8
After-Christmas Delights
Ronny Prince looked superior. “They’ll only be actors, dressed up,” he warned.
“Yes, we know that, Ronny, honey,” replied Jessica heavily.
“Some of us do,” noted Bob, looking neutral.
“I do!” squeaked Petunia, jumping.
Bob coughed. “Uh—yeah, ’course you do, pet. Not you.” He eyed his own offspring cautiously.
“Actors dressed up, like on the telly,” agreed Damian indifferently.
Jessica sighed. “Bob, I still think he’s too young for the pantomime.”
“Panto, please, woman! You’re in Britain, now!” he replied, shocked to the core. –Meanwhile Damian was shrieking: “I am not! Mum, I am not! Dad, I am not! Tell her, Dad!”
“Uh—Jessica, he does understand that the TV has actors, not, uh, F,A,I,R,I,E,S and similar garbage,” offered Ben cautiously.
“You started good,” noted Bob sardonically.
Jessica was still looking dubious. “Yes, but this’ll be different. Real people. Sarah Winters made the mistake of taking Jennifer to see the kids’ end-of-year show at her big sister’s school—it was Red Riding Hood, don’t ask me why, I thought it was gonna be Doctor Who, maybe they couldn’t get permission to use the name; anyroad, when the—uh—W,O,L,F came on the poor little thing screamed her head off and had to be taken out.”
“The wolf,” translated Ronny kindly. “Yeah. She thought it was real. –It was lame-o,” he explained to the other males he’d apparently just dragged into his peer group.
Ben and Bob smiled limply at him.
“Well, yes, that’s my point!” returned Jessica with vigour, forgetting entirely the speaking-kindly-to-the-neighbours’-young-kids bit. “The head was the most artificial thing you ever saw! No-one could possibly have been taken in by it!”
“Someone apparently was,” noted Ben, trying not to laugh.
“That’s my point!” she snapped.
“Yeah,” he conceded lamely, looking limply at his nephew.
“Rats!” said Bob breezily. “It’s Christmas—well, just after—not New Year’s yet, at any rate—and everyone goes to the panto in London at Christmas! –I’ve got the tickets, and we’re GOING!” he ended loudly.
There was a short silence. The Prince kids were looking rather intimidated, as well they might.
“Um, Damian’s older than Jennifer, Mrs Masters,” offered Honeysuckle bravely at last.
She blinked. “Uh—yes, that’s true, honey.”
Ronny looked superior. “There aren’t any wolves in Peter Pan, anyway.”
No, but wouldn’t Captain Hook and a crocodile be more than fearsome enough? Well, depending on how realistic the thing was. Ben had sort of seen that movie version with Julia Roberts, quite some years back. Well, nodded off in the middle of it, the Julia Roberts bits hadn’t been as good as what he’d hoped. Unfortunately this version didn’t even promise one the enchanting Ms Roberts. Though Bob claimed that the Peter Pan was always a luscious girl in tights: that was the whole point, old man. Ben would have been quite ready to accept this without the lecture that had immediately followed, on the good old English tradition of luscious girls on the music halls, in fleshings—preceded the tights, old man—and just generally luscious girls in very little with confirmatory written evidence from Zola’s Nana. Ben had tried to shut him up, or at least sort of show he understood, or something—anything!—with: “Oh, yeah, I saw that Moulin Rouge thi—” But Bob had clutched his head and screamed: “That skinny, whey-faced Australian girl? Are you MAD, man?” So he’d given up.
Tying Damian’s muffler tightly—“Mu-um! You’re strangling me!”—Jessica conceded grimly: “Well, as you’ve bought the tickets, we’d better go.”
So they went. Well, with a few shouts of: “Yes! We’re taking the Tube! –YES! We’re only driving to the TUBE STATION!” Like that. And with the feeble admission from Jessica: “Um, yes, Isabella, honey, the London Tube is the same as the New York subway—the Underground, y’know?” Like that, as well.
One could only conclude that those grins of grateful relief on Dan’s and Margot’s faces as they dumped their lot on Bob and Jessica had not been feigned. As to what the two of them might have planned for this afternoon... Ben tried hard not to let his mind dwell on that one. Lucky devils. The one consolation was that Isabella was coming, too. No, well, plus and, that as they finally reached the theatre and struggled to their seats, he managed to fight off assorted kids and get a seat next her.
