Bye Bye Love. Patricia Burns

sand off tired children’s feet, dads were folding away the deckchairs and searching for lost buckets and balls. Jonathan glanced at his wrist, realised he wasn’t wearing a watch and stretched across to take Scarlett’s arm, turned it slightly and looked at the time. The living warmth of her arm beneath his hand sent a hot thrill through him.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, as casually as he could. ‘I left mine at home. No good wearing one on the boat, it might get ruined in the water. It’s gone half past six; shall we go back and get something proper to eat? The chips made a nice amuse bouche but I’m dying for a proper meal.’

      He could have kicked himself. It sounded so pretentious.

      ‘Amuse bouche?’ Scarlett questioned, her forehead creasing in thought. ‘Mouth amusement?’

      Jonathan laughed with relief. She hadn’t thought he was trying to get one over on her.

      ‘Well done. That’s more than most people know. It’s a French restaurant term. It means a little twiddly tasty bit before the real starter, or in between courses. Something to keep the appetite interested before the next main event.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Scarlett said airily.

      Jonathan screwed up his chip paper and lobbed it into the nearest litter bin.

      ‘Come on, the kitchen’ll be all ours now.’

      As they made their way back through the raucous crowds and close-packed heat of the Golden Mile, he tried to decide just where to take her. What was she going to think if they stayed in the staff kitchen? It was going to look really unfriendly, as if he thought she wasn’t good enough to be invited upstairs. But his mother was so adamant about not letting staff into their private quarters. Not that Scarlett was staff, of course, but that was stretching the point a bit. He tried to assess the odds against his mother coming in and finding them there. It was high season, and it was Friday evening, the second busiest night of the week. She should be run off her feet in the bar all night. But if she was to pop up for something…no, it just wasn’t worth the risk.

      By the time they arrived at the dark rear of the Trafalgar, Jonathan had made his mind up. He led the way to the staff kitchen, which looked out over the yard.

      ‘I’ll just run upstairs and get some stuff,’ he said. ‘You won’t have had time to do any shopping, will you, what with moving and all that?’

      ‘No, well, there wouldn’t be much point, would there? We’ve got nowhere to cook,’ Scarlett said.

      Jonathan was mystified. ‘But this is the staff kitchen. Didn’t you know that? You and Irma and Marlene share this.’

      ‘Oh…’

      He could practically see light dawning on her expressive face.

      ‘My dad must’ve forgotten to tell me,’ she said.

      ‘Yeah, right,’ he agreed. ‘Look, make yourself at home. I won’t be a mo. Perhaps you could put the kettle on for me?’

      ‘OK.’

      Mercifully, she didn’t seem put out to be left there. He raced upstairs, unlocked the heavy door marked ‘Private’and went into the kitchen. If only he had known he would be cooking for a girl! As it was, he would have to improvise with what was around. He opened the cream-coloured door of the American refrigerator and took out bacon, eggs and cream, then rummaged in the cupboards for pasta, onions, garlic, olive oil and ground coffee. He piled the whole lot into a basket together with the chopping board, his French chef’s knife and the percolator. A glorious mix of excitement and nerves churned inside him. Supposing she didn’t like his cooking? Supposing she laughed at him? But she couldn’t—she mustn’t—because that would mean the end of their friendship before it had hardly started.

      He galloped downstairs again to find the kettle starting to whistle while Scarlett leaned against the chipped enamel sink staring out at the back yard. There was a horribly bleak expression on her face that cut right through him.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, dumping the basket on the table.

      Had his mother been in and had a go at her? His heart sank at the thought.

      ‘Oh…nothing…’ She straightened up, forcing a smile.

      ‘Only you looked…well…’

      ‘I’m all right. Really. What on earth have you got there?’ She moved over to look at the contents of his basket.

      ‘Just a few things to make a meal. Would you like to be my commis chef?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have that boiling water in a big saucepan with salt in, please, and butter and some olive oil in a frying pan.’

      ‘Olive oil?’ Scarlett questioned. ‘Olive oil’s for putting into your ear when you’ve got earache.’

      Jonathan stopped himself from laughing. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know, any more than most people in this country did.

      ‘Mine isn’t,’ he said, handing her the bottle. ‘Mine’s for cooking, and making salad dressings.’

      Scarlett made a face and looked at the French writing on it. Cautiously, she poured a small pool of oil into a pan. Jonathan got on with skinning and chopping a couple of onions. Scarlett stared at him as he sliced them expertly with a rocking motion, just as he had been taught.

      ‘How did you learn to do that? Did your mum show you?’

      Jonathan laughed.

      ‘Mum? No, Mum hates cooking. I’ve got French relatives. I go to stay with them most summers.’

      Wonderful summers with lovely Tante Jeanne-Marie, who tucked him under her wing with all her other chicks and made him feel loved and wanted. Racing around on bikes and swimming in the river with the cousins…

      ‘And they make you do the cooking for them?’ Scarlett was saying.

      He wrenched himself back from sunny days in Mont Saint Etienne.

      ‘Far from it! I’m allowed to help. My aunt’s a wizard cook. Her brother’s a chef and owns a restaurant. They’re all really keen on food. It’s not like here at all. They all sit round the table and discuss what they’d like to eat for the coming week, then they go to the market together and buy the fresh stuff, and they argue while they’re going round even if they’ve agreed beforehand what they want, like, if they’ve bought some lamb, should they cook it this way or that, and what other things they need to get to go with it, and whether they’ve got the right stuff in the larder at home. It’s really interesting. It makes you think about tastes and flavours and textures and how things go together and complement each other.’

      Scarlett was gazing at him in amazement. Jonathan felt hot, and then defensive. Food was important. If she didn’t realise it now, then he would prove it to her. He crushed a clove of garlic with the blade of his knife, chopped it into minute pieces and put it in the pan with the onions where they sizzled merrily, giving off a glorious smell.

      ‘What was that?’ Scarlett asked.

      ‘Garlic.’

      Garlic was what foreigners were supposed to stink of. Well, at least foreigners knew how to eat.

      ‘Are you doing something French now?’ Scarlett wanted to know.

      ‘No, this is Italian, because I’m starving and there’s nothing like a big plate of pasta for filling you up,’ he explained. ‘Pass us the spaghetti, would you?’

      ‘Spaghetti?’

      Scarlett looked at the ingredients on the table. She was searching for the stuff that came in a tin, he guessed.

      ‘In the blue packet,’ he prompted.

      She found the right thing and watched as he opened it up.

      ‘It’s like long thin macaroni,’ Scarlett said.

      ‘Same