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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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Did she mention her partner Quinn Pearson…’ he watched her carefully as if wondering whether to tell her Quinn was a famous food writer.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 telephone 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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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