Oh, shit, he’d completely forgotten there was a goddamned fairy in it! As Tinkerbell “entered”—they were doing it with a kind of twinkling light arrangement and a voice-over, not all that verisimilitudinous, he’d have said—Damian stood up and shouted: “A FAIRY!”
“It’s a pretend fairy!” hissed Ronny in a superior voice.
“Yes, but it’s pretending to be a real fairy!” he explained happily.
Uh—okay. Ben allowed his chin to sink onto his chest...
The crocodile entered and gee, both Damian and Petunia screamed. As at least half the theatre was also screaming with terror, it hardly mattered, did it? Except to Petunia’s embarrassed hostess, apparently. –The other half was screaming with delight, so there you were. The ticking was good, true.
… “The clock’s good, eh?” concluded Bob happily, sinking into his seat, panting, after five thousand kids had been provided with junk food in one of the interminable intervals the thing was full of. Well, it allowed thousands to waste their dough at the junk food counter, true.
“Best thing in it,” admitted Ben.
“The Peter Pan is a bit flat,” he agreed to the sub-text. “Good legs, though.”
“She’s a lady, Mr Masters!” said Ronny scornfully.
“Yeah, it’s dumb,” agreed Honeysuckle.
“Uh—yeah. Didn’t anyone— Uh, no, I s’pose not,” he muttered. “Sorry, kids. You see, it’s traditional for Peter Pan always to be played by a girl, at the panto.”
“Why?” demanded Ronny.
Bob floundered. Very clearly the only thought that came to mind was: “Luscious girls in tights.”
“They’d be lighter,” ventured Isabella.
“Oh, yes, for winching up on those wires,” her nephew agreed. “That’s quite neat.”
“It’s not like real flying,” Damian allowed in tolerant tones.
“No, ’course not! It’s quite neat, though.”
“Not bad,” he conceded tolerantly.
So much for illusion, huh? Not to mention kids screaming their heads off. Ben eyed Bob sideways but he was just slobbering happily over his choc ice. Pity Jessica wasn’t here at the precise moment—she’d martyred herself by taking Petunia to the ladies’ restroom. Apparently not trusting Isabella to do it.
“You know the crocodile?” the misguided Ronny then offered.
Jesus! Just when Damian had completely calmed down! Ben goggled at him. Then he found that Bob was also goggling at him.
“What about it?” said Honeysuckle in a bored tone. “It's only paint and stuff.”
“Yeah, ’course. I was just wondering, does the man inside it pull a string or is its mouth computer-operated like the dinosaurs?”
Bob shut his eyes, groaning: “Computer-operated like the dinosaurs! Innocent childhood, where art thou?”
“Gone the way of the dinosaurs, apparently,” drawled Ben. “My bet’d be computer-operated, Ronny: I think the guy inside it’s probably got his arms in its front legs.”
“Unless it’s all computer-operated,” offered Bob, getting interested in spite of himself.
“No!” cried the three children and Isabella. “There’s a man inside it!”
Bob winked at Ben. “Okay, there’s a man inside it.”
As the show proceeded Ben almost very nearly got to the point of conceding that his brother-in-law had chosen well: plenty of action, pirates, etcetera, even little Petunia was now happily enjoying the crocodile—screaming with delight each time it superfluously came on, ticking—and there were some very funny, if superfluous, cameo parts—when gee! Goddamned Tinkerbell had to up and die, he’d completely forgotten about that bit.
Evidently Jessica had, too. She was bolt upright in her seat, rigid with horror. “You idiot, Bob!” she hissed.
“It’s all right, she’ll come to!” the misguided idiot hissed.
Jessica just about had time to hiss: “Not that!” before the Peter Pan was urging the audience to clap their hands if they believed in fairies!
And gee, know what? Not only the entire theatre clapped, the four kids all got up and clapped, Damian actually standing on his seat in his excitement, and into the bargain all screamed: “I believe in fairies!” Ben didn’t dare glance his sister’s way.
Isabella was smiling and clapping like anything. Oh, dear. Well, nice for the kids’ sake, of course, but...
Tinkerbell duly came round and the audience cheered, with lots more clapping, renewed shouts from all over the theatre of “I believe in fairies!” and etcetera.
“I knew it’d work,” concluded Damian smugly, sitting down again.
