“Non, there is no time,” said Gaspard. “Start again! With the onions! This time, keep all of your fingers, please!”

Chapter 16

B ack in the dining room, they were on their third bottle of champagne—Fintan didn’t mind depleting the cellars Colton had built up for the two of them. At least it was staying in the family. Flora had a glass. She was barely drinking because she was still feeding Douglas, even though he was sleeping beautifully in his car seat under the table.

Pam, of course, wasn’t drinking a drop, as she told everyone who came into earshot at any second of the day, going on to speculate how she’d probably never drink again, she felt so much better than she’d ever felt, and my goodness, didn’t Flora’s eyes look bloodshot, was she sure she was all right?

Christabel was still strapped to Pam—she was getting very big, it couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but it did mean Pam could pull the conversation round to the genius of her child every five seconds. Charlie was sitting looking anxious.

But the boys were getting stuck in, particularly as they appeared to have slightly mistaken the concept of champagne for beer and were more or less drinking it by the pint. Innes kept looking at Hamish as if they might get up and start wrestling in a minute, like the brothers used to when they were children. Agot was banging her knife and fork on the table and singing a song about being hungry and how cruel the world was to five-year-olds. Eilidh was getting a little loose around the eyes, which Flora knew from experience meant she was probably going to start telling the story about how she had started snogging Innes at the table, which he didn’t mind in the slightest but the rest of the MacKenzie siblings found a little unnecessary. And when Fintan had more than a certain amount, it was odds to sods he was going to collapse into tears at some point, which was fine but not ideal in front of the staff he was supposedly managing in the business he was supposedly running. They desperately needed some food to mop it up.

She excused herself and crept into the kitchen. What she saw took her rather by surprise.

“ I CAN’T EVEN smell cooking,” she said, outraged. She looked at Gaspard. “Where is the bread?”

He scowled. “I am not happy with the bread.”

He pointed to the fresh loaves that had been made in the bakery that morning.

“Why not?” said Flora.

“Ees local flour?”

“There is no local flour, you dim bulb,” said Flora. “It doesn’t grow here. This stuff is perfectly good.”

Gaspard screwed up his face.

“And the butter is perfectly good, and I know that because it comes from my farm .”

Isla had rarely seen Flora so cross. She scuttled to the fridge and got out the butter.

“It’s fridged,” said Gaspard, pouting.

“That’s your fault,” said Flora.