Читать книгу Christmas at Thornton Hall - Lynn Hulsman Marie - Страница 11

“Edward, why in God’s name is there a carton of orange juice on this list? If you don’t want to squeeze orange juice every day – and I mean every day – before breakfast, you don’t want to work at Thornton Hall,” barked Jasper Roth as he burst through the swinging oak door leading from the dining room to the kitchen. “Oh, it’s you.”

“And good morning to you, Mr. Roth,” I said, cheerily. I’d seen his moods before, plenty. No doubt he was feeling the stress of hosting holiday guests. He thought he’d take it out on Edward, but even this bad-tempered greeting couldn’t pop the balloon in my chest and slam me back to earth. I all but forgave him for his bad behavior in my cottage last night. Anyway, after my blissful night, those feelings of anger were a very distant memory.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, we did establish that. And I did, indeed, sleep very well, thank you for asking,” I said evenly, as I turned my back turned to him. I monitored a cast-iron pot of steel-cut Irish porridge, trying to appear busy. I felt him staring at the back of me, and I started to get uncomfortable.

The hairs on my neck prickled. Did I have missionary-position bedhead? I tried to think back to whether or not I’d thoroughly brushed my hair after skulking back to my cottage. You’re fine, Juliet. Keep it calm and easy, I counseled myself. He can’t read your mind. Nothing could blacken my mood today. After the things Edward had done to me, relaxed wasn’t a strong enough word to describe my state.

Sneaking a look back at my employer, I noticed he looked good this morning…really good. He was very casually dressed in a black, half-zip cashmere sweater and khakis. His dark curls were gleaming and his skin was a high color. He’d probably just come off the treadmill.

I smiled inwardly, after a night of perfect sex, does every man have to look like a meal? It’s bad enough I’ve just slept with a colleague, don’t even think about what it might be like with your boss. Especially not this boss. This married boss. Still, my mind wandered without my consent. Just because the familiar smell of his aftershave piqued my interest, it didn’t mean I was going to act on it.

I couldn’t wait to call Posy. It had been too early to call her when I’d left Edward’s cabin in the dark, and I’d had to hit the kitchen before sun-up. My cell doesn’t work on this vast expanse of land they call the grounds of Thornton Hall. When I want to communicate, I have to use the house phone in the laundry or the kitchen. There wasn’t much privacy to be had, so I always had to plan calls strategically. Maybe I’d even tease her and tell her I’d been eyeballing stormy Mr. Roth, thinking about him right before I’d succumbed to Edward. She was always after me to stop being such a prude.

This morning, though, I thought it best to stay above Jasper’s games. I’d seen his moods at the ski lodge, I’d seen them in the south of France and I (along with his neighbors Mr. Oscar-winning Hot Guy and Ms. Rockstar’s Daughter Fashion Designer) had seen them on the patio of his Flood Street penthouse. I’d found that the best course of action was to ignore his tantrums. Luckily, or maybe not, I’d also seen his softer side in Nantucket. And in the dining room, over port, I thought, my knees going a little weak.

“About the shopping list,” I explained in the manner of a preschool teacher, “we buy orange juice in a carton to baste the hams. You’re always telling guests that there’s no ham more juicy or rich than the ones served at The Hall.” I kept my voice steady during this teeny tiny fib. Butter, as Rose was fond of saying, would have melted in my mouth.

“Oh. Yeah…O.K. He plonked a cardboard box on to the table and motioned for me to open it. Inside, wrapped in sturdy parchment and silver foil, was a truffle the size of a softball. “Ha! Show that to Edward. I want you to tell him to shave it finely over the scrambled eggs. I won it at auction last week. Charity benefit at Ambridge Dairy…my wife thought I should let it go, but I goddamn won it…sixteen hundred pounds I paid for it! Where is Edward, anyway?”

“We agreed I’d start the day, then he’d go late,” I said, covering. The truth was I didn’t know why Edward wasn’t in the kitchen yet. I’d left him in the shower, and told him to go back to bed if he was tired, that I could take the early shift. Must have needed his rest, I smirked inwardly. “I have everything perfectly under control, Sir.” As if.