Something like that—yeah. Poor old Jessica!
After the panto it was time for dinner—well, almost. According to the kids and Bob. McDonald’s was the unanimous vote. Well, by the kids. And Bob. Jessica didn’t think the Princes would want the Masterses to stuff their kids full of junk food. Ben and Isabella apparently didn’t have a vote. So he took her arm on the strength of it. Not that he wouldn’t have, anyroad! Mmm—toasty!
After Ronny had pointed out loftily—more than once—that Petunia wouldn’t get through a whole cheeseburger, and Petunia had pointed out crossly that she would so, and he was a greedy pig—more than once—and just as Ben was blinking and telling himself that the kid’s ears couldn’t really have started to look sort of piggy and his nose sort of snouty, Bob settled it by declaring loudly that they were going to McDonald’s because it was the Christmas holidays and those who wanted to argue could shut up or go home! –With a steely glare at his helpmeet.
“Bob,” said Jessica limply, “unilateral decisions are all very well, but what if Margot and Dan don’t want their kids to eat junk food?”
“Imprimis,” replied Bob impressively, “McDonald’s is not junk food, it’s an icon—an icon of junk food, if you will,” he added smoothly, “and secundus—uh—where was I?”
“Secundus, Margot and Dan wouldn’t have entrusted the kids to you if they didn’t expect them to be stuffed full of junk food,” prompted a clear, bell-like little voice.
Bob beamed at Isabella. “Spot-on! Come on, then!”
And amidst the cries of “Hurray!” and “Not that one near us!” and “A real London one!” and etcetera, they went. Well, sort of. It did entail a few mutters from Bob along the lines of “Blast! Was sure there was one near...” and “This corner, or—Blast!” Like that; but eventually it was found. The McDonald’s. Big M an’ all. Sparkling in all its glory, yep, uh-huh.
Nobody demanded pickle on their burgers, fancy that. Everyone did want big fries, fancy that. And huge shakes. The biggest size. Fancy that, as well. And soft-serve—whatever. Okay, Petunia, honey, icey-creamies, if you say so.
“Nobody calls them that here!” hissed Ronny as Ben kindly took his little sister’s hand with his free one.—Gee, it sure was warm in this London McDonald’s.—Uh, “here”?
“It’s only us that call them that, Ben,” Honeysuckle explained, with a glare at her unfortunate little sister.
Bob began to put in their order: “Four, um, no, was that five? What did you decide on, Jessica, love, in the end? Um—yeah. Four—no, hang on, Isabella as well— Oh, no. Okay, make that four cheeseb...”
“Sure, we understand, Honeysuckle,” Ben agreed. “You call them that in the family. We had special names for things, too, when I was a kid. Well, and for people, too. Mr Gresham down the street, we called him Gouty Greshy—had no idea what gout was, of course,” he added to Isabella with a wink.
“Ooh, was he a goblin?” breathed Petunia.
Ben laughed. “He was ugly enough for one, that’s for sure!”—His sister turned round, momentarily distracted from monitoring and correcting Bob, and gave him a glare.—“Um, no, just a rather ugly old man, poor old guy.”
“What else?” asked Honeysuckle eagerly.
Ronny had stopped looking superior. “Yes, go on, Ben! What else?”
“Uh—gee, can’t remember... Oh, yeah. You know ice cream sodas? Uh, you might not call them that... Well, you fill a soda glass three-quarters full of Coke, or any soda, but we usually chose Coke, the effect was better, and then you take a real good scoop of ice cream, and drop it into it. With any luck it fizzes like crazy but doesn’t run over the— What?” he finished lamely as his sister turned round, momentarily distracted from correcting Bob’s arithmetic, and gave him a glare.
“There’ll be Coke and melting ice cream all over poor Margot’s kitchen, are you nuts? Remember that time at Aunt Kate’s?”
“Her glasses weren’t big enough,” he whined feebly.
Ronny and Honeysuckle collapsed in ecstatic giggles. Little Petunia was still looking awed and horrified, however. Ben gave her tiny hand a comforting squeeze.
“I was only gonna say that we called them—and it was Dad’s name for them, so don’t try to blame me, Jessica!—we called them Fizzo-Bombs.”
“Fizzo-Bombs!” echoed Isabella pleasedly. “We could do that!”
