All Change: Cazalet Chronicles by Elizabeth Jane Howard

about the Florentine lady who had gone to France to marry the king and brought her cooks with her. ‘It changed French cooking for ever.’
    ‘How? By poisoning people?’
    ‘No. Well, she may have poisoned the odd person, but what happened was she taught the French that sauces were meant to bring out the flavour of whatever they were eating, whereas before they’d simply used sauces to cover up the taste of rotting meat.’
    ‘Are you reading about that, then? What an amazing—’
    But Stella interrupted her: ‘I read it somewhere ages ago. No, I’m on Bertrand Russell’s History of Western Philosophy . My father was so incensed I hadn’t read it that he sent a messenger to the flat with a copy. Louise, I think I’ll have to go now. I must catch the train back in time for dinner. I’d better see your father to give him the money.’
    So they piled up the tray and went back to the house. It was breathlessly hot, and the house was quiet as most of its occupants were having a siesta. Her father was snoozing in a chair in the salon. ‘Sorry, darling. I must have dropped off.’
    ‘Stella has brought you the money.’ She stood unforgivingly before him – willing him to be Dad-without-Diana. He was.
    ‘It’s extremely kind of you to come all this way. I’m most awfully grateful to you. Do you know how much it is? So that I can write a cheque – if that’s all right with your family?’
    ‘It’s the equivalent of five hundred pounds. And a cheque should be made out to my father. He’s Dr Nathan Rose.’
    ‘Right.’ He picked up his cheque book, which he had put in readiness on the table in front of him. ‘Could I also have his address? I should like to write and thank him.’
    ‘I’ve got his address, Dad. Stella’s got to go now to catch her train back.’
    ‘Well, at least let me drive you to the station.’
    It was all right. He was being her charming, attractive father.
    He put Stella in the front of the car and during the drive talked to her constantly, asking her about her holiday, inviting them both to dinner at his club in the autumn. At the station he walked with them both to the platform where the little train was already waiting. He shook hands with Stella, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve saved my bacon. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. Please tell your family, won’t you?’
    ‘I will.’
    She and Louise hugged. ‘See you at Mon Débris.’
    ‘Is that what you call your flat?’ he asked, when they were back in the car.
    ‘Yes. It does suit it rather.’
    ‘Are you short of furniture and things like that?’
    ‘Well, not really. We’ve got the basic stuff. Stella’s father gave her things.’
    ‘What could I give you?’
    ‘Well . . .’ She told him about their gas cooker, purchased for two pounds ten, but it had a hole in the oven door, and brown paper pasted over it didn’t last. ‘So we need to get a new one, a new second-hand one, I mean.’
    ‘I’ll see to that, darling.’ He squeezed her hand.
    Later, he said, ‘Sorry about lunch. The thing is that Diana isn’t herself. Change of life or something.’
    ‘Oh.’ Louise made a resolution that when she got it – which wouldn’t be for years and years – she would be especially nice to everyone; it wouldn’t be an excuse.
    ‘How’s your love life?’ he asked, as they reached the villa.
    ‘It’s the same,’ she said. ‘It’s fine.’ But as she said it, she knew somehow that these two things were incompatible. ‘He goes away for ages in summer, to the south of France, as a matter of fact, and he hardly ever writes letters. I feel a bit blue then.’
    ‘Good thing you’re with us,’ he answered heartily. He hardly noticed anything, Louise thought.
    ‘I’m afraid that being a mistress is much more difficult than having one,’ he said. So he must have noticed some things, she realised.
    Ten days later she was taken to the airport at Nice to fly home. ‘Dumped’ was