Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme (22 page)

Charlotte's grandmother's recipe makes 30-40 chocolates.

Why was it so hard to convince people that even if I was thirty-nine, I wasn't in the least bit worried about being single again? Distressed? No! Relieved? Yes! Yet no one ever seemed to believe me. And, anyway, why should I have to explain anything? I didn't care whether or not other people were in relationships; they could do whatever they pleased so long as they were content, and didn't bother me with their,
Oh, that's a pity, to still be single at your age, Victoria – and what about children?

Well, there I was: close to my fortieth birthday, on my own once more and pretty pleased about it! Some say that life begins at forty. I was looking forward with enthusiasm to that new decade of wisdom.

As I sat on my porch, happily contemplating my future,
the ocean seemed even more beautiful than usual in the softer light of the cold season. I couldn't take my eyes off it. The big waves and the wind were raising a gentle spray that I could feel through the porch windows.

The ocean … that grandiose and captivating expanse of water without which I could hardly contemplate living. Some diffused sunbeams illuminated its immensity and I shivered with intense satisfaction.

Hmm! The strong iodine smell of the sea was so invigorating. I breathed it in deeply while feeling the soft warmth of the pale sun on my face.

Chipolata, my beloved and faithful cocker spaniel, lay at my feet, snoring peacefully.

The fire burnt low in the fireplace I'd recently had installed in my porch – there was now a fireplace in every room except the bathroom – and I sipped my tea comfortably, warmed by the fire and a thick blanket while I read the latest issue of
Gourmet Chitchat
. The main article was about cookery classes, which, it said, might become mandatory in high schools. Good, it was about time we thought seriously about what we put on our plates and in our stomachs every day – and the younger we started, the better. Why not teach cooking at school, since so many parents didn't take the time to educate their children's palates?

The last few pages featured a piece about the trendy restaurants that had opened in New York, such as the one where you dined in the dark, or others where the menu consisted of food of entirely one colour: yellow, based on eggs, polenta, citrus fruit; or red, with lobster, rare
beef, tomatoes, peppers, raspberries … When I saw how pricey these food places were I put the magazine down impatiently and turned my attention back to the ocean waves, preferring nature's own extravaganza to the latest passing fad.

Actually, Ken would have enjoyed going to fashionable restaurants like that – it was
de rigueur
if, like him, you belonged to the rich-and-not-famous mob, as I privately called the spoilt young people who had never had to struggle to get whatever they wanted in life.

I poured myself more tea as I sighed with relief to be free of him. Ken was a real jerk, after all. I should have known that from the beginning. Chipolata had never liked him, and most of my girlfriends, married or not, had wanted to sleep with him.

I was proud of myself. I'd kicked Ken out pretty impressively when he'd shown up at my door: Ken had decided he wanted to live with me, and that my house needed a man.
My foot!

We'd started dating only three months earlier; it had been much too soon for him to be moving in. I smiled again, picturing him arriving with his five huge suitcases a few days before. As he parked his latest-model Mercedes in front of the house, he'd looked very content and full of self-confidence – as usual.

Ken had wanted his moving in to be a surprise. Sure, he was handsome and extremely charming; his black eyes, that morning, had been brighter than usual. Knowing how much I liked them, he'd arrived clutching a bouquet of peach-coloured roses and a huge box of Coeurs Noirs
chocolates. He'd tried all the arguments he could to convince me he was just what my domestic situation lacked, but I wasn't buying it.

‘No way!' I shouted.

I felt the urge to slam the door in his face, but I managed to resist.

Ken might have wanted to surprise me, but in the end he was the one who was more taken aback because he certainly hadn't expected my refusal. Had anyone ever said no to him before?

We'd never really discussed our future. We'd spent most of the short time we'd been together in my bedroom or at the table, talking mainly about our work – actually,
his
work – his parents, and the latest high-tech gadgets he had acquired. Pretty boring conversations, when I thought about them. He couldn't even appreciate the beauty of the ocean from the porch as he was always too busy checking his cell phone for messages and pictures.

So when he turned up with his roses and his chocolates I didn't invite him inside. I left him standing there, surrounded by his luggage. I then explained to him that I didn't want to be his slave, as most women still were for men, even if they didn't want to admit it. He replied that I'd only have to do the cooking, since I was brilliant at that, and he'd do the shopping – except for the special groceries he knew I'd need to source for my recipes – and the laundry, the cleaning, the ironing … Ken had thought of everything.

I interrupted his inventory of domestic chores.

‘Have you ever done any housework?'

‘I'm ready to try for you, Victoria …'

I was silent, waiting for what I was sure would come next.

He understood.

‘Or we could hire a maid!'

‘Never!'

No one would ever come in to clean my home, and invade my privacy.

‘Have you ever used a broom in your life?' I asked, knowing the answer.

‘Come on, Victoria, you know I still live with my parents, and we have a maid …'

And that I'm a spoilt brat! Yes, I know you are
.

‘Then go back to your parents.'

‘I can't live without your cooking,' he sighed, trying another ploy.

‘You're only here for my cooking, then?'

‘Of course not; you know very well I'm not.'

‘Ken, I can't have a relationship with someone who just decides to come live with me without even talking to me about it.'

‘I wanted to surprise you! We have a good time together, don't we?'

Puzzling over his last remark, I looked at him without saying a word. He was so handsome! But I knew I would never again be swept away by his charms.

In the face of my silence, he became apologetic.

‘OK, I'm sorry. You're right. Surprising you wasn't the best idea. But you can also be pretty impulsive, can't you?'

Yes, I can – but I don't expect impulsiveness from you. It
doesn't go with your self-image of perfection
.

‘Stop frowning like that, Victoria … OK, OK! I get your point. But at least can you think about it?'

‘No!'

