Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [83]
“Of course he didn’t, but why else is he making a meal for a woman in his flat?” To Maud it was obvious.
They had laid out the smoked salmon with the avocado mousse and a little rosette carved from a Sicilian lemon. The chicken-and-mustard dish was in the oven. An apple tart and cream were on the sideboard.
“I hope to God she says yes,” Simon said. “It’s a heavy outlay for that man, all this food and the cost of us and everything.”
“She must be fairly old.…” Maud was thoughtful. “I mean, Mr. Ennis is as old as the hills. It’s amazing that he still has the energy to propose, let’s not even mention anything else!”
“No, let’s not,” said Simon, with relief. They let themselves out of the house and posted the keys back through the door.
Clara had always thought Frank’s apartment rather bleak and soulless. Tonight, though, it looked different. There was subdued lighting and a lovely dinner table prepared.
And she noticed the red rose. This wasn’t Frank’s speed. She wondered whether the young caterers had dreamed it up. Suddenly she felt a great thudlike shock. He couldn’t possibly be about to propose to her. Could he?
Surely not. Frank and she had been very clear about where they were going, which was a commitment-free relationship. They were both able to go out with other people. Sometimes when they went away for a weekend, such as the time they had that holiday in the Scottish Highlands, they stayed in the same room and had what Clara might have described as a limited, but pleasant, sex life. That was if she were to tell anyone about it. But she told nobody. Not her great friend Hilary in the clinic, nor her oldest friend, Dervla.
Certainly not Clara’s mother, who made occasional inquiries about her new escort. Not her daughters, who were inclined to think that their poor old mother was long past that sort of thing. Not her ex-husband, Alan, who was always hovering in the background, waiting for her to come running back to him.
No. Frank could not have got the wires so hopelessly crossed? Definitely not!
He went into his study and came out with some papers.
“This all looks very nice.” Clara admired the place.
“Well, good. Good. And thank you for agreeing to change the plans so readily.”
“Not at all. It must be important.…” Clare wondered what she would say if he really had lost the run of himself and proposed. It would obviously be no, but how to put it without hurting him or making him look ridiculous. That was the problem.
Frank poured her a glass of wine and then passed the papers over to her.
“This is my problem, Clara. I’ve had a letter from a boy in Australia. He says he’s my son.”
Simon and Maud had asked Muttie to test out a recipe they had for koulibiac for them that evening. In fact, they both knew the dish worked perfectly well. They just wanted to give themselves an excuse for going to the trouble for him and to give him a role to play. They showed Muttie carefully how they had folded the pastry leaves and prepared the cooked salmon, rice and hard-boiled eggs.
He watched with interest. “When I was young, if we ever got a bit of salmon we’d be so delighted that we’d never wrap it up in rice and eggs and all manner of things!” He shook his head in wonder.
“Ah, well, nowadays, Muttie, they like things complicated,” Maud explained.
“Is that why you’re always talking about making your own pasta instead of buying it in the shops like everyone else?”
“Not a bit,” Simon butted in with a laugh. “She’s interested in pasta because she’s interested in Marco!”
“I hardly know him,” said Maud unconvincingly.
“But you’d like to know him more,” Simon responded definitely.
“Who’s Marco, anyway?” asked Muttie.
“His father is Ennio Romano—you know, Ennio’s restaurant, the place we were telling you about,” Simon added.
“We were hoping to get work there,” said Maud.
“Some of us were praying we get work there,” Simon added, laughing at his sister’s blushes.
Maud tried to look businesslike. “It’s an Italian restaurant; it makes sense for us to know how to make our own pasta. And even if we don