Natasha and Max were facing one another as they lay in bed. The telephone rang.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Mr. Ogden. Nine o’clock.”
“Thanks.” He hung up the receiver and put his arms back around Natasha. They had already been awake for an hour.
“You know,” Max said quietly, “the nice thing about our getting married, and getting divorced, and then getting married again is that your initials stay the same. You don’t have to change anything that’s monogrammed.”
“I didn’t say I’d marry you.”
“You will.”
“My initials are still NO.”
“Let’s face it. You’ll eventually marry. It might as well be someone with the right initials. Of course, you could marry Laurence Olivier or David Oistrakh or Peter O’Toole. But you can’t marry anyone without an ‘O.’”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“But you have to,” Max said. “I’m pregnant.”
She smiled and put her hand to his face. “How do you know?”
“Clearly,” he said, hugging her tightly, “I am with child.”
“That’s a sexist remark.”
“I know. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
“I know. I love you anyway.”
“There. You’ve said it.”
“I do love you, Millie. But I don’t want to marry you.”
“Well,” he said, getting up, “what the hell. You can still scrub my back. C’mon.”
They walked into the bathroom. Natasha turned on the shower and let the warm water comfort her. Max stood next to her and massaged her neck for a moment. Then he took the bar of soap and lathered the washcloth. Once the cloth was soapy, he began rubbing her back, and then her arms. “Okay,” he said. “Get ready for another sexist remark. It is time,” he sang, “to shine up your medals. Turn around.”
Natasha turned to him and Max gently put the cloth to her chest. While holding her shoulder with one hand, he rubbed the cloth first on one breast and then the other.
“Millie,” she said, leaning her head on his hand, “you’re a nice man.”
“But?”
“No buts. I’m grateful to have you as a friend.”
“Jesus. Overheard at Mayerling.”
“I can’t say what you want me to say.”
“Then shut up,” he said, handing her the washcloth and turning his back to her, “and scrub.”
Natasha and Max, like two friendly cats of the same sex, washed one another. Each was confident about his own body. There were no secret blemishes, no unexplored areas, no limitations. Max washed every part of Natasha’s body, and she did the same for him. They were caretakers, each tending a valuable property they coveted but did not own. It was a time in which to share self-pride, not mutual admiration.
Drying, however, was different. It was a time of isolated reflection. Natasha would feel her breasts, run her hands over her buttocks, rub her stomach, and press her palm against her vagina. Max would slap his chest, sometimes comb his pubic hair (once he had tried to part it in the center), pull gently at his penis, and while he dried himself he would cup one hand under his testicles and press them firmly.
They shared the mirror as he shaved and she combed her hair. “Are you very uptight?” he asked.
“Very.”
“But you understand you’re frightened by the concept, not because there’s any imminent danger?”
“But knowing it doesn’t help because you’re giving me monosyllabic answers.”
“Right.” She leaned against his back, putting her arms around his waist. “Rationally, I know nothing will happen to me today. Rationally, I know I’ll see you for dinner.” She extended her hand down to his penis. “Rationally, I know we’ll make love tonight. And tomorrow we’ll go to the police.” Feeling the start of his erection, she took her hand away and stepped back from him. “But rationally, I also know that someone wants to kill me.”
“Then let’s go to the police today. Now. To hell with Harrods. The ladies in funny hats can survive without your recipe.”
“But I can’t survive without them. I need to go, Millie. Fear has taken away my independence. You, of all people, know how I’ve fought for that independence. I’ve got to get back to who I am. I need to be in control of some part of my life again, even for only a few hours. Otherwise, I might as well be dead.”
There was a knock at the door. Max wrapped a towel around his waist and opened it. The breakfast waiter stood next to his table while Lucino lifted the cloth and searched the utensils. “I will take it inside,” Lucino said slowly. “You wait there.” Then he looked at Max. “Where is she?”
“In the bathroom. She’s fine. Everything is okay, Lucino. Thank you.”
