notices it too and crouches down, taking her chin in his hand.
‘If that doesn’t heal up soon, I’m calling the doctor.’
She turns away.
‘You have to leave him for good this time,’ Marc says. ‘Do you understand me? You can’t go back. I don’t care if he says he’ll marry you. You have to think of your son.’
‘I know . I know, Marc.’
She pulls herself from the stool.
‘Sophia, I’m so sorry.’ Her legs look barely able to hold her weight. ‘I so wanted to be well and healthy when I met you, but ... I’m a wreck again.’
‘It’s fine, really.’ She’s so frail that I want to take care of her. Wrap her in warm clothes and feed her up.
As she walks towards me, hand out to shake mine, she stumbles a little.
I leap forward, and Marc does too. We both grab her, me around her rib cage, Marc by the shoulders.
‘You need to rest,’ says Marc.
‘You need to eat ,’ I say, helping her back onto the stool. ‘Let me make you some soup.’
‘No, please.’ Annabel shakes her head. ‘Honestly, what must you think of me? I so wanted to make a good impression on you.’ She glances at Marc and manages a weak smile. ‘The girl who has my brother head over heels.’
‘Let me fix you something,’ I say, making sure she has a firm seat on the stool. ‘Tea at least. Or hot Bovril.’
I go to the fridge and see its chock full of gourmet stuff – potted crab, sides of ham, smoked salmon and a basket of exotic fruit tied with ribbons.
‘Do you have any chicken soup?’ I ask Marc.
He comes to my shoulder and looks into the fridge. ‘Rodney stocked up in case Annabel felt like eating. I don’t know if chicken soup was on his radar.’
‘Do you think you could manage some soup?’ I ask Annabel.
‘I can try.’ Annabel gives Marc the tiniest of smiles. ‘She’s beautiful, Marc. Just like you said. Inside and out. I can see why you like her.’
I feel a smile in my stomach and glance at Marc, but he’s giving nothing away, so I open and close cupboards, looking for hearty, warming foods – the sort you want when you’re ill and shaky. I don’t know what’s wrong with Annabel, but chicken soup helps most things.
There’s nothing in the cupboards but gourmet spreads, exotic spices, speciality flours and warm champagne.
I go back to the fridge and find a packet of Harrods roasted chicken legs and some fresh tarragon. There are odd bits of vegetable in the fridge door – a bunch of carrots with big leafy stems, a Savoy cabbage and a packet of Jersey Royal potatoes.
I rummage in the cupboard for flour, noticing Marc watching me, a half smile on his face.
‘Chicken soup,’ I say, taking down a knife and chopping vegetables on a marble board. ‘And I’ll bake some soda bread too.’
35
Thanks to Rodney’s organisation, the kitchen is easy to use, and I soon have a pan of soup boiling on the stove and soda bread baking in the oven.
When I serve Annabel her bowl of soup, she takes a spoonful and smiles.
‘ Mmm,’ she says. ‘I haven’t had anything like this in a long time.’ She looks at Marc. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t either. A home-cooked meal.’
‘On the contrary,’ says Marc. ‘Sophia cooked me a meal just the other day. At her father’s house.’
‘If it was as delicious as this, you were lucky,’ says Annabel.
‘It was sublime.’
I blush when Marc says that. He’s probably eaten at some of the world’s best restaurants, but still he enjoyed my cooking.
‘Do you think you could manage some bread?’ I ask Annabel, stooping to check my little loaf in the oven.
‘It smells so good,’ says Annabel. ‘I’d love some.’
I take the loaf from the oven and cut a little slice for Annabel. I don’t butter it –that might be a step too far – but she seems happy to dip it into her soup.
There’s colour in her cheeks now, and she’s sitting up much straighter.
‘What must you think of me, Sophia?’ she says, scraping her spoon on the bottom of
‘If that doesn’t heal up soon, I’m calling the doctor.’
She turns away.
‘You have to leave him for good this time,’ Marc says. ‘Do you understand me? You can’t go back. I don’t care if he says he’ll marry you. You have to think of your son.’
‘I know . I know, Marc.’
She pulls herself from the stool.
‘Sophia, I’m so sorry.’ Her legs look barely able to hold her weight. ‘I so wanted to be well and healthy when I met you, but ... I’m a wreck again.’
‘It’s fine, really.’ She’s so frail that I want to take care of her. Wrap her in warm clothes and feed her up.
As she walks towards me, hand out to shake mine, she stumbles a little.
I leap forward, and Marc does too. We both grab her, me around her rib cage, Marc by the shoulders.
‘You need to rest,’ says Marc.
‘You need to eat ,’ I say, helping her back onto the stool. ‘Let me make you some soup.’
‘No, please.’ Annabel shakes her head. ‘Honestly, what must you think of me? I so wanted to make a good impression on you.’ She glances at Marc and manages a weak smile. ‘The girl who has my brother head over heels.’
‘Let me fix you something,’ I say, making sure she has a firm seat on the stool. ‘Tea at least. Or hot Bovril.’
I go to the fridge and see its chock full of gourmet stuff – potted crab, sides of ham, smoked salmon and a basket of exotic fruit tied with ribbons.
‘Do you have any chicken soup?’ I ask Marc.
He comes to my shoulder and looks into the fridge. ‘Rodney stocked up in case Annabel felt like eating. I don’t know if chicken soup was on his radar.’
‘Do you think you could manage some soup?’ I ask Annabel.
‘I can try.’ Annabel gives Marc the tiniest of smiles. ‘She’s beautiful, Marc. Just like you said. Inside and out. I can see why you like her.’
I feel a smile in my stomach and glance at Marc, but he’s giving nothing away, so I open and close cupboards, looking for hearty, warming foods – the sort you want when you’re ill and shaky. I don’t know what’s wrong with Annabel, but chicken soup helps most things.
There’s nothing in the cupboards but gourmet spreads, exotic spices, speciality flours and warm champagne.
I go back to the fridge and find a packet of Harrods roasted chicken legs and some fresh tarragon. There are odd bits of vegetable in the fridge door – a bunch of carrots with big leafy stems, a Savoy cabbage and a packet of Jersey Royal potatoes.
I rummage in the cupboard for flour, noticing Marc watching me, a half smile on his face.
‘Chicken soup,’ I say, taking down a knife and chopping vegetables on a marble board. ‘And I’ll bake some soda bread too.’
35
Thanks to Rodney’s organisation, the kitchen is easy to use, and I soon have a pan of soup boiling on the stove and soda bread baking in the oven.
When I serve Annabel her bowl of soup, she takes a spoonful and smiles.
‘ Mmm,’ she says. ‘I haven’t had anything like this in a long time.’ She looks at Marc. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t either. A home-cooked meal.’
‘On the contrary,’ says Marc. ‘Sophia cooked me a meal just the other day. At her father’s house.’
‘If it was as delicious as this, you were lucky,’ says Annabel.
‘It was sublime.’
I blush when Marc says that. He’s probably eaten at some of the world’s best restaurants, but still he enjoyed my cooking.
‘Do you think you could manage some bread?’ I ask Annabel, stooping to check my little loaf in the oven.
‘It smells so good,’ says Annabel. ‘I’d love some.’
I take the loaf from the oven and cut a little slice for Annabel. I don’t butter it –that might be a step too far – but she seems happy to dip it into her soup.
There’s colour in her cheeks now, and she’s sitting up much straighter.
‘What must you think of me, Sophia?’ she says, scraping her spoon on the bottom of
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