The sink was backed with blue-and-white Dutch tiles and the same tiles lined the walls between the cupboards. The tools of her trade were very evident: a thick chopping board, a line of copper saucepans, a marble slab for rolling pastry. There were racks of herbs and bunches of onions and fresh parsley in a mug.
She reached for a blue-and-white butcher's apron and tied it around her waist. Over the thick sweat-shirt this made her look more shapeless than ever and accentuated her rounded, blue-jeaned bottom.
Noel asked if there was anything he could do to help.
'No, not really.' She was already busy, turning on the grill, opening drawers. 'Unless you'd like to open a bottle of wine. Would you like some?'
'Where would I find a bottle of wine?'
'There's a rack through there…' She indicated with her head, her hands being occupied. 'On the floor. I haven't got a cellar, and that's the coolest spot there is.'
Noel went to look. At the back of the kitchen an archway led into what had probably once been a small scullery. This too was stone-floored, and here stood a number of shining white electrical appliances. A dishwasher, a clothes washer, a tall refrigerator, and a huge chest deep-freeze. At the far end, a half-glassed door led directly out into the little garden. By the door, in country fashion, stood a pair of rubber boots and a wooden tub of gardening tools. An ancient raincoat and a battered felt hat hung from a hook.
He found the wine-rack beyond the deep-freeze. Crouching, he inspected a few bottles. She had an excellent selection. He chose a Beaujolais, went back to the kitchen.
'How about this?'
She glanced at it. 'Perfect. That was a good year. There's a corkscrew in that drawer. If you open it now, that'll give it time to breathe.'
He found the corkscrew and drew the cork. It came, sweetly and cleanly, and he set the open bottle on the table. With nothing more to be done, he drew back a chair and settled himself at the table to enjoy the last of his whisky.
She had taken the chops from the refrigerator, assembled the makings of a salad, found a stick of French bread. Now she was arranging the chops on the grill-pan, reaching for a jar of rosemary. All this was accomplished deftly and with the greatest economy of effort, and it occurred to Noel that, working, she had become quite assured and confident, probably because she was engaged in doing the one thing she knew: that she was really good at.
He said, 'You look very professional.'
'I am.'
'Do you garden as well?'
'Why do you ask that?'
'All the clobber by the back door.'
'I see. Yes, I do garden, but it's so tiny that it's not
'Balnaid?'
'That's the name of our house in Scotland.'
'My mother was a manic gardener.' Having said this, Noel could not think why he had mentioned the fact. He did not usually talk about his mother unless somebody asked him a direct question. 'Perpetually digging, or harrowing great loads of manure.'
'Doesn't she garden any longer?'
'She's dead. She died four years ago.'
'Oh, I am sorry. Where did she do her gardening?'
'In Gloucestershire. She bought a house with a couple of acres of wilderness. By the time she died, she'd transformed it into something very special. You know… the sort of garden people walk around in after lunch parties.'
Alexa smiled. 'She sounds rather like my other grandmother, Vi. She lives in Strathcroy. Her name's Violet Aird, but we all call her Vi.' The chops were grilling, the bread put to warm, the plates to heat. 'My mother's dead, too. She was killed in a car accident when I was six.'
'It's my turn to be sorry.'
'I remember her, of course, but not really very well. I remember her mostly coming to say good night before she went out for a dinner party. Lovely airy dresses, and furs, and smelling of scent.'
'Six is very young to lose your mother.'
'It wasn't as bad as it might have been. I had a darling Nanny called Edie Findhorn. And after Mummy died we went back to Scotland and lived with Vi at Balnaid. So I was luckier than most.'
'Did your father marry again?'
'Yes. Ten years ago. She's called Virginia. She's not much older than I am.'
'A wicked stepmother?'
'No. She's sweet. A bit like a sister. She's terribly pretty. And I've got a half-brother called Henry. He's nearly eight.'
Now she was making the salad. With a sharp knife she chopped and shredded. Tomatoes and celery, tiny fresh mushrooms. Her hands were brown and capable, the nails short and unvarnished. There was something very satisfactory about them. He tried to recall the last time he had sat thus, slightly woozy with hunger and drink, and peacefully watched while a woman prepared a meal, for him. He couldn't.
The trouble was that he had never gone for domesticated females. His girl-friends were usually models, or young aspiring actresses with immense ambition and little brain. All they had in common was their general appearance, for he liked them very young and very thin with tiny breasts and long, attenuated legs. Which was great for his own personal amusement and satisfaction, but not much use when it came to being good about the house. Besides, they were nearly all… however skinny… on some sort of diet, and while able to down enormous and expensive restaurant meals, were disinterested in producing even the simplest of snacks in the privacy of either their own flats, or Noel's.
'Oh, darling, it's such a bore. Besides, I'm not hungry. Have an apple.'
From time to time there had come into Noel's life a girl so besotted that she wished only to spend the rest of her days with him. Then much effort-perhaps too much-had been made. Intimate dinners by gas-fired logs, and invitations to the country and doggy weekends. But Noel, wary of commitment, had backed away, and the girls in question, after a painful period of abortive telephone calls and tearful accusations, had found other men and married them. So he had reached thirty-four and was still a bachelor. Brooding over his empty whisky glass, Noel could not decide whether this left him feeling triumphant or defeated.
'There.' The salad was ready. Now she began to mix a dressing with beautiful green olive oil and pale wine vinegar. Various herbs and seasonings were added, and the smell of these made his mouth water. With this done, she started to lay the table. A red-and-white-checked cloth, wineglasses, wooden mills for pepper and salt, a pottery butter dish. She took forks and knives from a drawer and handed them to Noel and he set the two places. It seemed an appropriate moment to pour the wine, so he did, and handed Alexa her glass.
She took it from him. In her apron and bulky sweat-shirt, and with her cheeks glowing from the heat of the grill, she said, 'Here's to Saddlebags.'
He found himself, for some reason, much touched. 'And here's to you, Alexa. And thank you.'
It was a simple but splendid meal, living up to all Noel's greedy expectations. The chops were tender, the salad crisp; warm bread to mop up juices and dressings, and all washed down by fine wine. After a bit, his stomach stopped groaning, and he felt infinitely better.
'I can't remember food ever tasting so good.'
'It's not anything very special.'
'But perfect.' He took more salad. 'Any time you need a recommendation, let me know.'
'Don't you ever cook for yourself?'
'No. I can fry bacon and eggs, but if pushed I buy gourmet dishes from Marks and Spencer and heat them up. Every now and then, if I'm desperate, I go and spend an evening with Olivia, my London sister, but she's as useless in the kitchen as I am, and we usually finish up eating something exotic, like quails' eggs or caviar. A treat, but not very filling.'
'Is she married?'