“Miss O’Brien?” he called.
“Good morning, darling,” she replied. “Don’t they ever let you sleep?”
“I told you,” Max said. “She lives. Lucino, I’m on your side,” Max confirmed. “Now thank you very much. And thank you, too,” Max said to the nonplussed waiter standing in the hall. “Lucino,” he said softly, “you’d better tip the waiter.” Max closed the door.
“What’s happening?” Natasha called.
“Nothing. It was just Lucino frisking the com flakes.”
Natasha sat on a pink velvet chair in the lobby, waiting for Achille. She wore her pink Chanel suit, and held tightly to her pink suede Hermés purse. At her feet was the red alligator knife case. She sat bolt upright, moving only her head as she watched people walk across the lobby. Max and Lucino were standing behind her, on either side of the chair.
“I feel as though we should have our picture taken,” Max said.
“Do not take any pictures of me,” Lucino warned.
“Right,” Max said. “No pictures. No, sir.”
“Millie, what time will you be back?”
Max bent over and kissed her. “I’m not going to Paris. I’ll cancel. I’ll stay with you.”
She leaned toward him. “No, you mustn’t. I’m safe today. Nothing can happen. Or don’t you believe what you’ve been telling me?”
“Of course I believe it.”
“Then go. If you stay, you’ll only make me think there’s something to worry about.”
“That’s not it. I just want to be with you. I know you’re upset.”
“Then give me confidence. Go to Paris.”
Rudolph walked through the swinging door and came over to them. “Good morning,” he said brightly. “Mr. van Golk is in the car.”
“Good morning,” Natasha said, getting up. She took a deep breath and smiled at Max.
“So gimme a big fat one,” he said, leaning over to kiss her.
“You already got a big fat one,” she whispered. Then, without turning back, Natasha walked through the swinging door. Max waited in the lobby, watching as Rudolph opened the door and Natasha stepped into the black Rolls. Lucino sat up front with Rudolph. As they drove away, Max felt increasingly uneasy. Was he just lonely? He decided to call Paris and cancel his appointment. He would follow her to Harrods.
“Good morning, Citizen Publisher,” Natasha said, settling in next to Achille. “Off to Madame La Guillotine?”
“I think not”
“Ah, but do you speak for yourself or for all of France?”
“What do you mean?” she asked anxiously. “Have you thought of whom it might be?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yes what?”
“Yes. I have thought about it.”
“And?”
“And I in fact do know who the killer is.”
She was afraid to ask. Suddenly she didn’t want to know. Her eyes were riveted on Achille.
“The killer is Arnold Victor Tresting. A madman who was treasurer for LUCULLUS. I dismissed him recently for gross insubordination. Seeking his revenge, in a manner befitting a treasurer, he determined to destroy those things I treasure the most. He is now in the custody of New Scotland Yard, having made a full confession.”
Her mind repeated over and over again what Achille had just said. Arnold Victor Tresting. Treasurer. Confession. Arnold Victor Tresting. Destroy the Treasures. In Custody.
“Tresting never appeared to have any more imagination than an artichoke. I still cannot believe he was capable of such brilliant executions.”
“He killed Louis, and Nutti, and Jean-Claude?”
“It appears he is a compulsive litterer.”
“He confessed?”
“He confessed.”
“And the police have him?”
“Must I hire a scribe?”
“Achille, is all this true?” She began laughing and crying. “They have the killer? I don’t have to be afraid any longer?”
“My dear, I have personally seen to everything.”
Natasha took a handkerchief from her purse. “Not that I was ever really frightened.” She blew her nose and began crying loudly.
“I would never have credited Tresting with such creativity. However, after your having presented me with the theory that the killer was someone who wished revenge against me, I thought immediately of Tresting. I recalled that when I had dismissed him, he became enraged and shouted that he would have his revenge upon me. At the time, he was having an affair with one of my proofreaders. A match made in minutia heaven. She confirmed for him my preferences in chefs.”
