"Oh, yes. I can produce all sorts of exotic dishes."
"Have you always worked on your own?"
"No, I started with an agency. Then, we worked in pairs. But it's more fun on my own. I've built up quite a good little business. Not just directors' lunches, but private dinner parties, and wedding receptions, or just filling people's deep-freezes. I've got a little mini-van. I cart everything about in that."
"You do the cooking here?"
"Most of it. Private dinner parties are a bit more complicated, because you have to work in other people's kitchens. And other people's kitchens are always a total enigma. I always take my own sharp knives."
"Sounds bloodthirsty."
She laughed. "For chopping vegetables, not for murdering the hostess. Your glass is empty. Would you like another drink?"
Noel realized that it was, and said that he would, but before he could shift himself, Alexa was on her feet, spilling the little dog gently onto the floor. She took his glass from his hand and disappeared behind him. Comforting clinking sounds reached his ears. A splash of soda. It was all very peaceful. The evening breeze, stirring through the open window, moved the filmy net curtains. Outside, a car started up and drove away, but the children who played on their bicycles had apparently been called indoors and told to go to bed. The abortive dinner party had ceased to be of any importance, and Noel felt a little like a man who, trudging across a barren desert, had inadvertently stumbled upon a lush, palm-fringed oasis.
The cold glass was slipped back into his hand. He said, "I always thought that this was one of the nicest streets in London."
Alexa returned to her chair, curling up with her feet tucked beneath her.
"Where do you live?"
"Pembroke Gardens."
"Oh, but that's lovely, too. Do you live alone?"
He found himself taken off guard, but as well amused by her directness. She was probably remembering the Hathaways' party, and his dogged pursuit of the sensational Vanessa. He smiled. "Most of the time."
His oblique reply went over the top of her head. "Have you got a flat there?"
"Yes. A basement, so it doesn't get much sun. However, I don't spend much time there, so it doesn't really matter. And I usually manage to avoid London weekends."
"Do you go home?"
"No. But I have convenient friends."
"What about brothers and sisters?"
"Two sisters. One lives in London and one in Gloucestershire."
"I expect you go and stay with her."
"Not if I can help it." Enough. He had answered enough questions. It was time to turn the tables. "And you? Do you go home for weekends?"
"No. I'm very often working. People tend to throw dinner parties on Saturday evenings, or Sunday lunches. Besides, it's hardly worth going to Scotland just for a weekend."
Scotland.
"You mean… you live in Scotland?"
"No. I live here. But my family home is in Relkirkshire."
I live here.
"But I thought your father-" He stopped, because what he had thought had been pure conjecture. Was it possible that he had been barking up entirely the wrong tree? "… I'm sorry, but I got the impression…"
"He works in Edinburgh. With Sanford Cubben. He's the head of their Scottish Office."
Sanford Cubben, the vast International Trust Company. Noel made a few mental adjustments. "I see. How stupid of me. I imagined him in London."
"Oh, you mean the New York bit. That's nothing. He flies all over the world. Tokyo, Hong Kong. He's not in this country very much."
"So you don't see1 much of him?"
"Sometimes when he's passing through London. He doesn't stay here, because he goes to the Company flat, but he usually rings, and if there's time, he takes me out for dinner at the Connaught or Claridges. It's a great treat. 1 pick up all sorts of cooking ideas."
"I suppose that's as good a reason as any to go to Claridges. But…" He doesn't stay here. "… who owns this house?"
Alexa smiled with total innocence. "I do," she told him.
"Oh…"It was impossible to keep the disbelief from his voice. The dog was back in her lap. She stroked his head, played with the furry pricked ears.
"How long have you lived here?"
"About five years. It was my grandmother's house. My mother's mother. We were always very close. I used to spend some part of all nay school holidays with her. By the time I came to London to do my cooking course, she was a widow and on her own. So I came to stay with her. And then, last year, she died, and she left the house to me."
"She must have been very fond of you."
"I was terribly fond of her. It all caused a bit of family ill-feeling. My living with her, I mean. My father didn't think it was a good idea at all. He was quite fond of her, but he thought I should be more independent. Make friends of my own age, move into a flat with some other girl. But I didn't really want to. I'm dreadfully lazy about things like that, and Granny Cheriton…" Abruptly she stopped. Across the space that divided them their eyes met. Noel said nothing, and after a pause she continued, speaking casually, as though it were of no importance. "… she was getting old. It wouldn't have been kind to leave her."
Another silence. Then Noel said, "Cheriton?"
Alexa sighed. "Yes." She sounded as though she were admitting to some heinous crime.
"An unusual name."
"Yes."
"Also well-known."
"Yes."
"Sir Rodney Cheriton?"
"He was my grandfather. I didn't mean to tell you. The name just slipped out."
So that was it. The puzzle solved. That explained the money, the opulence, the precious possessions. Sir Rodney Cheriton, now deceased, founder of a financial empire that stretched world-wide, who, during the sixties and the seventies, had been associated with so many take-over bids and conglomerates that his name was scarcely ever out of the Financial Times. This house had been the home of Lady Cheriton, and the sweet-faced, unsophisticated little cook who sat, curled in her chair like a schoolgirl, was her granddaughter.
He was flabbergasted. "Well, who'd have thought it?"
"I don't usually tell people, because I'm not all that proud of it."
"You should be proud. He was a great man."
"It isn't that I didn't like him. He was always very sweet to me. It's just that I don't really approve of huge take-overs and companies getting bigger and bigger. I'd like them to get smaller and smaller. I like corner shops and butchers where the nice man knows your name. I don't like the thought of people getting swallowed up, or lost, or made redundant."
"We can scarcely move backwards."
"I know. That's what my father keeps telling me. But it breaks my heart when a little row of houses gets demolished, and all that goes up in their place is another horrible office block with black windows, like a hen battery. That's what I love about Scotland. Strathcroy, the village we live in, never seems to change. Except that Mrs. McTaggart, who ran the newsagent's, decided that her legs couldn't take the standing any longer and retired, and her shop was bought by Pakistanis. They're called Ishak, and they're terribly nice, and the women wear lovely bright silky clothes. Have you ever been to Scotland?"
"I've been to Sutherland, to fish on the Oykel."
"Would you like to see a picture of our house?"
He did not let on that he had already taken a good look. "I'd love to."
Once more, Alexa set the dog on the floor and got to her feet. The dog, bored by all this activity, sat on the hearthrug and looked fed up. She fetched the photograph and handed it to Noel.
After an appropriate pause he said, "It looks very comfortable."
"It's lovely. Those are my father's dogs."
"What's your father's name?"
"Edmund. Edmund Aird." She went to replace the photograph. Turning, she caught sight of the gold carriage clock which stood in the middle of the mantelpiece. She said, "It's nearly half past eight."
"Good heavens." He checked the time with his watch. "So it is. I must go."