Masters & Lovers Box Set One

Wonder if she's ever eaten one?

James exchanges a glance with me, rubbing at his chin.

The plate is set before Charlotte. She stares, then her eyes roll up to watch Elizabeth.

In fact, I know that my wife does not care for oysters, but this time, she makes a show of how to eat one tidily. Squeezing on a little lemon juice, she flicks the flesh clear of the shell with the tiny fork, then tips it back into her mouth. Which moron set the menu for this meal?

Charlotte watches keenly. Still with an uncertain look, she squeezes lemon juice over one of the shellfish on her plate, then jerks back. "It moved!"

James murmurs something to her.

"They're alive?" Her eyes are wide. "They're alive and we eat them like that?"

"That's how it's done, Charlotte. It's the only way to be sure they're fresh."

"But.... I just saw it flinch when I put on the lemon juice. It's... it's like a chemical burn on the poor thing...."

She has the attention of the whole table by now. Brows furrow at her words and some of the dishes are pushed away.

A mutter from one side. "Never thought of it like that."

"Chemical attack.... She's right though...."

The waiter's glance is frosty as he removes Charlotte's plate, then the others, most of the contents untouched.

*****

Fortunately, Charlotte enjoys the sorbet which follows, and a salad can hold few surprises. The vegetable terrine is excellent and presents no problems. But when the main course arrives.... Oh my God....

And I know what's coming. Next to me, James groans quietly.

Charlotte peers at her dish, then up at the waiter. Her eyes pass between me and Elizabeth, then at James. She sucks at her lips. "Um, it's raw."

"Steak tartare is meant to be raw, Charlotte," says James, his voice level. "Why don't you try it...."

*****

The evening over, we leave, Elizabeth and Charlotte chatting, James by me. His voice low. "Do we call that a win?"

"I think we just call it a first. Who's setting the menu for your reception dinner?"

"I am. Perhaps I'll reconsider my plans."

"I'd keep it simple if I were you."

"I'll hang on to that thought."

Elizabeth is struggling to keep her face straight. "Did you enjoy that, Charlotte?"

Charlotte sniffs. "Next time give the food direct to the homeless and the needy. Better still, give 'em the cash."

She has a point....

*****

Charlotte sits cross-legged on the rug by the hearth, the fire glowing warm. Although, in theory, we're well into Spring and the sun is bright, the day is crisp and cold here on our mountain, as Winter shrugs its last over the heights. Michael carries in an armful of logs. "Plenty to keep us going."

In fact, I rather think he enjoys chopping the firewood. I've seen Charlotte watching him sometimes, surreptitiously, when she thinks he doesn't notice. Stripped to the waist for the work in even the coldest weather, from the female point of view, I imagine he makes an engaging sight.

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She's working through catalogues and brochures for invitations, stationery, flowers and dresses. There seem to be more every time I look, and Beth keeps producing more to add to the stack. "What have you chosen for the vows?" I ask. "Please tell me that you're not promising to 'Love, Honour and Obey'. None of us would believe it for a minute."

She has the grace to blush. "Er, no. I don't think that would be a good idea, would it? I shall promise to Love, Honour and Cherish'."

"How about the part where you promise to 'forsake all others..."" chuckles Michael.

Charlotte's jaw drops. My gut clenches and Michael's expression twists to dismay. "Hey, it was a joke...." He looks between us, palms raised. "Really. It was just a joke."

But Charlotte's eyes travel to mine, then his, and back again as she chews at her lip.

*****

As I step out of the elevator and into the reception area, Michael is there. Hands behind his head, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he sits staring into space, humming tunelessly. "Waiting for someone?"

His eyes flick to me. "Hi, Beth," he smiles. "Yeah, Charlotte's running late." He stands, reaching for the box I'm carrying. "Here let me take that for you."

"Thanks." Gratefully, I pass it to him, then shake the blood back into my aching hands before brushing myself down of dust and cobwebs.

"Heavy," he comments, lifting it with no apparent effort. "Where do you want it?"

"In the conference room, please. Just put it down in the corner."

Michael deposits the box, gritty with the dirt of years, on the expensive carpet of my husband's meeting room, then swipes hands together with the logic that argues you can clean off one against the other. "Any more like that?" "I have a carload of the stuff and more where that came from. But don't bother. Ross is bringing it up."

He eyes the carton. "What on earth is it?"

"A lifetime's worth of collected junk. I don't think Uncle Albert ever threw anything away, and he made me executor to his will. I'm lumped with going through it all."

"That sounds like fun."

"You have no idea. I've been quickly through his house. He could barely move in there. He went a bit odd as he grew older, and I don't think he's thrown out a newspaper or a jam jar in the last ten years. There are cupboards full of hoarded food and sugar and even toilet rolls...."

"Saving for a rainy day?"

"I think so, yes. He didn't have much and what he did have, he wouldn't let go of."

Twenty minutes later, I've emptied half the box onto the conference table and a further eight like it are stacked in the corner. And I know that I have several more carloads to come.

"Will that be all, Mrs Haswell?" asks Ross, picking crawlers from his jacket. Michael reaches out and flicks a particularly long-legged example from the back of his collar.

"For today, yes thanks. Then, whenever it fits in, Ross, just pick up the rest of it. There's no hurry. It's going to take a while to go through what's here already."

Michael is on his phone, a hand covering the other ear. "Oh, right? So how long d'you reckon? Okay. I'll see you later. No, it's no problem. I didn't have any plans."

He surveys the avalanche of yellowed paper on the desktop. "Can I help at all?"

With something like despair, I contemplate the task ahead of me. "I don't like to ask, Michael."

"What, with all the help you've been giving us with the wedding? Don't be silly. I'm happy to help. Unless it's private family stuff of course?"

I pick up a random handful of paper, scanning it. "Well, these are eighteen years old bank statements. I think any shock-horror value ran out a while ago. If you're happy to volunteer, then I'm happy to say yes." He pulls out a chair. "Where do we start?"

*****