I fired up the Nespresso machine and made myself a cappuccino. My nerves were already wired, but I thought I needed a jolt to keep me on track.

He scanned the list again, stood up, and walked over toward the range. I had my eye on the clock. I had not yet begun the batter for the buttermilk and blueberry waffles, which had to be cooked to order, on demand from the guests. This task required the use of an ancient stove-top waffle iron as opposed to a plug-in, because Mr. Roth liked the pattern it imprinted. He may be a spoiled snob, but he does smell really nice, I thought, inhaling deeply. Focus, Juliet! I had to pull out the food processor, prepare the strawberry butter, and grate nutmeg. I got to work, measuring ingredients into a large, earthenware bowl. As Mr. Roth peered over my shoulder, I did yoga breathing and tried to appear normal. On the inside, I felt anything but.

“Did Barry run to the fishmonger and get the lump crabmeat?”

“That’s my next project,” I said evasively. I had no idea what was in the fridge or who was supposed to do what, as Edward was the number one on this job. I hated being in the dark, but I guessed I’d have to improvise till he showed up this morning. It was a small price to pay.

Roth hovered behind me. “I’m gonna go get showered. Send me up a misto, will you, and send a filter coffee for Lady Penelope. If she whines for instant, tell her I ordered the coffee and just leave it. She doesn’t get it. Coffee, I mean. The English don’t know anything about coffee.” He glanced at my coffee mug. “Not like we do, right?” That “we” tipped me off balance. For half a second, I envisioned the two of us sitting at a foggy, outdoor Seattle café, sipping lattes and reading novels together. Edward, Juliet! You’d be drinking coffee with Edward. I forced myself to take cups down from the cabinet. I felt like a puppet in my own body, like I couldn’t predict what crazy act I might commit next.

“I certainly will,” I declared, trying to sound normal. There was a pause and I could feel him standing there, waiting for something. I stood still, my hands clutching the china cups. That sounded weird, I thought to myself. He knows everything.

“Hey, Juliet,” he said, in a softer tone of voice. “About last night…”

Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to fire me for sleeping with Edward. I cut him off, saying, “I can explain … ”

“No I want to explain,” he said. “I botched that conversation. I wanted to talk to you about what happened in Nantucket, and more to the point, what happened here in the drawing room, well…it meant something to me. I know I’m…I’m married. At the moment, but … ” He walked up behind me and put his hand on the small of my back. Just then, Barry, the gardener came in through the back door of the pantry, his arms laden with boughs and boughs of holly branches. Mr. Roth turned and strode out the swinging oak door, leaving it flapping on its hinges. I watched the door close, then turned back to my Aga. I heard creepy Barry laughing with a nasty cough as he walked through.

Did Jasper just say “at the moment”? I wondered, turning my attention back to my pot. After last night, pretending nothing had ever happened. Or, oh my God, was he going to confess something? Surely not. After all, he was married, and that made him the bad guy. But maybe he was. Or maybe that’s all in your head, Juliet. I chided myself. You’ve been attracted to him since that night at the Aquarium. Oh shut up! I told myself, but my body was remembering how dynamic Jasper Roth had been the night I’d met him. The night I’d also met Ben.

****

Back while I was still working at The Ivy, Posy had whisked me to a benefit for the London Aquarium, an event with a capital E…surprisingly well attended by nobility, glitterati and money men, and for that night only, I let loose and practically hosed myself down in the free champagne. Posy dolled me up in a shimmery, form-skimming Zac Posen gown that looked alternately silver or aqua depending how the light hit (“It’s like the ocean,” she’d squealed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands at the sight of me emerging from her en-suite dressing room). Posy was done up in a pale, seafoam green gown concocted from a fabric that made it look painted on. On her head, she wore a tiara with a trident, suggesting that she was the daughter of Neptune himself. On anyone else, it would have looked like a cheap costume. On Posy, it was the perfect marriage of fantasy and royalty.

“You’re gorgeous,” I told her in the car. She’d brought a bottle of wine and two plastic glasses. It was like surfing, trying to balance the glasses, walk in heels and not spill anything on my dress.