“Was he planning to kill me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“It was his plan to lock you in a freezer.”
“A freezer?” She put her hand to her mouth. “Where?”
“Presumably in London. Although his ingenuity is difficult to anticipate.”
“Ingenuity? He’s crazy!”
“The man is a genius!”
“Achille,” she said angrily. “Three men have been killed.”
“Indeed. But you must admit he performed with great éclat.”
“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re obviously very upset, Achille.”
“Of course, I’m upset. This is rather an embarrassment for me. A member of my own staff.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Oh, poor Millie, he doesn’t know. Why did you wait to tell me?”
“I have just come from Scotland Yard. In truth, I was instructed to say nothing. There is still the possibility, albeit remote, that Tresting did not act alone. Therefore, we must not relax our security, or risk the possibility of a leak.”
“The proofreader?”
“She has not been located as yet.”
“Then I’m not safe?”
“You are perfectly safe. We are simply taking precautions. No mere proofreader could have devised such a plan. For the time being, no one must know about Tresting. Especially Lucino. His mentality can deal only in absolutes.”
“Mine, too.”
“He is in custody. Tresting cannot harm you.”
“Tresting has already harmed me.”
“I do not want anything said until we are out of Harrods. Do you understand?”
“Yes. But the moment I’m through, I’m calling Millie.”
“The moment you’re safely out of Harrods, you may do anything you wish.”
“Does he have a family?”
“Tresting? Yes.”
“How terrible for them.”
“I suppose you wish me to initiate a trust fund for Kids of Killers.”
She smiled and sat back thinking how lucky she was to have a friend like Achille. Perhaps he could help her reconstruct her life. Perhaps she’d take a job at LUCULLUS, live in London, near Hildegarde, and begin repairing the damage she’d caused. And she’d be close enough to Max not to have to marry him. She thought of Louis. Would she ever stop thinking of Louis? Someone had stolen him from her past and made him an intruder on her future. “Achille, I keep thinking that the name Arnold Victor Tresting means nothing to me. What does he look like?”
“He has one eye, a hook for a hand, and a wooden leg.”
“This security business. I mean, there is no danger, is there? Tresting is the one. It’s just to clear up loose ends. Now that they have Tresting, there’s no one else, is there?”
“My dear Natasha, were there two Leonardos?”
The car pulled up in front of Harrods. Lucino ran out even before Rudolph had stopped completely, and brushed aside the doorman. Natasha took Lucino’s hand and got out of the car. Rudolph leaned in to extract Achille.
“Be back in an hour and wait for me,” he told Rudolph.
Natasha kissed Achille on the cheek. “Did I ever tell you that I love you?” She put her arm in his and together they walked into the store. Natasha stopped in front of a large sign announcing that Natasha O’Brien, international food expert, would be appearing in the auditorium. “She’s so pretty,” Natasha said, looking at her own picture, “and such a nice person too.”
They walked to the elevator and were pressed in among a gaggle of weekday shoppers. From the back of the crowd Natasha heard a whispered “That’s ’er. There she is.” When they reached the fourth floor, they were met by Edgar St. Clair, who had given instructions to the doorman to notify him upon Natasha’s arrival.
“Miss O’Brien, welcome to Harrods. What an honor for us to have you here today. And Mr. van Golk, how good to see you again.”
“Indeed. I shall browse amongst the petticoats until show time.” He kissed Natasha on the cheek. “Don’t disgrace Daddy.”
“You’re really staying for it?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Achille turned and walked down the corridor.
Lucino tugged at Natasha’s arm. “What is it?”
“I want to frisk him.”
“No. No frisking, Lucino. Just go and sit out front. You’ll be able to see everything.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Only until I’m onstage. Then down, Lucino. And now, Mr. St. Clair, may I see the kitchen, please?”