Infuriated, I shut the door firmly. It was all very sudden indeed but I was confident that I really was doing the right thing. It was time to end this shallow relationship that had limped along only because I found him handsome, and he liked my cooking.

Then I beamed: no intruder within these walls any more at all! My number one rule was that I had to live as I wanted, by myself, in my own house. Maybe I should have said that right away. In future, I resolved, when I met a man I was interested in, I would make it clear at once that the only way the relationship could work for me was if we each kept our own place. We'd visit each other, when invited, so that we would always be happy to see each other. Not like married people, who saw each other all the time, enduring together all the monotony of everyday life.

Outside, Ken had wisely decided not to hang around. I'd heard the sound of his car fading into the distance. Then I'd opened the door and taken the roses and the box of Coeurs Noirs he'd kindly left behind.

Thanks
.

I hadn't heard from him since. Ken, who used to call me twice a day! I must have hurt his pride, since he was considered to be a very good catch, and a lot of women dreamt of tying the knot with him. Well, not me. Our relationship had been fine while it lasted, but I needed to turn the page. The only thing I would miss about Ken was
those eyes I'd fallen for right at the beginning: those very dark eyes that reminded me of two shiny black pearls.

Ken wasn't the only man who had turned up on my doorstep saying he couldn't live without my cooking. I should never have cooked for men once I'd started dating them because they became crazy. But I couldn't help it. Often the dishes I made were completely new to them, and they were so funny when they pretended they were enjoying everything, when clearly they weren't, because they were so afraid that I would get angry with them.

It was their mothers I had to thank, most of whom weren't even capable of boiling an egg. Usually, anything was better than what their mothers put on their plates, so it was easy for me to seduce the sons with my food, despite the little games I liked to play with my experimental cooking. Admittedly, it had been harder when I'd dated Nino. Italians, like the French, usually worship their mothers' cooking …

Ah, how good it felt to be all on my own again with only Chipolata for company!

The tea was pretty good, and my finger sandwiches, filled with marinated raw salmon, cucumber and fresh dill, had been delicious! By then I was ready for some of the chocolate truffles I'd made that morning, and the glass of cranberry liqueur I had waiting on my little tray.

Sure, I enjoyed the sex, and Ken had been all right. I found it all worked the same, most of the time, and after a while it became routine, so why make such a big deal of it?

In my view, sex was the easiest part of a relationship. After these more or less relaxing and exciting physical
connections, things always got a little more complicated. The fatal question inevitably came up:
what do we need to do in order to keep this relationship alive?
It was usually too much for me.

If a relationship became too complicated, I'd rather break up and be by myself. I would meet someone else eventually. It wasn't often that I met anyone that I found interesting, though. Was it because I liked my freedom so much that I couldn't see the appeal of most men? Why would I need a guy here, possibly telling me what to do? I'd had my parents and teachers for that! And they had been so tiresome …

And I shouldn't have to behave in a certain way in order to please a man. After all, I had to do that with my clients. But I could put up with them, since it was thanks to them that I had become what I was. Maybe it was because I used up all my energy pleasing my clients that I needed to recoup and just wanted to enjoy being alone with Chipolata.

Talking of clients, I realised it would soon be time for me to go to work. That evening, the Browns were having a special Thanksgiving dinner party to celebrate their recent adoption of twin baby girls from New Orleans, who had lost their parents in the Hurricane Katrina disaster. The previous night I had started preparing a Cajun–New England meal for the occasion.

I got up from my rocking chair feeling refreshed and energetic after my break, ready to face the evening's work. Chipolata woke up and went for a walk around the perimeter of the house because she knew she'd have to stay inside while I was away.

Things had gone well. I was pleased. Everyone seemed to appreciate my meal. I always enjoyed the challenge of creating new and unusual bi-cultural dishes.

This was the best part of the evening for me, now dinner was over. I could relax a little while my team served drinks and sweet titbits and the waiters started to clear the dining table.

I found a quiet corner in the huge kitchen, which my hosts seemed barely to use. What a pity! It was a beautiful room, and full of the latest culinary utensils and appliances. The ochre walls and the small red hexagonal floor tiles gave it an air of rural Provence or Tuscany. Very charming!

I sipped a glass of wine and nibbled some cake while admiring the scene through the window. How stylish these Victorian mansions were, especially the green one opposite. It was completely in keeping with the peaceful street setting, lit now by ancient gaslights. I tried to imagine the inside of the green mansion: the paintings, furniture, the
objets d'art
, a magnificent table with beautiful food enjoyed at the leisurely pace of olden times, all creating a picture in my mind of the residents' good taste.

Images from another time slowly filled my head, and I allowed myself a moment of respite. Mmm, this local wine was really good! I should buy a few more bottles …

‘Vicky?' called Tom, my assistant, from the other side of the vast kitchen, abruptly cutting short my reverie.

‘Here!' I answered, rather reluctantly.

‘A certain Robin Harris is asking for you.'

Robin Harris? The name rang a bell, but I couldn't place it.

Feeling a little irked, I left my glass half full but swallowed the last mouthful of cake before going to find this person.

Robin's face was vaguely familiar: one of those young women from the rich-and-not-famous mob, who sometimes talked to me at the end of fancy dinner parties I'd cooked for.

‘Victoria! I didn't see you at the cocktails before dinner because I came a little late.' She hugged me as if we were best friends. ‘So happy to meet you again!' She grinned.

‘Likewise,' I said, insincerely. I still couldn't really remember who she was.

‘I want to introduce you to my friends Daphne and Adriana!'

I stared at the three young women, who looked so alike: same hairstyle and colour – it seemed that dark hair with red highlights was in; similar outfits showing plenty of cleavage; pointy shoes – also in vogue, I believed, but too uncomfortable for me since I didn't have pointy feet.