going to ask him to enlighten her further but the floor manager shushed them. He had had a very trying day with Claudine who insisted all the crew took off their shoes while in her house and had flown into a tantrum every time a lead was accidentally draped across a piece of furniture. Now everyone was tired and wanted to wrap up for the day. They were way behind schedule.
A buzz of chatter from the floor manager’s walkie-talkie alerted them to the fact they were ready. A girl with a clapperboard stepped forward and announced, ‘Action!’
The door flew open. ‘Mercedes, ’ow wonderfool. Entrez. Let me show you to the reception room.’ Claudine, dressed from head to toe in Yves Saint Laurent, took the handles of Mercedes’ wheelchair and propelled her towards the front room. Her crystal-embellished Tulle dress rustled. Mercedes was miffed. She was not helpless. She detested it when people assumed she was. Claudine’s heels on her python-leather ankle boots clattered on the marble floor as they made their way to an enormous room with rich wooden floors that stretched out into a glass conservatory. At the far end of the conservatory a table was set with expensive cutlery that shone, plush cotton serviettes and polished crystal glasses. Thick pillar candles on tall black stands completed the effect. Their flames emitted a soft light, enhancing the ambience. To the left of the room, a fire was burning brightly in a magnificent fireplace. Next to it, sat in a large wing-backed chair, was Patrick.
‘Mercedes,’ he said, relief on his face. He stooped to plant a kiss on her cheek. ‘Come and sit by me.’
Claudine’s house was much as Mercedes had expected it to be. Even from the outside, it was imposing, with its mile long private drive. Mercedes had almost envisaged a butler answering the door as she’d tugged on the rope of the brass bell. She could only imagine the size of the kitchen. She bet it had an AGA. All posh houses had AGAs. Cameramen moved expertly between the contestants. Mercedes almost forgot they were there.
‘Albert,’ shrilled Claudine and a grey-haired man in a smart black waistcoat, trousers and white gloves bustled in, with a tray of glasses filled with champagne. So there was a butler, after all. He must have been too busy preparing the drinks to answer the door, unless Claudine didn’t like staff greeting her guests. Patrick shot Mercedes a warning look as she stifled a chuckle.
Claudine immediately started talking about the house. It had been completely renovated by Claudine’s husband, a property developer. ‘We ’av six barfrooms.’
‘Plenty of choice then if you suddenly need a barf,’ mumbled Mercedes. Patrick sniggered. Claudine was too busy sounding off to notice. The bell rang.
‘I must see oo zis iz,’ she said regally and left the room, even though the others knew it would be Maurice.
‘Wowee!’ said Mercedes when Claudine was out of earshot, trailed by a beaming cameraman leaving them alone in the lounge. ‘Is she on this show to win a thousand pounds or to show off her house?’
‘I think it’s the latter. I heard a rumour that they’re going to put the house up for sale soon. This is a promotional exercise to―’
Patrick stopped talking. Two men backed into the room both filming reactions as Maurice shuffled in beside Claudine. His hands flew to his open mouth in surprise as he took in the size of the room.
‘Oh my! This is astonishing!’ he gushed.
Claudine looked pleased at the reaction. ‘Yes, my husband, ’ee and ’iz team renovated zee whole ’ouse. I shall show it to you later, but first, you must ’av some champagne. Albert! Where is zat man?’ She tutted, ‘I shall ’af to find ’im!’ With that, she wafted off.
‘You look...’ Mercedes began, taking in Maurice.
‘Stupid,’ finished Maurice, looking down at his outfit. ‘I have no idea why I agreed to wear this.’
Maurice glanced at his reflection in the huge mirror over the fireplace. ‘It was the only outfit in the fancy dress shop that had anything remotely to do with France. Normally, I love dressing up, but even I think this looks silly. I’d have liked to have come dressed as Napoléon Bonaparte but that outfit had been borrowed. Who’s Claudine supposed to be?’
‘I think she’s Coco Chanel or Brigitte Bardot. I can’t decide,’ suggested Mercedes.
‘Either way,’ said Patrick, ‘it’s an excuse to look stunning in designer clothes while the rest of us look like idiots.’
‘Speak for yourself. I think I look great as Joan of Arc,’ said Mercedes smiling at the camera focused on her. ‘Mind you, this armour breastplate is a bit uncomfortable.’
‘I hate dressing up,’ said Patrick.
‘Is that why you haven’t bothered to?’ teased Mercedes.