“Of course. I think you’ll find a surprise in store for you.” He ushered her through a narrow corridor leading to a flight of stairs. “I must say I’m amazed we managed to get anything done with the BBC people mucking up all about us. You have no idea how inefficient they are.” He decided not to tell her about the incident with the mixer.
The auditorium was ablaze with lights. Bearded young men in torn sweaters were yelling “Get rid of that bloody shadow,” “How the fuck many eggs does she need?,” “If you don’t get that camera out of the way, you’ll be taking a picture of my ass.” Somewhere amid the cameras and the four monitors and the endless stream of cables and invectives and commands, somewhere amid the litter of empty paper coffee cups and cigarette butts, fogged in by a layer of stale cigarette smoke, was the kitchen set. As per Natasha’s written instructions, there was a work area on stage left (stove, refrigerator-freezer, sink, electric mixer, pots, whisks, etc.) and an assembly area on stage right (counter, refrigerator-freezer, molds, trays, knives, etc.). A single microphone was suspended above each work area, and a desk microphone was placed atop a lectern at center stage. A very flustered Miss Beauchamp was standing in the work area, holding a mixing bowl to her chest while someone behind a camera yelled, “All I’m getting is tits.”
Natasha walked briskly to center stage and tapped the microphone. “Testing, testing, one, two, three,” she said tentatively. She smiled broadly as she began to speak. “Good afternoon. My name is Natasha O’Brien. The next cocksucker who says ‘tits’ will get thrown out of here on his ass. You may feel free to use the full range of expletives from ‘damn’ to ‘fuck.’ As for the mammary and vaginal areas of the female form, cool it. It pisses me off and I’m sure it disturbs the very nice lady who has been patiently standing under these lights. I’ll look forward to meeting each of you personally in a few minutes. Thank you.”
There was complete silence as Natasha walked across the stage. Edgar St. Clair stood against a refrigerator, both palms pressed against the door.
“Miss Beauchamp,” Natasha said, embracing her. “I’m so pleased you’re here.”
“And I’m so relieved to see you. I’ve been your stand-in for nearly an hour and I’m ready for medical aid.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. St. Clair, why isn’t this place air-conditioned? Will you please turn it on at once? Full up. And please get your cleaning people in here on the double.” St. Clair, his ears still ringing from Natasha’s inaugural address, nodded and gladly disappeared.
“You look smashing,” Miss Beauchamp said. “You should be ashamed of yourself for looking so well.”
“You are a love. Tell me, where is the Bombe?”
“It’s the best Bombe I’ve ever seen! Mr. Cornwell,” she called into the wings, “may we have a word with you?” Jacques Corn-well was a short, fat man whose bald head was covered with perspiration. He was dressed in a white chef’s coat and trousers. “Miss O’Brien, Mr. Cornwell. Without his help behind the scenes, this afternoon would not have been possible.”
“Mr. Cornwell,” Natasha said, shaking his hand. “A pleasure, and thank you.”
“I have admired you for years, Miss O’Brien. No one understands egg yolks the way you do. I do hope I’ve done you justice.”
“I think it’s I who must do you justice, Mr. Cornwell. Well. Shall we see how the Cardinal is doing?” He took a deep apprehensive breath and opened the door to the freezer. Natasha watched as the cold air fogged and wafted out. She envisioned him taking her body out of the cold deadly darkness of the freezer. Involuntarily, her hand went to her forehead.
“Something wrong?” Miss Beauchamp asked. “Need some headache tablets?”
“No. Thank you. If only it were a headache.”
Cornwell brought out La Bombe Richelieu. A spun sugar crown sat atop an ornate mold of raspberry ice surrounded by a ring of whipped cream into which fresh raspberries were positioned like jewels. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said. “Mr. Cornwell, it’s perfect”
“I simply followed your instructions,” he said, beaming. He turned the plate around to show he had cut a wedge from the mold. Beneath the raspberry ice was a layer of chocolate almond ice cream, and at the center of the Bombe, a frozen yellow mousse studded with bits of chocolate.
