"Come in," he said without much conviction. "It is, I fear, too cold to be a foundling in search of shelter on a doorstep." He
smiled.
As she crossed the threshold, she held out her hand in greeting but, perceiving no response, withdrew it almost immediately. He shut the door behind her and gently ushered her into the kitchen with a wave of his hand. Still clutching her bag tightly to her chest, she took in the heady delights of this, his special room. Not for him, a plush dining room with the finest walnut-veneered table or a pristine lounge, replete with leather Chesterfields, occasional tables made from the finest turned mahogany, shelf after shelf of books, philosophers, sages, scientists, authors of the most wondrous imagination, although he had them all; no, this was where he received his few guests, in that inner sanctum of culinary delight; the space that came second only to his studio in his affections, the space that was the dearest thing to his soul, save his art.
"Come, let me take your coat," he said as she stood transfixed by all of the paraphernalia of chefs: the ovens; the grills; the food processors; the decorative ceramic bowls, laden with fruit; the tall glass jars on open shelves filled with rice, dried pasta, lentils and all manner of pulses; the jars of spices; the copper pans; every conceivable utensil, for every occasion, nutmeg graters, garlic presses, slotted spoons, ladles, measuring spoons and cups, spatulas, olive pitters, sieves, colanders, all hung from hooks in the wall, all ready for immediate action in the quest for culinary glory. She let the overnight bag and a small clutch bag fall to the floor and took off her coat. As she handed it to him, she issued a warning.
"Be very careful, this coat has history!"
As he took the coat in his hands, he could tell without a shadow of a doubt that it was indeed made of genuine mink; he had felt too many sable brushes, and 'Prolene' substitutes, between his fingers to doubt his appreciation of the finer aspects of the 'natural' as opposed to the 'artificial'. He hung the coat on a peg of the hatstand that stood just outside of the kitchen door. He briefly stroked the pelt as if he were settling the mink, a favoured pet in her basket, for the night.
"Something to drink?" He proffered as he re-entered the kitchen. "And then you can tell me who exactly you might be. For you do know me, that much is plain, but I do not know you; or at least I do not recognise you. Tea, coffee? A glass of wine, champagne, prosecco? Something a little stronger, perhaps? A G and T with ice and a slice or a 'Screwdriver', although it is, perhaps, a little early in the day for alcohol but still mere minutes short of opening time."
She appeared ill at ease and fumbled with her bag which she had raised from the floor and now abstractly toyed with; stroking the handles and gently caressing the nap.
"A gin and tonic would be very nice, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," she said. "However, I would have thought that, even after such a long time, you might have had some memory of the coat; the coat that my grandmother left to me in her will all those long years ago."
As he poured the tonic water over the gin soaked ice cubes in the tall, Dartington crystal hi-ball glass that he had chosen as befitting the occasion, he remembered. The memories, long since held in check, came flooding back to him as the dam was breached by something so insubstantial; her grandmother's coat. The winter days in the park, warming his frozen hands under that coat and her soft, warm flesh beneath the layers of wool and cotton; the sleepless nights, tossing and turning in turmoil as he strove to find the courage to speak of his affection, his love; the evening when, finally, all that had been hidden was revealed and she melted into his arms with an abandon that had astonished him; the day that his world, everything that he knew, or treasured, or loved came crashing down in wave after wave of destruction; the days spent in the solitary company of Jim Beam, merely seeking nothing more than oblivion; the days and the nights when he was too drunk to indulge his passion, too drunk to paint; the hours spent pleading with her mother, who had first taught him the joy that was to be had in cooking, preparing meals for loved ones, for her whereabouts, an address, a telephone number, anything at all with which he might make contact; the sheer desolation and the complete emptiness of the way that he had felt.
"Padmalochana? Chani?" He asked, although he already knew the answer to that question.
"You know, everyone calls me 'Padma' or Heaven forbid, 'Padmé', damn Star Wars to hell and back; no-one except you has ever called me 'Chani', not even my mother," she said quietly, as though embarrassed and ill at ease.
"A simple obsession with Frank Herbert and 'Dune' at the time, as well you know," he replied. "Chani is the love of the life of Paul Atreides, Muad Di'b, his soulmate, although she dies for the sake of their children; it seemed an appropriate epithet for you, given your full name. Why have you sought me out? I am not exactly easy to find and you are not someone that I would imagine would waste time on a potentially fruitless search. Do you have a purpose? Is there a reason that you so disturb my solitude?"
As he handed her the glass, he indicated a high stool which stood at the far end of the island which separated the mundane side of the kitchen, sinks, dishwasher, freezers from the more practical aspects, ovens, microwaves, utensils, chopping boards, knives. She turned to make her way down past the hobs and the small salad and vegetable rinsing sink and he was inextricably torn between a need to preserve his customary reserve and an over-arching desire to fling his arms around her as though the long years of their separation had never occurred; as though that Friday afternoon had never happened. However, he had been too long at that particular fair for it ever to be a possibility that he would realistically choose the latter option, even with his all too meagre allotment of good sense.
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