Yeah, sure: this was the girl who had never tasted Coke until just the other day, when he’d chosen it for her and Edison at Mike’s— Shit. That goddamned dream was still as real as if it had actually happened!
Ronny was agreeing happily with his aunt: “Easy-peasy.” Meantime Honeysuckle and Jessica were both pointing out to Bob that the lady (not to say, the cash register) had it right, that was the right change. And Damian was shrieking: “Let me carry the tray! Dad, Dad! Let me carry—” Like that.
And with only a few cries of “Quick! Over there! Those people are leaving!” And: “No! Over here, that table’s too near the—” And: “Quick, Mr Masters, those other people are grabbing—” And etcetera, they managed to grab a table and collapse round it. Well, the adults all visibly collapsed, apart from Isabella: she seemed as serene as ever.
“Phew!” said Jessica limply. “I thought we’d never get to sit down!”
“Could’ve sat over at that counter,” noted Bob, investigating the insides of his Big Mac—she hadn’t let him have a quarter-pounder.
“No, those stupid stools are miles too high for the kids,” she sighed.
“I could have lifted them up.” he said mildly. “Come to that, Ben could have lifted th—”
“Just shut up, Bob,” she sighed, taking a bunch of fries.
“Anyroad, those stools are intended for the retarded set that are still under the impression at the age of thirty-odd,” noted Ben, glancing at the down at-heel, unshaven Londoners who had just taken several of those stools, them and their quarter-pounders, yes, Bob, and their large shakes, yes, Ronny, we see them—“are still under the impression,” he repeated, not loudly but very clearly, “that McDonald’s not only serves food, it’s the biggest treat known to Urban Man.”
“And woman, apparently,” added Jessica drily, though not as drily as might have been expected.
Ben took a second look at the long counter with the tall stools. Oh, yes: one of those huddled greyish shapes had pushed back its hood to reveal a female profile with dangling earrings and heavy eye makeup, as opposed to the hoops and studs of the unshaven ones.
Jessica ate some more of McDonald’s very special, ultra-thin, over-salted and treated-with-God-knew-what fries. “A Panda Lady!” she hissed, her eyes now sparkling.
Ben gave in and grinned. “She sure is! –That’s another of our family sayings when we were kids,” he explained to the kids.
“Like Fizzo-Bombs,” Ronny explained loftily to Damian. “You missed that.”
“I never! –What is a Fizzo-Bomb, Uncle Ben?”
Ben didn’t have to explain: the Prince kids—oops, and Isabella as well—oops, Jessica as well, those fries sure were quick-acting!—were all doing so for him. So he just sat back and tried his Big Mac. Tasted just like a Big Mac, that was a relief. With McDonald’s special sauce, you better believe it!
Jessica was now explaining in words of one syllable, though it was glaringly obvious the kids had all got it long since—well, maybe not Damian, but Ben wouldn't have taken any bets—just what constituted a Panda Lady.
“Those fries okay, Isabella?” Ben asked in a low voice.
She nodded, smiling, and all at once as it was as if he was surrounded by a host of bluebells—not daffodils, thank you, Mr Wordsworth—a host of bluebells, emitting cascades of deliciously melodious tinkles. Yep, uh-huh, a fairy bluebell wood right in the middle of McDonald’s, in old London town!
… “See?” said Bob in a super-smug voice as they piled into the car after the excitement of the Tube back to Hampstead and the sated kids immediately dozed off. “Knew McDonald’s ’ud be the go!”
Surprisingly enough Damian didn't have nightmares about crocodiles and Captain Hooks that night, and Isabella reported that nor had the Prince kids. Ben hadn't either, he’d dreamed of a kind of paradise consisting of never-ending relays of Mike’s Diner and McDonald’s, with Isabella at his side. And a few extraneous elves, but never mind, dreams were like that. And lots and lots of Fizzo-Bombs amidst the bluebells.
“The zoo!” cried Damian.
Aunty Sue smiled weakly. “Uh—no, Damian, honey, I think it’s too cold for the zoo.”
“Isabella could come with us, she’ll keep you warm,” he offered.
Jessica sighed heavily. “Why did I think that one might have worn off? No, Damian, it’s too cold out. Think of somewhere else you’d like Aunty Sue to take you.”
Damian thought. “What if it costs money?” he produced.
Jessica gulped.
“That’s okay, honey. What it is it?” asked Aunty Sue kindly.
