A week later, Thomasina made preparations for that evening’s dinner: a young couple that had not long ago had a baby wanted to celebrate a birthday.
She was in Peasebrook for half past eight, collecting her meat from the butcher, selecting the best vegetables from the farmers’ market. She walked out of the market and back onto the high street. She remembered what Lauren had told her, about Jem wondering where she’d been. It was rude of her, really, not to get her cheese from him. She would go in, she decided. What harm could it do?
Jem was there. There were three of them serving, and the queue was quite long. He grinned at her from the end of the counter, but the timing was wrong and she ended up with someone else taking her order. But she felt better that he’d smiled.
She bought a trio of French cheeses: one soft, one hard, and one blue. She was just putting it all into her basket when Jem appeared beside her and handed her a brown paper bag.
“Here,” he said, putting it in her basket. Then he shot back behind the counter and turned to the next customer.
Thomasina left the shop and starting walking home. Halfway there she couldn’t wait any longer. She lifted the bag out. Inside was a Coeur de Neufchâtel, a tiny white heart-shaped cheese. She smiled, tucked it back into the basket, and carried on walking.
She didn’t stop smiling until 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. There was no time to mull over what had happened. They divided the work up between them. Lauren made the celeriac soup with a gloriously rich chicken stock she’d prepared earlier in the week, and she strained and sieved it until it was silky smooth, then set it aside and fried some crispy strips of pancetta to put on top.
The main course was a loin of venison, coated in a mushroom duxelles and wrapped in puff pastry. With it went little copper pots of potato gratin, sliced paper thin on a mandoline, and a smooth cauliflower puree.
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 on 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 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 dialed 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 leftover 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 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 makeup bag, a magnifying mirror, a hot brush, and a bag full of jewelry.
“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 toweling headband. “Put that on.”
Thomasina protested. “I don’t want too much makeup 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.
“There,” she said. “Not an imperfection to be seen. Not that you have many—you’ve got lovely skin.”
Thomasina thought she looked as if she had a mask on, but she didn’t say anything. She sat in silence as Lauren pulled out endless palettes of color and various brushes. She applied a thick black line of eyeliner to Thomasina’s eyelids, then colored in the sockets with a sparkling charcoal gray. She colored in her eyebrows, taking them up into a graceful arch, then applied a row of individual false eyelashes. She highlighted her cheeks with pale coral. Her mouth was outlined in pale pink, then colored in nude, with a little shimmer on the bow and the plumpest part of her lower lip.
Then she took the hot brush and worked her way through Thomasina’s hair until it was straight and glossy, then back-combed it and pinned it into a half-up, half-down tumble. She put two large silver hoops in her ears.
“What are you going to wear?”
Thomasina shrugged. “Just my usual black trousers and T-shirt.”
Lauren shook her head. “No, you’re not.”
She stood in front of Thomasina’s wardrobe and flipped through everything, tutting and sighing. When she found something that was to her satisfaction, she put it over her arm.
“Okay,” she said. “I think we can improvise with this lot.”
Lauren rolled up a stretchy black skirt until it was just above the knee, then put a red cardigan over it, leaving the first two buttons undone, then tied a black patent belt taken off an old dress around Thomasina’s waist. Then she cut the feet off a pair of black tights and made her put them on with a pair of black ballet flats.
Then she let Thomasina stand in front of the mirror.
Thomasina clapped her hand over her mouth.
“You look amazing,” said Lauren.
“That’s not me,” said Thomasina, and made to do the buttons of the cardigan up. Lauren slapped her hand away.
“Leave it,” she commanded. “You look totally gorgeous. Like a French—”
“Tart?” suggested Thomasina, looking at herself from all angles.
“No! Film star.”
“I’m going to feel really uncomfy. I won’t be able to cook in this.”
“You’re not going to cook.”
“What?”
“I’m cooking tonight. I’ve watched you often enough.”
“I was going to send you home.”
“Uh-uh. You’re going to be the guest. I’m going to do all the work. If I get stuck, you can tell me what to do, but I don’t want you to lift a finger. I’ve seen you run around people so often, making sure everything is perfect and they are having a great time. It’s your turn for once.”
“But I don’t know how to behave like . . .” Thomasina pointed helplessly at her reflection. The stranger with the big eyes looked back at her.
“Just be yourself.”
“But I’m so boring.”
“No, you’re not.” Lauren shook her head. “You’re amazing. You’re inspiring. Okay, so you’re not a loudmouth show-off like me. But at least what you say is interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Seriously—you are the only person who keeps me sane at that school. I love your lessons and I come away feeling like I want to do something with my life. If it weren’t for you, I’d have legged it ages ago. You tell stories when you’re cooking. You make people want to listen. And learn more.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. You’re loads of people’s favorite teacher.”
“You’re just saying that.” Thomasina didn’t know how to cope with all the unfamiliar praise.
“Yes, I’m just saying that ’cause that’s what I’m like.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “Shut up. And go and have a glass of prosecco. Just one, before he gets here.”
She pushed Thomasina out of the bedroom.
Downstairs, the little table was laid, the cutlery shining, the glassware gleaming.
Tiny bowls were stuffed with creamy roses and burnt orange gerberas.
Tonight, as Thomasina lit the candles and dimmed the lights, it was for her.
Tonight, as she found a Chopin prelude and put it on, it was for her.
Her and Jem.
Dinner à deux.
—
When Thomasina opened the door to Jem half an hour later, he beamed at her.
“You look fantastic.” He breathed in appreciatively. “And dinner smells great. I’ve brought two bottles—one red and one white. And . . .” He proffered a bunch of red roses rather sheepishly. “Not from the garage. I promise.”
Thomasina took the flowers from him.
Lauren took the bottles. “I’ll put the white in the fridge and open the red and let it breathe, shall I?”
Thomasina tried not to giggle at Lauren’s solicitousness.
“I’m really glad you could come,” she told Jem. “It would have been such a waste otherwise.”
Lauren came over with a tray, on which were perched two flutes of prosecco, the golden bubbles shooting up inside the glasses.
“We’re being waited on tonight,” Thomasina told Jem. “It’s good experience for Lauren. It means I can write her a reference.”
“Awesome,” he said, taking a glass and raising it.
Thomasina raised hers, too. She felt confident. Excited. Happy.
“Here’s to last-minute cancellations,” she said.