“Fit for a Queen,” Natasha said. “I can’t wait to taste it.” Corn-well took a plate from the freezer containing the wedge he had cut. Natasha picked at the whipped cream and tasted it. “God, you have great cows over here. If only we had cream like this in the States.” Cornwell was smiling. She tasted the mousse mixture, hesitated, and then tasted it again. “That’s not right.”
Cornwell lowered his eyes. “I thought it was delicious.”
“You used Curaçao instead of Grand Marnier.” He shrugged his shoulders. She tasted the chocolate ice cream and licked her lips rapidly. “And you used packaged chocolate,” she said unbelievingly. “I specifically said freshly made unwrapped chocolate.”
“I thought it was delicious,” Cornwell said.
“Mr. Cornwell, please don’t lead me to the obvious comment about the physical location of your taste buds.”
“I am sorry,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Beauchamp said. “I told everyone to follow your instructions to the letter.”
“I know you did, darling. It’s not your fault. There’s no real harm done. Thank God no one has to eat any of it.” She threw the plate into the garbage.
“So you see,” Cornwell said, “it does not matter that I use this or that. It matters only that it looks well.”
“Well, a Nietzsche in chef’s clothing? Sorry, Mr. Cornwell, I don’t buy your politics any more than I buy your chocolate.” She walked past him, taking Miss Beauchamp by the hand. “We’d better check everything out right now.”
Natasha nodded and smiled at the cameraman as she and Miss Beauchamp stepped over the cables and made their way to the work area. She turned the faucets on and off. She lit the stove and turned it off. She put her hand on the bowl of eggs to feel their temperature. She poked a fork into the sugar to make certain there were no lumps, and then opened the refrigerator to smell the cream and examine the raspberries. She flipped the mixer on and off.
Natasha turned quickly and found herself facing a short, middle-aged man with a head of very curly brown hair that fell to his shoulders. “I am Morris Mayfield. What have they been telling you about me?”
“The Morris Mayfield?” she said in surprise. She extended her hand to shake his. “I’m one of your biggest fans. I’ve always respected the brutal honesty of your films. But surely you’re not…”
“A director is a director, Miss … Miss …”
“O’Brien.”
“Whatever.” A tall, slender young man whispered something into Mayfield’s ear while he put his hand on his shoulder. May-field nodded and the young man sauntered away. “As though you didn’t know, I am in the midst of my fourth divorce, in the midst of drying out from a rather alcoholic summer, and in the midst of my first homosexual affair. My analyst suggested I take this offer from the BBC to re-establish my credibility. Do you think I was right in taking his advice?”
“Well, I don’t know.…”
“I might as well tell you that Sergio does all the cooking. I have taken the traditional male role in our relationship. Do you think I should have taken the female role?”
“Mr. Mayfield, I don’t know.…”
“You appear to be a very strong woman. My analyst claims that my four marriages failed because I refused to accept the fact that I need a stronger woman. He thinks it’s very healthy for me to have this relationship with Sergio. What do you think?”
“I think, Mr. Mayfield, that we had better proceed with the day’s occupation.”
“Are you rejecting me?”
“Mr. Mayfield …”
“Yes, you are. You’re rejecting me because you feel threatened by my homosexual alliance.”
“I do not feel threatened, Mr. Mayfield, by anything other than the immediate pressure of time. I would like to walk through this with you so that…”
“You wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway. Women never do.”
Natasha put her hand to her forehead and leaned on the counter. She took a deep breath of exasperation and shrugged her shoulders. Looking him directly in the eyes, she began to speak in a low, tense voice. “Mr. Mayfield, you are right. I reject you. You are a threat to me, a threat to my raspberries, and a threat to the self-esteem of my vulva. To tell the truth, Mr. Mayfield, you absolutely terrify me.”
“But do I disgust you?”
“You bet.”
