Page 46 of The Gingerbread Cafe
‘So let’s go wild.’ He shrugged. ‘Try a mangetout or something.’ He moved in through the door and closed the short gap between them. His grey eyes simmered as they held her gaze. ‘Please, I’d love to have you by my side. Not for spooning. Unless you want me to add that to the menu for later.’ That cheeky smile again.
As he leaned down and touched the tip of his nose against hers, she knew it was checkmate.
Lukas picked Gretel up at seven o’clock. She’d never eaten at a place with Michelin stars before, and who even knew what a banquet entailed? Lukas had at least promised there’d be no pigs on platters with apples stuffed in their mouths, or anything garish. In fact, Marcus Spooning’s restaurant was exclusively vegetarian, which is why Lukas thought she’d like it. Not that she was a big fan of vegetables – she just couldn’t stomach the idea of eating her animal friends.
‘You’ll steal the show,’ he told her when he arrived, kissing her lightly on the forehead. She’d chosen a knee-length powder-blue dress from her limited selection of non-Christmassy items, which she couldn’t remember ever having worn. He swirled her around like something from one of those ballroom dancing shows she used to watch with her mum, even if neither of them had really been able to dance. She slipped on a fluffy coat andsome ballet pumps, and out into the fresh spring night they went.
As Green Tree Lane was pedestrianised, Gretel had suggested they walk the short trip to Lukas’s cottage just outside the village, to grab his car. She knew a stroll in the fresh night air would help shake off her nerves, although she secretly wanted to have a nosey at where he lived. Gretel had never been inside Lukas’s cottage, and as she gave it the discreet once-over from the outside, she wondered if and when she would. It was modest yet beautiful, with its slightly squiffy Cotswold stone walls and ornamental vines sneaking above the doorway. The old wooden door was painted heritage green to match the window frames. It wasn’t showy or pretentious at all.
Gretel knew it wasn’t the house he used to share with his now ex-wife Mirabelle, before she’d traded him in forEduardo. Lukas and Mirabelle had lived somewhere modern outside of the village, so he’d said, with too many glass surfaces, and large rooms that made him feel chilly.
‘Starry Knight.’ She read the name on the slate plaque by the door. ‘It’s a stunning cottage.’
‘I’ll show you around someday,’ he promised as he opened the car door for her, his arm brushing against her shoulder and sending tingles through her body. She really hoped he would, but for now, she was wriggling with excitement for their first proper date.
Chapter 38
Twenty minutes later they walked arm in arm into Lukas’s friend’s restaurant, Spooning on the River, which overlooked the water. Gretel couldn’t help noticing the resemblance to the building Lukas had his eye on for his own restaurant in Lower Paddleton. Despite Lukas’s body heat, Gretel felt herself shiver as they stepped inside. For all its exterior charm, the restaurant was the opposite of cosy. It had so many mirrors Gretel felt like there were twice as many heads staring at her – and as for that humungous central chandelier … She dared a look upwards. No, it wasn’t going to fall on them at any moment.
‘Knighty.’ An intimidatingly large man in chef’s whites came over to clap Lukas on the back, slightly too aggressively in Gretel’s opinion. ‘Glad you could make it, old chum.’
Old chum?Who even spoke like that? Gretel glanced at Lukas to see if he thought so too, but he wasn’t giving much away.
‘Wouldn’t miss it, Marcus,’ said Lukas. ‘Huge congratulations. You deserve it.’
Well, at least he hadn’t called him Spoony.
‘Let’s hope you get a move on with your own Michelin star, hey, boy? Are you still cocking about at La Carotte Rôtie, or have you sorted out a proper plan?’
‘It’s all in hand, mate,’ said Lukas, clapping Marcus on the back in the same excessive fashion. Gretel secretly hoped it was payback, although from Lukas’s amiable smile she couldn’t tell.
‘Anyway, make yourself at home, Knighty boy. Come on in and see how the big chaps do it.’ Marcus gave Gretel a sleazy wink that made her want to go home and have a good wash.
Could she manage to feel at home amongst those stiff white tablecloths she’d be terrified of spilling something on? And what was the point in so many confusing knives and forks? It seemed as though even the cutlery was a test of who belonged and who didn’t.
The banquet was to entail sitting at long tables whilst well-dressed youngsters scurried around serving them identical fancy-looking food that they hadn’t even chosen. There were some more private tables up on a mezzanine VIP area, but Lukas and Gretel were apparently not Michelin-starry or important enough for one of those.
As she looked around, Gretel tried to shake off the weight of disappointment. She’d been expecting a candlelit meal at a table for two, rather than having to make small talk with a party of strangers who seemed so well dressed and grown-up compared to her. She wouldn’t even be able to quiz Lukas on what he thought of it all. Although from the way he smiled and greeted other old friends and their partners with ease, maybe it was his kind of thing.
‘Let’s sit,’ said Lukas, placing one hand on the small of her back and steering her lightly towards their seats at the long banqueting table.
From the moment they sat down at the table with all its gleaming glasses, she felt like a klutz. Although at least she could partially hide herself under the tablecloth.
‘Have I worn the wrong thing?’ she whispered to Lukas, feeling her shoulders droop as she took in all the glitz at thetable. Gretel had put on the smartest dress she could find, but compared to these women with their long fitted velvet ensembles and sparkly jewellery, she just felt plain. Were these the people she’d socialise with and the types of places they’d go to if she spent more time with Lukas? She shook her head because she was surely being silly. Lukas wouldn’t be in charge of everything.
‘I’m a little disappointed that you didn’t wear your deely boppers or that Christmas tank top with the snowmen,’ Lukas replied. ‘But apart from that …’ He squeezed her hand and she felt a little brighter, even if she was still looking forward to leaving.
‘Celeriac risotto with garlic confit and dehydrated beetroot powder.’ It was a statement rather than a question, Gretel noticed, as a young waiter slid a fancy plate of rice in front of her. She didn’t dare argue. She turned to Lukas to ask him whatconfitmeant and whether it would be rude to ask for ketchup. But Lukas was having a heartyold chumchat with the man next to him, who was appraising the food rudely with his mouth full, spilling beetroot powder on his white cummerbund. Instead, Gretel amused herself by imagining Gordon the Grocer’s face when she’d tell him about the dehydrated beetroot. At least she knew her new friends back in the village would find it funny.
A sommelier came around describing and pouring wine with a twisty armed flourish, but Lukas put a hand over his glass and signalled for sparkling water. Gretel mustered a smile and accepted wine, partly because all of this might be less painful with a splash of alcohol, and partly because she didn’t understand how anyone could stomach water that tasted like a gassy burp. She didn’t know how Lukas could drink it.
Yet when Lukas rested his hand on Gretel’s arm as the waiter swept away her plate and announced the next wobbly dish to bea ‘tri-colour vegetable timbale, madam,’ the reassuring warmth of Lukas’s touch made her feel instantly grounded.
Lukas leaned in gently towards her. ‘It’s called a timbale because of its drum shape,’ he whispered into her ear.
‘Why can’t they just call a drum a drum?’ she asked, guessing it was another bit of code in thefancy-grown-ups-onlyclub.
But as Lukas’s lips brushed against her earlobe in a soft laugh making her want to close her eyes and be devoured by him, she realised she didn’t care about trivial differences like gas-belly water. Before she could stop herself she’d slipped a hand onto his leg under the table, the firmness of his thigh under the shine of his suit trousers feeling like support on slippery ground. She used her other hand to fight the blancmange-like tri-coloured whatsit on her plate.
