Armande puts it around her neck, hugs Josephine roughly, pours St Raphael with a reckless hand. I can hear the conversation from the kitchen; preparing so much food is a tricky business and much of my attention is given to it, but I catch some of what is going on. Caro is gracious, ready to be pleased; Josephine silent; Roux and Narcisse have found a common interest in exotic fruit trees. Zezette sings part of a folk song in her piping voice, her baby crooked casually into her arm. I notice that even the baby has been ceremonially daubed with henna, so that it looks like a plump little gris nantais melon with its mottled golden skin and grey-green eyes.
They move to the table. Armande, fn high spirits, supplies much of the conversation. I hear Luc's low, pleasant accents, talking about some book he has read. Caro's voice sharpens a little – I suspect Armande has poured herself another glass of St Raphaiil.
'Maman, you know you shouldn't,' I hear her say, but Armande simply laughs.
`It's my party,' she declares merrily. 'I won't have anyone being miserable at my party. Least of all me.’
For the time being, nothing more is said on the subject. I hear Zezette flirting with Georges. Roux and Narcisse are discussing plums.
`Belle du Languedoc,' declares the latter earnestly. `That's the best for me. Sweet and small, with a bloom on her like a butterfly's wing.’
But Roux is adamant. `Mirabelle,' he says firmly. `The only yellow plum worth growing. Mirabelle.’
I turn back to my stove and for a while I hear nothing more. It is a self-taught skill, born of obsession. No-one taught me how to cook. My mother brewed spells and philtres; I sublimated the whole into a sweeter alchemy. We were never much alike, she and I. She dreamed of floating, of astral encounters and secret essences: I pored over recipes and menus filched from restaurants where we never could afford to dine. Gently she jeered at my fleshly preoccupations.
`It's a good thing we don't have the money,' she would say to me. `Otherwise you'd get fat as a pig.’
Poor Mother. When cancer had eaten away the best of her, she was still vain enough to rejoice at the lost weight. And while she read her cards and muttered to herself, I would leaf through my collection of cookery cards, incanting the names of never-tasted dishes like mantras, like the secret formulae of eternal life. Boeuf en Daube. Champignon farcis d la greque. Escalopes d la Reine. Creme Caramel. Schokoladentarte. Tiramisu. In the secret kitchen of my imagination I made them all, tested, tasted them, added to my collection of recipes wherever we went, pasted them into my scrapbook like photographs of old friends. They gave weight to my wanderings, the glossy clippings shining out from between the smeary pages like signposts along our erratic path.
I bring them out now like long-lost friends. Souce de tomates d la gasconne, served with fresh basil and a slice of tartelette meridonale, made on biscuit-thin pate brisee and lush with the flavours of olive oil and anchovy and the rich local tomatoes, garnished with olives and roasted slowly to produce a concentration of flavours which seems almost impossible. I pour the '85 Chablis into tall glasses. Anouk drinks lemonade from hers with an air of exaggerated sophistication. Narcisse expresses interest in the tartlet's ingredients, praises the virtues of the misshapen Roussette tomato as opposed to the tasteless uniformity of the European Moneyspinner. Roux lights the braziers, at either side of the table and sprinkles them with citronella to keep away the insects. I catch Caro watching Armande with a look of disapproval. I eat little. Steeped in the scents of the cooking food for most of the day I feel light-headed this evening, keyed-up and unusually sensitive, so that when Josephine's hand brushes against my leg during the meal I start and almost cry out. The Chablis is cool and tart, and I drink more of it than I should. Colours begin to seem brighter, sounds take on a cut-glass crispness. I hear Armande praising the cooking. I bring a herb salad to clear the palate, then foie gras on warm toast. I notice that Guillaume has brought his dog with him, surreptitiously feeding him with titbits under the crisp tablecloth. We pass from the political situation, to the Basque separatists, to ladies' fashions via the best way to grow rocket and the superiority of wild over cultivated lettuce. The Chablis runs smooth throughout. Then the vol-au-vents, light as a puff of summer air, then elderflower sorbet followed by plateau de fruits de mer with grilled langoustines, grey shrimps, prawns, oysters, berniques, spider-crabs and the bigger tourteaux which can nip off a man's fingers as easily as I could nip a stem of rosemary, winkles, palourdes and atop it all a giant black lobster, regal on its bed of seaweed. The huge platter gleams with reds and pinks and sea-greens and pearly whites and purples, a mermaid's cache of delicacies which gives off a nostalgic salt smell, like childhood days at the seaside. We distribute crackers for the crab claws, tiny forks for the shellfish, dishes of lemon wedges and mayonnaise. Impossible to remain aloof with such a dish; it demands attention, informality. The glasses and silverware glitter in the light of the lanterns hanging from the trellis above our heads. The night smells of flowers and the river. Armande's fingers are nimble as lacemakers'; the plate of discarded shells in front of her grows almost effortlessly. I bring more of the Chablis; eyes brighten, faces made rosy with the effort of extracting the shellfish's elusive flesh. This is food which must be worked at, food which demands time. Josephine begins to relax a little, even to talk to Caro, struggling with a crab claw. Caro's hand slips, a jet of salt water from the crab hits her in the eye. Josephine laughs. After a moment Caro joins in. I find myself talking too. The wine is pale and deceptive, its intoxication hidden beneath its smoothness. Caro is already slightly drunk, her face flushed, her hair coming down in tendrils. Georges squeezes my leg beneath the tablecloth, winks salaciously. Blanche talks of travelling; we have places in common, she and I. Nice, Vienna, Turin. Zezette's baby begins to wail; she dips a finger in Chablis for it to suck. Armande discusses de Musset with Luc, who stammers less the more he drinks. At last I remove the dismantled plateau, now reduced to pearly rubble on a dozen plates. Bowls of lemon-water and mint salad for the fingers and palate. I clear the glasses, replace them with the coupes d’champagne. Caro is looking alarmed again. As I move into the kitchen once more I hear her talking to Armande in a low, urgent voice.
Armande shushes her. `Talk to me about it later. Tonight I want to celebrate.’
She greets the champagne with a squawk of satisfaction.
The dessert is a chocolate fondue. Make it on a clear day – cloudy weather dims the gloss on the melted chocolate – with 70 per cent dark chocolate, butter, a little almond oil, double cream added at the very last minute and heated gently over a burner. Skewer pieces of cake or fruit and dip into the chocolate mixture. I have all their favourites here tonight, though only the gateau de savoie is meant for dipping. Caro claims she cannot eat another, thing, but takes two slices of the dark-and-white chocolate roulade bicolore. Armande samples everything, flushed now and growing more expansive by the minute. Josephine is explaining to Blanche why she left her husband. Georges smiles lecherously at me from behind chocolate-smeared fingers. Luc teases Anouk who is half asleep in her chair. The dog bites playfully at the table leg. Zezette, quite unselfconsciously, begins to breastfeed her baby. Caro appears to be on the verge of comment, but shrugs and says nothing. I open another bottle of champagne.
`You're sure you're OK?’ says Luc quietly to Armande: `I mean, you don't feel ill or anything? You've been taking your medicine?’