“I don’t want grapefruit. I want mango.”
Valerian shrugged. “Slurp away. But you had three helpings of mousse last night.”
“Two, I had two. Jade had three.”
“Oh, well, only two…”
“Well, what do we have a cook for? Even I can slice grapefruit.”
“To wash the dishes.”
“Who needs dishes? According to you, all I need is a teaspoon.”
“Well, someone has to wash your teaspoon.”
“And your shovel.”
“Funny. Very funny.”
“It’s true.” Margaret held her breath and stuck her fork into the mango. She exhaled slowly as the section came away on the tines. She glanced at Valerian before putting the slice in her mouth. “I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as you and not gain an ounce—ever. I think she adds things to my food. Wheat germs or something. At night she sneaks in with one of those intravenous things and pumps me full of malts.”
“Nobody pumps you full of anything.”
“Or whipped cream maybe.”
Sydney had left them discussing calories and now he was back with a silver tray on which wafer-thin slices of ham tucked into toast baskets held a poached egg. He went to the sideboard and lifted them onto plates. He laid stems of parsley on the right rim and two tomato slices to the left of each plate. He whisked away the fruit bowls, careful not to spill the water from the ice, and then leaned forward with the hot dish. Margaret frowned at the dish and waved it away. Sydney returned to the sideboard, put the rejected dish down and picked up the other. Valerian accepted it enthusiastically and Sydney edged the salt and pepper mill an inch or two out of his reach.
“I suppose you are decorating the house with guests for Christmas. Push that salt over here, will you?”
“Why would you suppose that?” Margaret stretched out a hand, a beautifully manicured hand, and passed him the salt and pepper. Her little victory with the mango strengthened her enough to concentrate on what her husband was saying.
“Because I asked you not to. It follows therefore that you would defy me.”
“Have it your way. Let’s just spend the holidays all alone in the cellar.”
“We haven’t got a cellar, Margaret. You should take a look around this place. You might like it. Come to think of it, I don’t believe you’ve seen the kitchen yet, have you? We’ve got two, two kitchens. One is—”
“Valerian. Please shut up.”
“But this is exciting. We’ve been coming here for only thirty years and already you’ve discovered the dining room. That’s three whole rooms. One every decade. First you found the bedroom. That is I assume you did. It’s hard to tell when a wife sleeps separately from her mate. Then in nineteen sixty-five I think it was, you located the living room. Remember that? Those cocktail parties? Those were good times. Heights, I’d say. You not only knew the airport and the dock and the bedroom, but the living room as well.”
“Yes. I am having guests for Christmas.”
“Then the dining room. Speak of a find! Dinner for ten, twenty, thirty. Think what’s before you in one kitchen, let alone two. We could entertain hundreds, thousands.”
“Michael’s coming.”
“I wouldn’t put it off any longer if I were you. If we hurry by the time I’m eighty we can invite Philadelphia.”
“And a friend of his. That’s all.”
“He won’t come.”
“I’ve never had more than twelve people in this house at any one time.”
“His friend will show and he won’t. Again.”
“And I am not a cook and I never have been. I don’t want to see the kitchen. I don’t like kitchens.”
“Why work yourself up this way every year? You know he’ll disappoint you.”
“I was a child bride, remember? I hadn’t time to learn to cook before you put me in a house that already had one plus a kitchen fifty miles from the front door.”
“Seems to me you did once. You and Ondine giggling away in the kitchen is one of my clearest and fondest memories.”
“Why do you say that? You always say that.”
“It’s true. I’d come home and you’d be—”
“Not that! About Michael, I mean. That he won’t show up.”
“Because he never has.”
“He never has
“No
“I mean his kind of music.”