A thin smile stretched his lips, and his eyes began to glisten. “I’ve spent over a week reading your recipe. It’s quite sensual. The mingling of colors and textures is perfect. Well,” he said, smiling brightly, “enough of this chitchat. I’d suggest we have a run-through.”
Natasha smiled. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Mayfield.”
“All right, you buggers,” he yelled. “Let’s clear the bloody set.” Mayfield walked away from Natasha and began moving the crew about.
“How’s the temperature now?” St. Clair asked, reappearing behind her.
“Miss O’Brien,” Lucino called. “I want the lights in the auditorium to stay on.”
“Oh, Lucino!”
“Miss O’Brien, will you say a few words so we can adjust the volume on the mike?”
“Miss O’Brien, will you be wearing an apron?”
“Miss O’Brien, do you ever go back to stage left once the assembly has begun?”
“Miss O’Brien, how close to the mixer will you be standing?”
Natasha walked under the microphone. “My name is Natasha O’Brien.”
“Louder, please.”
“My name is Natasha O’Brien,” she said as her voice filled the auditorium, “and I want to go home.”
“That’s fine. We got it.”
“Miss O’Brien,” Mayfield called to her, “we’re ready when you are.”
Natasha walked to stage left. “We begin with my being introduced by Mr. St. Clair. There will be a round of tumultuous applause. I enter from stage left and walk to center stage front. Then”—she began pacing out the steps she would take—“I go to the fridge in the assembly area and show the final product. A few words, blah, blah, blah, and then back to the work area. I separate the eggs and put the yolks into the mixer bowl. Then I beat the eggs in the mixer for about three minutes.”
“Can you make it two minutes?” Mayfield asked. “There’s nothing terribly visual about your standing in front of the mixer.”
“Three minutes, Mr. Mayfield.”
“I suppose we could pan to the audience. You know, Miss O’Brien, three minutes is a crashing bore.”
“Well, you can always cut to pages falling off a calendar.”
“We’ll work it out.”
St. Clair tiptoed over to her. “It’s very late, Miss O’Brien. We have quite a crowd gathering outside.”
“Lucino,” she called, “he’s bothering me.” St. Clair stepped back as Lucino approached.
“When do you make the pretty red ices?” Mayfield asked.
“I’m not making any ices. That’s already been done. I’m simply making the mousse mixture and the spun sugar cap. The rest is an assembly job. It takes place here on stage right.”
“Well, then, what about the chocolate? I have three pages of camera angles on the melting of the chocolate.”
“Save them for Masterpiece Theatre.”
“Mr. St. Clair,” someone called from the back of the auditorium. “Mr. St. Clair, when can I let them in?”
“Let’s not be snotty, Miss O’Brien,” Mayfield said sharply. “Please try to harness your aggressions so they do not interfere with our work.”
“I’m trying, Mr. Mayfield. God knows I’m trying.”
“Good. Just have faith in us.”
“Mr. Mayfield,” she said wearily, “this is Harrods, not Lourdes.”
“We’re late,” St. Clair said.
“Miss O’Brien, when the little red light goes on …”
“I smile.”
“As you wish. May I suggest we get on with it then? You’ll only be in two areas and we’ll follow you. Whatever we don’t get the first time, we can take later. Sort of a semi-cinéma vérité.”
“Half-baked,” Natasha murmured.
“Don’t worry. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. I know what I’m doing. By God, it’s good to be back!”
Natasha saw Achille take a seat in the back row, on the aisle.
“Miss O’Brien, I must insist we begin,” St. Clair said timidly.
“Then rap three times, and bring on the broads.” Natasha walked offstage.
The doors were opened and within moments the auditorium was filled with chattering women. St. Clair ran backstage to Natasha. “Why must the auditorium lights remain on? I can’t talk to your man. He’s threatened to knock me unconscious.”
“Then you’d better leave the lights on.”
“Who is he?”
“He is trying to protect me from a mad killer.”
“Really,” St. Clair humphed.
