She was in Peasebrook for half past eight, collecting her meat from the butcher, selecting the best vegetables from the farmers’ market, and finishing off at the cheesemonger, where she bought a trio of French cheese: one soft, one hard and one blue. She was disappointed not to be served by Jem but by one of the other assistants, though he gave her a cheery wave and a thumbs up from the far end of the counter. He was too busy serving to speak. Thomasina left before he became free.
She got back to her cottage where Lauren was ready and waiting: she’d prepped the kitchen and it was gleaming, all the utensils ready and waiting. They divided the work up between them. Lauren made the celeriac soup with a gloriously rich chicken stock she’d made earlier in the week and she strained it and sieved it until it was silky smooth, then set it aside and fried some crispy strips of pancetta ready to put on top.
The main course was a loin of venison, coated in mushroom duxelles and wrapped in puff pastry. With it went little copper pots of potato gratin, sliced paper thin on a mandolin, and a smooth cauliflower purée.
Dessert was a delicate pear mousse, light and fluffy, with a warm rich chocolate sauce in the middle.
By half past four, everything that could be prepared in advance had been, the kitchen was cleaned, and Thomasina put the finishing touches to the dining room.
At quarter to five, the phone rang. It was the husband who had booked the table. Their baby was coming down with a cold. They couldn’t leave it with a babysitter. They would pay, of course, but they wouldn’t be coming.
Thomasina put the phone down. She looked at the table for two and then went into the kitchen, where her perfectly wrapped loin of venison was chilling. And she knew this moment was a test. She knew that if she didn’t do what she thought she might, that she would stay on her own forever, that she would spend the rest of her life cooking for other people’s birthdays and anniversaries. That she would watch them gaze into each other’s eyes. That she would never look at anyone else across her own table.
She deserved to look into someone else’s eyes. She knew she did.
‘What are you going to do?’ said Lauren. ‘It’s a terrible waste.’
‘Wait there,’ said Thomasina.
She walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine from the bottle she used for cooking. She drained it in one gulp. Then she dialled the cheese shop. It might be closed. She didn’t know what time it shut. It was ten past five. It could easily shut at five. The phone rang and rang. She was about to hang up when it was answered.
‘Peasebrook Cheese.’
‘May I speak to Jem?’
‘I think he might have gone, love. We shut at five.’
‘Oh.’ She couldn’t ask for his mobile number. She just couldn’t. ‘Never mind.’
Disappointment, she discovered, was cold and lumpy and stuck in your chest. Like left over tapioca.
‘No – hold on. He’s just coming out of the storeroom. Jem – phone call for you.’
She heard the phone being put down, and voices and footsteps. She could hang up and Jem would never know. She would spare herself the humiliation. She imagined that would be as hot and burny as the disappointment had been cold.
‘Hello?’ Jem’s cheery voice came down the line, and she felt his warmth. It gave her courage. She wanted to feel that warmth again, in person. She craved it.
‘It’s Thomasina,’ she said. ‘From the book shop. From A Deux.’
‘Oh!’ Jem sounded delighted. ‘Hello.’
Thomasina summoned up the last of her courage. ‘The thing is, I’ve had a cancellation. Ten minutes ago. For tonight’s dinner. Which is all prepped and ready for the oven. I can’t freeze any of it, really. So I wondered …’
‘You want to return the cheese?’
‘No! Of course not. No …’
‘Ah. You want me to come and help you eat it?’ asked Jem.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘I was only joking.’
‘There’s celeriac soup and loin of venison and pear mousse.’
‘I don’t need persuading,’ he said. ‘What time?’
Thomasina was almost struck dumb. He was coming for dinner. And he sounded pleased about the idea. What on earth had she done?
‘Half seven?’ she managed. ‘For eight o’clock.’
‘I’ll be there! I’ll bring some wine. See you later.’
He rang off and Thomasina stared at the wall with the phone still in her hand.
Lauren was in the doorway, grinning at her.
‘What are you going to wear?’
‘I’m not going to dress up.’
Lauren pointed at her. ‘Oh yes, you are. You wait there.’
She came running back in twenty minutes later with a bulging make-up bag, a magnifying mirror, a hot brush and a bag full of jewellery.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Upstairs.’
Thomasina followed her into her bedroom obediently.
‘Right,’ she said, sitting Thomasina down in front of the mirror and handing her a towelling headband. ‘Put that on.’
Thomasina protested. ‘I don’t want too much make-up on!’
Lauren ignored her. She squeezed a blob of foundation onto the back of her left hand, then started dabbing it onto Thomasina’s face until she was satisfied she had a perfect base.