“The London Eye,” he said hopefully, not looking at his mother.
“Aunty Sue, he’ll get vertigo!” she gasped in horror.
Unmoved, good old Aunty Sue replied: “Has he ever had it before?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but he’s never been up in anything as high. –Damian, you won’t like it. Remember how high that slide in the park is?”—Damian scowled.—“Well, it’s much worse than that. Much, much higher. Like a very, very tall building.”
“Jessica, it’s all enclosed,” murmured Aunty Sue.
“Yeah, no ladders,” agreed Ben.
“Just keep out of it, Ben, you haven’t got kids!” snapped his sister.
Ben crept back into his shell.
You might have thought that that would be the end of it, but actually it wasn’t. Shortly after Isabella had come on over, Jessica changed her mind. If the Prince kids were keen to go and if Isabella and Ben would go along to help Aunty Sue manage them all—and it was true she had her eye on something at Harrods, she could pop in there while— Those who were aware that, like most of humanity, she was incapable of just popping in and popping out of Harrods, it’d be hours and hours, just laid low and said nuffin’, like Br’er Rabbit. Okay, then, Damian, honey, but don’t say you haven’t been warned.
Bob forthwith took Ben aside and told him that if the kid did have a fit of the screaming meemies the only tactic was to haul him up bodily, ignoring the screaming, kicking, and in one awful instance biting, and smother him against your chest. So wear something padded. Two layers, preferably. It then dawned—belatedly, true, but it dawned—that the guy wasn’t joking, for once, so Ben thanked him limply for the advice. Uh—so if they were all out, what was he gonna do?
“There is an expression for it,” replied Bob thoughtfully. “Think it might be an American expression, ’smatter of fact. Um... not that one with couches and potatoes—well, couches come into it, but not potatoes, don’t think... Um... veg out!” he produced proudly.
“Uh—dunno if it’s an Americanism or not, but I sure know what you mean,” his brother-in-law conceded. “Lucky you.”
“Isabella is gonna go with you,” Bob pointed out.
“That’s my one consolation,” Ben admitted, grinning.
… Yeah, that was the London Eye, sure enough. Hours later they were actually in the thing, slowly rising... Okay, Damian, Santa’s sleighs all go much higher. Okay, Ronny, we heard him! The North Pole is further north, Damian, but that does not make it higher!
“Leave it, Ben,” murmured Aunty Sue. “Remember you and the Little Red Engine?”
Ben glared.
“He was four,” Aunty Sue told Isabella happily, “and used to have these fantasies about riding off behind his Little Red Engine—was that in a Little Golden Book, Ben? Well, I can’t remember. He’d tell us all about it with dead seriousness!” She shook all over.
Ben glared. “Okay, Aunty Sue, I had a Little Red Engine that took me anywhere I fancied and Damian’s ridden in Santa’s sleigh—”
“One of Santa’s sleighs,” Ronny corrected pedantically.
He took a deep breath. “One of Santa’s sleighs, going up much higher than the London Eye does. Let’s leave it at that. Just enjoy the view. –Look, you can just make out the—uh—well, forgotten what the thing is,” he admitted lamely. “The Shard?”
His aunt grabbed his arm—ouch! “No! The Shard’s over here!” She swung him round fiercely.
“Oh—right,” said Ben lamely. “Big, huh?”
“Hideous,” pronounced Aunty Sue with satisfaction.
If she said so. “Yeah, sure.” He turned round and peered but the other thing was now lost in the murk, or maybe obscured by that real hideous chunky tower block, much more hideous than the Shard, which was really quite elegant, only that it sure did dominate everything else as far as the eye could— “Mm, I think it is raining, Ronny,” he agreed.
“Dill pickle, Ben?” hazarded Honeysuckle.
Not the McDonald’s theme again! “What?” replied Ben weakly.
“The other building. Was it a dill pickle?”
“Nuh—Oh! Yeah, of course, honey! The one they call the Gherkin!” He peered, but nope.