Miss Beauchamp took Natasha’s arm. “I know everything will go swimmingly.”
“Of course it will,” St. Clair snipped. “We’ve worked very hard to ensure the success of this afternoon. And we’ve worked against odds on which we had not counted. Firstly, there was the problem with your mixer…”
“What problem?”
“Don’t fret. It’s all taken care of.”
“Mr. St. Clair, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Natasha began brushing her hair.
“And then the business with Mr. Cornwell.”
“He didn’t follow the goddamn recipe. All he had to do was read.”
“And then the air conditioning. And then the camera crew. And then your friend …”
“Mr. St. Clair, let’s have a truce. You just move your ass out there and introduce me, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Really!” he said. “Miss Gompers was certainly right about you.”
“Who the hell is Miss Gompers?” she asked. St. Clair curled his lip, pulled his jacket straight, smiled, and walked onstage. There was a smattering of applause. “Welcome, shoppers,” she heard him begin.
“Are you all right?” Miss Beauchamp whispered to Natasha.
“I don’t know. My nerves are so raw.”
“Small wonder.”
“But at least we know everything is under control.”
St. Clair had begun his introduction. “And we are indeed fortunate that Miss O’Brien has consented to share with us her original recipe for the Bombe that…”
“Miss Beauchamp, tell me,” Natasha asked hesitantly, “did you know Tresting?”
“Tresting?” She looked incredulous. “Yes, of course. But how would you know …”
“Never mind how I know. What kind of man is he?”
“The most charitable word is boring.”
“Boring?”
“And so, ladies,” St. Clair continued, “it is with the greatest of pleasure…”
“Well, with the condition his heart was in, I’d be surprised if he could stand the excitement of a crossword puzzle.”
“Arnold Victor Tresting?” Natasha said to verify they were speaking of the same person.
“Miss Natasha O’Brien!” There was a prolonged applause, during which Natasha stood staring at Miss Beauchamp, who finally gave her a nudge. Natasha walked onstage smiling.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Her mind was in a frenzy. Something was wrong. “I had the pleasure recently of having been invited …”
Outside the auditorium, Max was stopped by a guard. “I’m sorry, sir, but the hall is full up.”
“I’m her husband.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m afraid there are no seats, Mr. O’Brien.”
Max winced. “I’ll just stand in the back.”
“Right, sir.”
Max opened the door and was surprised to find the house lights on. He watched Natasha as she described the kitchen at Buckingham Palace.
She saw Max walk in and stand in the back. She continued talking, not listening to herself, aware only that something must be terribly wrong if Max was there. The audience laughed as she described her problem in getting the ice cream away from the waiters before they ate it all. She paused. The word “boring” kept reverberating in her mind. Why the hell was Max there?
“However,” she said brightly, “food triumphs over evil.” She opened the freezer. “La Bombe Richelieu.” There were oohs and aahs, as she held the dessert aloft to allow Mayfield’s crew to photograph it. Then she turned it around to where the wedge had been removed. “But even Cardinal Richelieu has something under his hat. And that’s where our demonstration will begin. With the basic mousse mixture.”
Outside the auditorium, Hildegarde was stopped. “I’m sorry, madam, but the hall is full up.”
“But she’s my Tochter.”
“I’m her mother.”
First the husband, now the mother. “Oh, I see. Well, I’m afraid there are no seats.”
“I have feet. I’ll stand.” Hildegarde opened the door and found herself standing next to Max. They smiled at one another. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.
“Having washed my hands,” Natasha said, drying them with a towel, “we’ll begin by separating the eggs.” She cracked an egg on the edge of the bowl. Mayfield moved in for a close-up. Natasha opened the egg into her palm, careful to cup the yolk. The white ran out between her fingers. After she received the appropriate murmur from the audience, she said, “I find this far and away the best way to separate eggs.” Mayfield, not having expected anything as earthy, was poking his crew to keep focused on her hands. “Frankly, I’m just not the type to keep shifting the yolk from shell to shell.” Natasha looked up and saw Hildegarde standing next to Max. “Excuse me,” she said, walking to the front of the stage. “Mami?”