“We’re practically twins. If I am, you are.” The wine and the cheerleading made me feel a tiny bit sultry. At first I’d been self-conscious in the tight dress, but I soon found myself mimicking Posy’s flirty confidence.

Her father’s driver dropped us at the door and we (or should I say she?) got a lot of attention with our entrance. We walked into a lavishly staged room filled with tanks of various sea life, giant screens projecting live feeds from the Aquarium itself and wave-like lighting designed to make us feel underwater. That was where I first laid eyes on Jasper Roth.

One of my favorite things about a do like this was checking out the food. Tonight’s theme was Miniature Feasts, which meant that the food was all hors d’oeuvres and canapés, with everything cleverly served in shot glasses, on endive leaves or as “lollipops” on sticks. Often, you’d also find bite-sized delectables served on oyster or scallop shells, but since this was an Aquarium event, I noticed that catering seemed to be a “no fish zone.” I would have been more comfortable in the kitchen than out on the floor. In fact, I was dying to sneak a peek behind the double doors to see how they pulled all this off from behind the scenes. This was without a doubt the fanciest party I’d ever been to. I just kept repeating to myself, You were invited. You belong here. You’re a guest.

As I wobbled tipsily over to a canapé station on Posy’s absurdly elevated and spiky Jimmy Choos (she cannot understand why I wear Dansko clogs in the kitchen) to check out what was being offered in order to mentally file away and steal recipes and presentations, I overheard a low, growly voice saying “…Andover, then Yale, then Harvard.” The deep, rich tone of it sent a little shiver up my spine. I only saw the back of the man speaking. He had a full head of thick, curly dark hair, and a compact but solid and proportionate body. It was the classic upside-down triangle shape of broad shoulders, trim waist and tight bottom. He was clad in an unparalleled navy blue wool suit (Savile Row?) that was simultaneously a bit too uptight and made him stand out as more important than any other man in the room.

As I was peering over his shoulder to inspect the greenish sauce on the beef slices in the Chinese ceramic spoons on the table in front of him, my ankle gave way and I had no choice but to grab him by the shoulders from behind in an invasive bear hug to avoid going down like the Lusitania.

“Oh, shit…I mean, darn. Wow, sorry,” I stammered, righting myself and almost knocking him off balance. He braced himself against the table with one hand, and pushed my hip hard with the palm of his other so I’d be upright again. I must have looked like one of those tall-haired, vinyl blow-up dolls waving wildly outside of car dealerships. “Oh, man, I’m just so sorry. Seriously…just, well, apologies,” I said as I turned on my heel, slinking off to look for Posy.

As I turned to make my getaway, he expertly caught my wrist in his hand and spun me gracefully back around to face him as though we’d been taking pre-wedding dance lessons together for months. It left me breathless. I pretended it didn’t.

“I’m not sorry. Who are you?” he demanded loudly in his broad-voweled Mid-Atlantic accent, Grecian-blue eyes boring into mine like he owned me. I got the feeling he thought he owned everything he laid eyes on. Those same eyes then took the liberty of skimming my cleavage, (hoisted up and presented in an Agent Provocateur bra), my hips, and the outline of my legs in the filmy dress, only to come back up to rest on my lips. He was still holding my wrist tightly, and the edge of his wedding band pressed into the bone. After Stephen, I’d been working hard on never again letting a man control me. Sure, I could be a servant, but I had tonight off.

That didn’t stop my body from betraying me. When his eyes left my lips and came back to meet mine, they were searching for an answer to more questions than “Who are you?” Oh my God. My brain ricocheted off the inside of my skull. He wants to have sex with me. I hadn’t had sex since Stephen. In fact, I hadn’t had sex before Stephen, so imagining a strange man wanted me for sex and sex only sent me reeling. My belly dissolved into hot liquid and my breathing went shallow and quickened. For God’s sake, Juliet, I admonished myself. Pull it together. He was the worst kind of man in my book and the champagne had obviously clouded my judgment. To him, you’re a cross between a cater-waiter and a call girl. He must be ten years older than you are. Just like Stephen. Angry with myself, I directed it at this American and answered him.