And after everyone had been put right on the names of London’s bridges—okay, Ronny, we get it! Tower Bridge!—and after Petunia had tried to recite the poem and been howled down by her brother, Ronny had duly been squashed by Aunty Sue, Ben and Honeysuckle, not necessarily in that order, and Petunia had recited the rhyme in full, it was agreed that those were the Houses of Parliament and that was Big Ben—yes, Ronny, hilarious—and that there—turning round and pointing again, to the imminent peril of all other, hah-hah, eyes, was the Shard, yes, and maybe that bit down there was where Double-Oh-Seven had raced his speed boat—okay, Ronny, it definitely was—they all voted for lunch. Or, looking at Ben’s watch, late lunch.
But gee, the London Eye had other ideas, didn’t it? Yes, Damian, we told you it would take a long time. Yes, Petunia, it is taking a long time, you want Aunty Sue to carry you? That’s a good girl! Come on Damian, let Uncle Ben carry y— Okay, no.
How much nicer it would be, mused Ben, trying to close his ears completely, if it was him and Isabella alone in this here cabin or whatever. All warm and cosy in the London Eye, enclosed against the world, just occasionally bothering to glance at the magnificent view...
Uh—on a better day than this. Yes, Honeysuckle, it probably was sleeting, now. No, Damian, only idiots visit the zoo in the London sleet. Or rain, yes, Petunia, quite right, honey. “Well, Ronny, I dunno; do you think it looks like snow?” Gee, it worked: the kid stared fixedly out at the murk, and Ben allowed his mind to drift off again...
“Just you and me, with flowers,” whispered Isabella. “It would be nice!”
“Mm-hm.” He came down to earth with a jump as the thing reached the bottom of its sweep at long, long last. “Flowers? Where did that one come from?”
“It’s on the ads, Ben,” his Aunty Sue informed him before the blushing Isabella could speak. “You can hire one of these, uh, capsules, I think is the official term. Lots of couples do, apparently. With champagne and flowers.”
“Couldn’t be bad!” concluded Ben with a laugh.
“No,” agreed Isabella, hugging his arm and smiling gratefully at his Aunty Sue. “It sure couldn’t!”
He had at last gotten her to agree to a real date. She’d never had Italian food? Ben shook his head dazedly, it was that water-in-the-ear feeling he sometimes got with Isabella. Boy, that village of hers sure must be backward! He promised her she’d love it, and since the restaurant had been highly recommended by one of his business contacts, one Mark Heddington, who had added the interesting addendum that the place was “good and dim, with booths, ideal for getting closer to the bird in question”—wink, wink—made a booking. Luigi’s. Well, okay, why not? There must be millions of them, all over the world, but yeah, it was Italian enough. He wouldn't have taken Heddington’s word on the food as gospel, though there was no doubt whatsoever the “birding” bit’d be correct, the guy had player written all over him, but he’d also asked Charlie Broughton-Jones’s advice, and he’d said it was excellent, even his Italian mother-in-law almost approved of it, and try the veal, old man, to die for, no horrid spaghetti sauces need apply. If it hadn’t already been pretty clear he’d also been a player in his time it would’ve been now, because he also advised asking for a booth if you had a bird in tow; but could you get a better recommendation than an Italian mother-in-law? So they went.
“Does one always take a taxi in the evening instead of the Tube?” asked Isabella as they got out of it. –Soho. Didn’t mean the place mightn’t be a dump, true, but fingers crossed.
“Definitely when one’s with a girl, yes!” replied Ben with a laugh.
Help! How many girls had he kissed in taxis in the evening? Isabella gulped. “I get the picture,” she said weakly.
“Well done, Isabella, you sounded quite American, then!” replied Ben happily, ushering her in.
It was dim, all right. With booths, uh-huh. A variety of lighting, including the obligatory small red-shaded lamps, but not kitschy, and really, very attractive. The booths done out in dark green leather, uh, well, Naugahyde or some such, but looked good. No checkered tablecloths, that augured well.
They’d start with the antipasto, why not? Usual choice, really: bottled artichoke hearts, bocconcini cheeses, sliced salami. But it also incorporated cherry tomatoes, small fresh radishes and assorted leaves, mainly endive—Jessica reckoned they called it chicory here: whatever. Kindly Ben warned Isabella it had a bitter taste, but she assured him happily she knew it, Daniello often served it! Oh, yeah, of course, he’d used it in a couple of ways at his great dinner.