‘I have bothered. I’m Alain Delon, the famous actor. I even have a hat like he wore in the film Le Samouraï. See.’
He reached down beside his chair and produced a hat that he plopped onto his head. ‘Voilà! Instant fancy dress.’ There was a guffaw from behind a camera. Patrick stared into the lens and winked.
Claudine arrived with the butler who was carrying another tray of champagne-filled glasses. ‘So sorry to ’av kept you. Dinner will be served in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘But first we ’av some traditional French entertainment.’
She clapped her hands and a gentleman with a large moustache wearing a striped jumper appeared at the doorway and began playing the accordion.
Twenty-Two
‘Are you sure it’ll work? I don’t want to ruin it for you,’ said Charlie. She was on the phone to Mercedes.
‘You won’t. Now, you know what you have to do? Wait outside in your car at two o’clock. By then, the guests will be here and the crew will be filming the meal. I’ll send you a text when I’m ready for you. Let yourself in the back door. Wait for my cue, press the play button on the sound system on the kitchen top, and then shimmy into the dining room.’
‘I’m not sure I can remember the moves. I’ve gone blank. It’s the realisation that not only will I perform in front of the four of you but millions of viewers who’ll watch the show. I can’t do it,’ wailed Charlie.
‘Of course you can. Those belly dancing lessons have really paid off. You look like a professional when you shake your booty.’
Charlie pondered her words. She wanted Mercedes to win the coveted one thousand pounds for the best host and meal. She deserved it, and if wobbling her belly at strangers helped Mercedes win, then she’d forget her own anxieties and wobble away.
She thought about the girls at the belly dancing classes again. Maybe she should sign up for more lessons. Jasmine suggested they might like to consider tribal belly dancing classes next.
‘Do we get to shout and chant as we dance, then?’ Susannah asked.
‘No, but you play tiny cymbals on your fingers and dance with other women. I’ll let you know when classes start. You could join the end of year Tribal Belly Dancing Float in the annual Festival Parade if you like it enough.’
‘I’m delighted with what I’ve picked up here, Jasmine,’ replied Susannah. ‘My husband cancelled his darts at the pub again tonight so he’d be home when I got back,’ she grinned. ‘Thanks ever so much. I’m going to go to the gym like you suggested and maintain my fitness levels. I’m not going to let myself regress to where I was. I can’t believe the difference in only four weeks of belly dancing. I actually feel younger.’
‘Me too,’ commented Marcia. ‘I’m going to join the advanced class and then I might even try my hand at pole dancing.’
There was no doubt that Charlie fe
lt more confident than she did before the classes. Jasmine promised they would feel sexier and she certainly felt more womanly. She walked better too. Not as tall and proud as that glamorous woman she saw having coffee with the Piggy man as she now called him, but prouder nonetheless.
Mercedes’ voice brought her back to the present. ‘Come on, you’ll be wearing a veil. No one will be any the wiser as to who you are and you can mysteriously disappear after the applause. It’ll be great. That way, you’re on the show and I get some original entertainment for my guests. Don’t forget to shake your money belt thing at Patrick. He’ll be mesmerised. He’s the hairdresser I told you about. He owns a salon in town. He’s definitely not your stereotype camp hairdresser, in fact when we went to his house, he was quite the opposite. Patrick likes women to be feminine and somewhat subservient. He made his views quite clear. He will love you batting your eyelashes at him.’
Charlie sighed in defeat. Mercedes was so keen to win. She could not let her down.
‘Claudine will detest you, so forget about her. She’s a complete diva and is determined to win this contest. Luckily, no one enjoyed her endives in cream sauce and her tarte tatin was a disaster. I think hiring a man to play French accordion music was a stroke of genius, if only to distract us from the food but the mime artist was definitely over the top. And getting us all to dress as French characters was wacky. The image of Maurice as Marie Antoinette will remain with me for a long time.’ She giggled and Charlie was overcome with affection for her friend who was clearly enjoying the entire experience.
‘I’m not confident I can win Claudine over with my menu but I’m banking on wowing the two men. I discovered Maurice has a Moroccan boyfriend so it’s in the bag as far as he’s concerned. You’ll be the entertainment that should swing it for me with Patrick. I’m sure he’ll give you a perfect ten on his scoreboard. So thanks to you and to my recent cookery lessons, I’m ready to rock. It was very kind of you to ask Fatima to help out.’
