“He was absolutely right.” She paused. “Well?”
“Well what?” I asked.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing! In that case, I’ll see you in court.”
“OK,” I said. “But do tell me, what is the difference?”
“Difference?”
“Between a violin and a viola?” I said.
“It’s not a viola,” she said, pronouncing it like I had done with the i as “eye.” “It’s a viola.” She said it with the i short, as in “tin” or “sin.”
“So what is the difference?”
“A viola burns longer than a violin.”
“What?” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and laughed. “It’s an old joke among musicians. We viola players tend to be the butt of all the worst orchestra jokes. We get used to it, and we don’t really care. I think everyone else is jealous.”
“So what is the difference between them?”
“They’re different instruments.”
“I know that,” I said. “But they look the same.”
“No they don’t,” she said. “A viola is much bigger than a violin. That’s like saying a guitar looks like a cello.”
“No it’s not. That’s silly,” I retorted. “A cello is played upright and a guitar is played horizontally, for a start.”
“Ha!” she said smugly. “Jimi Hendrix played his guitar upright most of the time.”
“Don’t be pedantic,” I said, laughing. “You know what I mean. Violins and violas are both played with a bow, under the chin.”
“Or with the fingers,” she said. “Pizzicato. And it’s not so much under the chin as on the shoulder.”
“Does that mean you have your chin in the air?”
“It might,” she said. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was smiling. I decided that it might be a good time to get out of this call before she started asking again how I knew her home telephone number and her occupation.
“I’ll call you about dinner,” I said. “It will be probably be Tuesday.” It tended to be one of our least busy nights at the Hay Net, and often the night I would be away, either cooking elsewhere or at some other event.
“You really think you can get a table?” she said.
“Of course I can,” I replied. “No problem.”
I hoped I was right. It might just save me ten grand.
9
W e were seated at a table for two against the wall near the door. Let’s face it, it wasn’t the best table in the place. But Caroline was impressed nevertheless.
“I never thought you would manage to get a table,” she said when she arrived. “To be honest, if I had thought you actually could I wouldn’t have suggested it in the first place. I’m not at all certain that I really want to be here.” And she had a scowl on her face to prove it.
I wasn’t sure how to take that comment, but she had come, and that was all that was important to me at the time. Over the past couple of days, I had tried hard to recall the string quartet at the gala dinner. I could recall that they had all worn long black dresses with their hair tied back in ponytails, but, try as I might, I had failed to remember their faces. However, when Caroline had walked through the front door of the Restaurant Gordon Ramsay I had known her straightaway.
Securing a table had been harder, and very many favors had been cashed in and more still promised. “Sorry,” they had said on the telephone with a degree of amusement at my folly, “tables are usually booked two months in advance.” They hadn’t needed to add that less than two days was in “absolutely no chance” territory.
However, I was not a celebrity chef for nothing, albeit a very minor one. The world of cordon bleu cookery may be as competitive as any, with chefs happily dreaming of using their cook’s knives on the throats of their rivals, but, deep down, we knew that we needed them alive and well, not only to maintain the public interest in all things kitchen but also to be the guests on each other’s television shows.
Having sold my soul, if not exactly to the devil then to the keeper of his kitchen, and having made such promises that may be difficult, if not impossible, to honor, I was rewarded with an offer of “a small extra table fitted in to the already-full dining room at nine o’clock. But it might be close to the door.”
“That’s great,” I had said. On the pavement outside would have been fine by me.
“You must know Gordon Ramsay very well to have got this,” she said.
“Professional courtesy,” I said, smiling. “We chefs stick together.” What a load of rubbish, but better that than to tell the truth. Better than telling her that I had needed to beg for this table. Perhaps the ten-grand lawsuit would have been cheaper?
“Is he nice?” she asked. “He always seems so rude on his program.”
“Very nice,” I said. “He just puts on an act on for television.” In truth, I had never actually met Gordon Ramsay, but I wasn’t going to tell Caroline that, not yet anyway.
“So,” I said, changing the subject, “tell me about what you do.”
“I make music,” she replied. “And you make food. So you sustain, and I entertain.” She smiled at her joke. It transformed her face. It was like opening the curtains in the morning and allowing in the sunlight.
“Isn’t music described as food for the soul?” I said.
“The quote is actually about passion,” she said. “‘There’s sure no passion in the human soul, but finds its food in music.’ I can’t remember who said it, or even what it means, but it was carved on a wooden plaque in the hallway at my music school.”
“Which school?” I asked.
“RCM,” she said. “Royal College of Music.”
“Ah,” I said. “And why the viola?”
“That stems from when I was in elementary school. The music teacher was a viola player, and I wanted to be like her. She was great.” Caroline smiled. “She taught me to enjoy performance. It was a gift I will always be grateful for. So many of my colleagues in the orchestra love music, but they don’t really enjoy the performance of it. It seems such a shame. For me, music is the performance. It’s why I say that I make music, not play it.”
I sat and watched her. My memory had not been wrong. She was tall and elegant, not dressed tonight in black but in a cream skirt with a shiny silver wraparound blouse that raised my heart rate each time she leaned forward. Her hair was very light brown, not quite blond, and was tied as before in a ponytail.
A waiter came over and asked if we had decided. We looked at the menus.
“What is pied de cochon?” Caroline asked.
“Literally,” I said, “it means ‘foot of pig.’ Pig’s trotter. It’s very tasty.”
She turned up her lovely nose. “I’ll have the lobster ravioli, and then the lamb, I think. What’s a morel?”
“A morel,” I said, “is an edible fungi, like a mushroom.”
“Fine, I’ll have the lamb with the morel sauce.” I was reminded of that previous mushroom sauce, the one that had probably made her ill. I decided not to mention it.
“And I’ll have the pied de cochon and the sea bass.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the waiter.
“What would you like to drink?” I asked.
“I’d prefer red,” she said, “but you’re having fish.”
“Red is fine by me.” I ordered a moderately priced Medoc-at least it was moderate for this wine list, but, at this price, would have been by far the most expensive bottle available at the Hay Net. I would have to get used to London prices.