The veal was on, all right. Not Parmigiana, thank God, Ben had had innumerable variations on that, all revolting. He didn’t recognise this name but he’d take Charlie Broughton-Jones’s word—and the waiter’s—that it was delicious. She didn’t really want meat. Ben’s face fell. “I was forgetting,” he said lamely. “You could have pasta, I guess, though they seem to be serving it as an entrée course, um, not the main course. There’s one with zucchini—sounds good, actually. Um... gee, only one risotto. Alla Valtellinese. Hold on, I’ll ask the waiter.”
The waiter was a small, fat, middle-aged Italian-looking man, though he had an English accent. A relief: Ben had had prior experience of young Italian waiters who blatantly eyed up your lady companion, or in a couple of horrid instances, yourself. Yeah. He appeared very happy to tell them that the Risotto alla Valtellinese was a speciality of Lombardy.
The beans (kindly, to the ignorant American, Ben fancied) were like pinto beans. The dish also had lightly cooked fresh cabbage in it, and was flavoured with a sage butter. Okay, Isabella fancied it. Ben would have said it sounded revolting, especially the cabbage, but whatever turned you on.
The pasta with the zucchini was then urged warmly on both of them but Ben held out against it: he didn’t think Isabella would want or need both pasta and rice and he himself didn't particularly want that much starch. Then perhaps a vegetable on the side? The waiter could recommend the broccoli, sir, fresh from the markets this morning: they could have it either alla Siciliania, stronger flavours, with anchovies, olives, and strong cheese, or “a crudo”—no, sir, not raw: sautéed lightly with garlic and finished in white wine. A dish from the Rome area. Actually it did sound good, so Ben thought he’d have that. What about you, Isabella? Sounded okay, huh? The zucchini, if he’d pardon the man—fatherly beam at Isabella—might be a better choice, since the lady was having cabbage in her risotto. Gee, he was determined to get rid of those zucchini, huh? Just grilled. Okay, she agreed. And the carrots, perhaps, sir? Al forno. Baked in stock with thyme, and a little butter to finish. Tuscany. Okay, they were getting the full gamut. Not asking what region the original Luigi had actually been from, Ben agreed they would both have the carrots. He would have a red wine, could the waiter recommend—? Okay, he could. As Ben didn’t know—hah-hah—beans about Italian wines he accepted the suggested red. And a sparkling mineral water for the lady, thanks. Pellegrino? Was it like that lovely one Jessica had had in her fridge? she wanted to know. Um, which, Isabella? A green bottle... Oh! Yeah, sure, it’d be very like it.
“It’s very complicated,” Isabella concluded when the man had trotted off hugging his menus, looking happy—probably that was the dearest red on the list, but too bad.
“What? Oh. Well, no sense in choosing dishes that won’t go together.”
Weakly Isabella agreed with him and tried to smile. Mother had warned her that mortal meals could be very complicated, and mortals could take choosing them extra-seriously—in fact she was telling her so at this minute. Oh, dear!
The dish with the rice and the cabbage and beans was nice, however, and it was such a relief not to be eating meat, and the fresh little bits of things first had been good, too, so although the zucchini and the carrots tasted very cooked—
Very mortal!
—Yes, thank you, Mother!—she was able to smile at Ben and thank him for the lovely meal.
Then it was pudding, thank goodness, and he let her have strawberry ice cream. True, he told her a long, involved story about Italian immigrants in Britain and their ice cream, but Isabella just smiled at him and ate her yummy pudding up happily. No, she didn’t think she’d have coffee, thank you, Ben. Real Italian? Um, no, thank you all the same, Ben. ...Why did mortals drink so much coffee when they had all sorts of much nicer drinks, like Coke and—and sodas and—well, almost anything, really. Certainly the fizzy water! And they had milk: wouldn’t you think, in a realm where they had milk, it would be on the menu? But no, it wasn’t—she hadn’t asked, she’d seen what Ben had been reading. What on earth would Red Daisy say to that? “Moo-oo-ooncredible,” probably!
“Uh—what?” said Ben, shaking his head a little. Felt like he’d just heard something mooing! Did his ears need syringing out?
“The ice cream was yummy,” smiled Isabella.
“Good.”
After the meal he wanted to stroll for a little. It was very cold, there was hardly anyone on the streets, but he didn’t seem to mind. They passed lots of little restaurants, all very busy. If you listened, you could hear the people discussing what to have and what might go with what in great detail.
I told you! They are all like that! came the voice.
Ben jumped. “What in Hell was that?”
