‘I’ve had four months to get used to it. Besides, I can’t complain when I get to wake up to this gorgeous smiling face, can I, baby girl?’
‘I’m assuming you’re not asking me.’ Not in that babying tone, at least.
‘What are you up to?’
I lean back in the chair and stare at the crystal chandelier that wouldn’t have been hanging there back in the day. In fact, I’m pretty sure this kitchen wouldn’t have looked anything like this. I’m not just talking about the fancy cabinets and appliances but how airy and light the space is.
‘I suppose I’m partaking in a little self-care,’ I reply, swinging my feet.
‘So, you’re drinking.’
‘I also have snacks.’
‘Cheese?’
‘Camembert,’ I confirm, twisting my barely touched plate a little straighter.
‘That’s it?’
I eye my cheese and wine party for one debating the merits of telling the truth. ‘I also have a little Roquefort that can be described as plus fort, or in other words, it smells to high heavens. But I’m told it tastes almost celestial.’
‘Nice,’ she responds. ‘What else?’
‘I have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, aired for, oh, at least three minutes.’ No need to tell her that selecting a bottle from the cellar was not a fun experience. What if I picked a thousand-euro bottle, or something that wasn’t really wine at all? Because other than the usual wine terms—Pinot, Merlot, Chardonnay, Sauvignon, rosé, rouge, and blanc—I don’t really know what the labels say at all.
I need to take French lessons.
I also need to get over myself. So what if, back in the day, olden day Rose would’ve been a scullery maid and not the lady of the house. I decide I’m not sharing any of this with Amber today. Not the cellar, not the house with twenty rooms and a legion of staff—okay, a housekeeper, a cleaner, and a gardener don’t quite amount to a legion, but it’s still a lot—and not the shitty stuff that happened to me today.
As far as Amber is concerned, I’d planned on staying with Remy in his house during his period of convalescence, that we’d enjoyed the arrangement so much, I haven’t yet moved out.
‘You wine philistine.’ She giggles. ‘Byron would have an absolute fit to hear that. He’s already drawing up a list of wines he wants you to bring when you visit. You know, so he can prove to the world that Australian wines really are the best.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve had some pretty tasty wines out here.’
‘Don’t let him hear you say that,’ she says with a chuckle.
‘Anyway, a year out here and maybe I’ll be cultured enough to hold my own at your dinner table.’ I’ll also have saved enough for a business class flight. Because I pay my own way.
‘Our table? If you can cope with chicken nuggets, you’ll do,’ she replies, obviously referring to the little Phillips people. ‘Now, go ahead and pleasure me with more of your cheese porn, please.’
‘That sounds so wrong.’
‘I didn’t say anything about dick cheese!’
‘Amber,’ I whisper, faux-scandalised. ‘Not in front of the baby!’
‘With Byron for a dad, her first words will probably be fuck.’
From different time zones, we set off laughing.
‘Tell me what cheese you’re eating, please. Oh, next time you visit, I’ll take you to this tiny boutique dairy I’ve recently found. Edie went there for a school trip last term.’
‘To eat cheese? That doesn’t sound very educational.’
‘To see how it’s made, but mostly she was just pooped on by the cows on the farm.’
‘Oh, man. I can’t imagine how she’d have taken that.’
‘She’ll probably still be having nightmares when she’s twelve. Cheese!’ she demands. ‘Breastfeeding has turned me into a cheese beast.’
‘Well, I have a little Pélardon,’ I say, moving it around my plate. ‘It’s a goat’s cheese from the Languedoc. Plus, a small bunch of grapes—’
‘For decoration, of course. What about crackers?’
‘Mon Dieu! The French don’t eat their cheese with crackers They eat it with bread.’
‘Good. You passed the test. And, oh my God. Une baguette, une baguette! My kingdom for une baguette!’
‘I thought you said if you’d seen one baguette, you’d seen them all.’ Talk about innuendo.
‘Taste is a different experience altogether,’ she answers a little primly. ‘And the smell is almost heavenly.’
‘Unless the baguette is in sweatpants that haven’t been washed in three weeks.’
‘I’m talking about bread. French bread. I love, love, love a trip to the boulangerie!’ The bakery. ‘And the patisserie.’ Also known as the bakery not for bread.
‘Ew, stop with the sex groans. You’re in charge of