All heads turned toward the back of the auditorium. Hildegarde smiled shyly and waved. “Someone very special to me has just come in. I would very much like you to meet the person who taught me how to cook. I would like you to meet my mother, Hildegarde Kohner.” There was a burst of applause. Mayfield was annoyed that he had to divert one camera to follow Natasha as she started down the steps that led from the stage. She stretched her hand toward Hildegarde, urging her to come forward.
Achille felt himself breathing rapidly.
“Mami,” Natasha called. “Please.” And then, to the audience, “How’d you like to see a mother-and-daughter act?” There was wild applause, and Mayfield began jumping up and down with excitement at the vérité of it all. Max started to push Hildegarde down the aisle. “C’mon, Mami, let’s show them. Together.”
Natasha walked toward Hildegarde and embraced her. The two women stood in the middle of the auditorium hugging one another and crying. The applause was truly tumultuous, and Mayfield’s crew ran about as though they were covering a rock festival. Natasha and Hildegarde walked up the steps, their arms around one another. “I never dreamed you’d come,” Natasha whispered.
“Tochter, I got your letter. With that letter there is no place I wouldn’t go. We will be together from now on. Ja?”
“Oh, Mami.” Natasha hugged her. “We’ll have such a wonderful life together.” With tears streaming down her face, Natasha stepped forward. “I must apologize, but I’m as surprised as you. However, if you’ll just give us a minute, I promise you a Bombe you won’t ever forget.” Again, there was excited applause.
Natasha gave Hildegarde a copy of the recipe. Hildegarde read it, nodding her head as she took off her coat and pushed up her sleeves. Mayfield motioned for Natasha to move into the assembly area, while Hildegarde settled into the work area at stage left. Two cameramen were center stage, back to back—one covering Hildegarde, and the other, Natasha. Hildegarde washed her hands quickly and nodded that she was ready.
Achille stood up and put his hand to his chest. He grew fearful at the beating of his heart and only half heard what was being said because of the pounding in his ears. He began walking backward, his hands searching the wall until he felt a doorknob.
“Once the eggs are separated,” Natasha said, standing behind the counter at stage right, “we slip the yolks into the bowl.”
Achille watched, unblinking, as Hildegarde put the egg yolks into the electric mixer.
“And now, the eggs must be beaten until they are thick.” Hildegarde turned on the mixer. Mayfield signaled to cut the sound from her microphones. “You’ll find this takes anywhere from two to three minutes before you get them a nice pale yellow. After the eggs are beaten fully, we’ll add the sugar syrup that’s been made by boiling two-thirds of a cup of granulated sugar in one-third of a cup of water. How are the eggs coming?”
“Soon,” Hildegarde said. “They are still too much the color of a sunset. They must be a sunrise.”
The explosion blew off Hildegarde’s head and arms. Pieces of the mixer and the camera hurtled into the audience. The cameraman was thrown to the floor with fragments of steel embedded in his face. Mayfield screamed, holding his hands in front of his eyes, the blood gushing down his arms. Natasha was thrown behind the counter, protected from flying debris by the double rank of cameras between stage left and stage right. Max yelled “Nat, Nat,” fighting his way down the aisle as screaming women, some bleeding profusely, pushed their way out of the auditorium.
Achille stepped backward through the exit. In the panic he was unnoticed as he proceeded to the elevator and down to the main floor. He walked out a side door and hailed a taxi.
“Fifteen Hertford Street,” he said. “I want to pick something up. I’ll give you twenty pounds if you hurry. Then wait for me.”
“Twenty pounds? Yes, sir!”
“Hurry! Hurry!” Achille could hardly breathe. He was sweating so profusely that his vision became blurred. There was no way to have anticipated Hildegarde, he kept telling himself. But what could he tell Estella?