“Are you hearing voices?” returned Isabella limply.
“Uh—guess it was just something from one of these places,” he said, looking at the nearby Chinese restaurant.
“The people seem to be very busy choosing,” she offered timidly. “Look at that table: they’ve got lots and lots of dishes.”
Ben peered. “Oh—right. Looks like they might be having the banquet, that’s quite a good choice when there’s half a dozen of you. Tell you what, we should get a sitter for all of the kids and come here with Jessica and Bob and your brother and his wife!” He beamed at her. “Maybe that old aunt of yours would like to sit them again, huh? I guess we could victimise poor Aunty Sue, but she likes Chinese, be nicer to have her along.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure Aunty Pippa would be glad to do it—if she’s not, um, doing something else,” ended Isabella dubiously.
“Sure! We don’t want to inconvenience her.”
“No.” At this time of the mortal year the Fairy Pippa Pippin sometimes went to the Realm of Snow for a long nap: she’d take some apples, she loved apples and she was always saying Santa’s elves and fairies didn’t get enough fresh fruit; and they’d all have an apple or two and a big mug of cocoa and then drowse off for a good long nap. Santa, of course, was very tired after delivering all the presents, and the elves had all been working very hard all year, they all needed a good rest. Though there was no way she could put this so as he’d believe her.
“Um, sometimes she, um, isn’t home,” she murmured.
“Takes her vacation, huh? Sure, lots do. Doesn’t go to a winter sports resort, though, I guess?” said Ben with a chuckle.
Isabella winced. “It’s snowy but she doesn’t do sports,” she offered.
“No. –Look, shall we grab a taxi and maybe go down by the river? There’ll be quite a view, it’s a clear night.”
So they went down to the river and walked up and down for a while, admiring the lights and the reflections in the water.
“Listen, Isabella,” said Ben, holding her hand very tight, “I’ve got to go away quite soon: people to see in Ireland and France, first off. Well, the Irish economy’s starting to pick up a little, but I dunno how viable this guy’s idea is—but the bank wants me to check it out. There’s a couple of French propositions I’ve gotta look at. The German firm sounds a better bet, mind you, and there’s a Danish one, too. I’m seeing them towards the end of January. Uh—it might be a bit boring for you, stuck in a hotel room while I’m working, but, well, we could get you some guidebooks, sort out some places to see, if it isn't too cold? Well, some great museums in Paris, you don’t need to walk round in the cold looking at monuments and stuff.” He swallowed. Shit, talking too much, as usual! “Would you fancy coming with me?” he said hoarsely.
Isabella found her heart was beating very fast. “Um, to—to stay with you? In your hotel room?” she squeaked. He had a picture in his head of a pretty bedroom with a fancy bedspread on a great big bed, and lamps on the side tables and a big basket of fruit wrapped in shiny transparent paper of some sort on a low cabinet at the side of the room. And some suitcases on a funny sort of stool at the foot of the bed: his suitcases and hers. Not that she owned any such thing, but in his head the smaller, prettier suitcases were hers.
“Yes,” said Ben, swallowing hard. “Sure.”
“And sleep in the big bed?” she breathed.
“That is the object of the exercise!” replied Ben with a crazy laugh.
“I’d love to, Ben!”
“Thank Christ!” He swept her into his arms and kissed her very, very thoroughly. Oh, Isabella!
Darling Ben! Darling Ben with the human heart thumping so hard she could feel the vibrations right through her, and the soft, feathery black hair, and the strange dark, dark eyes.
He’s a mortal, Isabella! Lovely, I grant you, but no good ever came of taking up with a mortal man!
“Oh, shut up, Mother!” said Isabella breathlessly.
Ben stepped back a little in surprise. “Huh? Were you talking to your mother, just then?”
“Yes. I could hear her voice,” confessed Isabella miserably.
“I get it!” he said with a chuckle. “Jessica gets that at times, too. She reckons all daughters do—the voice in your head telling you that ain’t ladylike, or don’t take up with him, no prospects, or don’t sit with your knees apart in public! Though she admits herself that our Mom’s not so bad.”
“Yes. It was very like that,” she said gratefully.
“So! Hotel room and a great big bed, huh?” he said, kissing her very thoroughly again.
“Yes, Ben. Lovely!” said Isabella.
Next chapter:
https://isabelladowntoearth-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/business-trip.html
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