“I’m really nobody. Nobody you need to know,” I said flatly, extending my spine ballerina-style and making a point of looking down at him. He’s slightly shorter than I am. I felt like I was in a play that I hadn’t rehearsed. “Again, very sorry. Goodbye.”

With all the concentration I could muster, I turned and walked away without tripping or wavering. This was a monumental feat considering A) I was drunk, B) I was hopped-up on pheromones, and C) the waves of light projected over the floor made me feel swimmy. I could feel him watching me leave and was careful to keep my behind in check, with no hint of swishing or swaying. From the corner of my eye, I saw a man pull himself up from a violently red love seat shaped like a pair of fish’s lips, lankily extend himself to full height and cross the room to fall in step with me.

“Have a nice trip?” the stranger teased.

I was in no mood for laddish pranking. Wanting to get out of there, I searched the room for Posy. I spotted her holding court in the far diagonal corner near a tank of sea turtles. There was a teenage boy, and old man, and a Fran Lebowitz lookalike, all hanging on her every word. I arrowed toward them, the stranger still walking shoulder-to-shoulder with me.

“Go away,” I said, not even turning to look at him. I had dropped my party manners a while back and since he wasn’t being nice, I didn’t feel the need to be, either.

“You’re American?”

“None of your business,” I said.

“I saw the whole thing back there,” he said, cornering me against a shiny, chrome room divider. It was cool on my bare shoulders. “You have to admire the old Casanova. And I suppose, you, too. I’m tough in the courtroom, but I don’t have the bollocks to put Jasper Roth in his place.”

Jasper Roth, I thought to myself, filing away the name. I’ve read about him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than watch me?” I asked my pest. “In some circles, you’d get arrested for that.”

“’Fraid not, my ladyfriend has abandoned me for the social climbing, leaving me to the Miniature Feasts. I was told there’d be a meal…I’ve popped about 200 of those little bites into my mouth and I’m still ravenous. All the waiters know my name and I believe their managers have given them instructions to stop feeding me. I’m like one of those seals on the flat-screens behind you, barking and clapping for morsels. Nothing bite-sized about a nice big girl like you, though, is there?”

I raised my hand, thinking of giving him a slap in the face when I realized he wasn’t criticizing me, he was eyeballing me with appreciation. “I love a woman my height,” he said sincerely, though in fact, he was about two inches taller than I was, even in my heels. “I also like a bit of meat on the bones. There’s something cold and hard about these rich, skinny chicks.” He nodded in the direction of a pinched-looking stickbug in a gown that cost more than my car, whom I took to be his ladyfriend. “Like bedding down with a bicycle.”

Despite myself, I relaxed and took him in. Nice smile, slim, in a well-cut suit with crisp white shirt and no tie, Gucci loafers, hair thinning a bit on top but appropriately cut, very short with perfectly fashionable sideburns, and…his eyes. One was brown and the other was blue. I’d never seen anything like it except once in an Australian herding dog and I couldn’t stop staring.

He leaned in and whispered, “I’d kill for a massive plate of pasta bolognese, smothered with an unseemly amount of grated Parmesan cheese.” Face to face, he had the nerve to push his knee ever-so-slightly in between my legs. Looking back on it, it wasn’t exactly a promising start if I was looking for a stable, marrying type, since he was there with a date. Maybe it was all the French wine, or possibly the residual humming in my cells left over from the electricity between Jasper Roth and me. Or, maybe a small part of me had wanted a one-night stand with a powerful married man, but this seemed more honorable. None of it mattered. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “You’re in luck. I’m the best chef in London. Your kitchen or mine?”

****

“Still deckin’ the halls,” Barry said to me, coming back through the entrance from the pantry to the kitchen with a fresh armload of branches. I didn’t turn around from my pot. “If you have anything that needs deckin’, let ol’ Barry know.”

I turned around and started after him with my spoon. He swung through the oak door, quickly. That swinging door played a huge role in my life at The Hall. When it opened, there was a corner of the vast, cherrywood farmhouse kitchen table that those in the adjacent dining room and hallway – namely the family and their guests – would get a glimpse of. Whatever was on the corner of the table would signify what was going on in the kitchen. Therefore we staff “planted” items there as a comfort to our employers, a sign that all was well and under control in the kitchen.