“Okay,” said Lulu, surprised by this into civility. “Sorry.”

“You haven’t thanked me for the invitation yet,” said Sophie.

“Sorry,” said Lulu again. “Thank you for the invitation, Sophie. It’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sophie.

For all of the following week, Sophie flung herself into preparations. She spent hours in her bedroom, doing what she referred to as “research,” emerging with a satisfied face and a barely suppressed smile of excitement whenever she looked at Lulu or Charlie. On Friday she enlisted the help of Jamie and his van for a shopping trip, returning laden with bags full of chicken and vegetables, fruit, curry powder, and wine, which they carried up the stairs with much clatter, oblivious to the disapproving face of Mrs. Scott-Ramsay, being helped out of a taxi by her housekeeper at the height of their activity.

“I hope you bring a doggie bag tomorrow,” said Lulu to Jamie, watching Sophie cram tomatoes into the fridge and heroically refraining from commenting that the cold would diminish their flavor. “There’s enough food here to feed a starving army.”

“Oh, that’s a thought,” said Sophie. “D’you want to come to dinner tomorrow, Jamie? There’s loads of food.”

“Hadn’t you asked him already?” said Lulu. “After all the work he’s been doing?”

“I’d have got around to it,” said Sophie. “Wouldn’t I, James? Anyway, I’m asking you now. Would you like to come to dinner?”

“Uhm.” Jamie tried to seem to think it over: if this were a sample of his acting skill, thought Lulu, it did not bode well for his professional future. “Okay,” he said then. “It’d be nice.”

“You see? Sorted.” Sophie beamed happily at her sister. “You like my cooking, don’t you, Jamie?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jamie. “It’s really good. She’s a beautiful cook, Lulu, really she is.”

Sophie nodded triumphantly. “And just you wait till tomorrow,” she told them both. “You’re in for a real treat.”

On Saturday, both Lulu and Charlie were forbidden entrance to the kitchen. Sophie barricaded herself in amid a furor of savory smells, clanging pots, exclamations of satisfaction and distress, and occasional celebratory bursts of “Food, Glorious Food,” emerging at lunchtime only in response to Lulu’s howls of hunger to pass them both a ham-and-cheese sandwich from a tomato-smeared hand.

“It’s a good sandwich,” said Charlie hopefully, as they munched in the living room.

“It’s a sandwich,” said Lulu.

“Even so,” said Charlie, “it’s a good one.”

“You’ve been talking to Jamie,” said Lulu.

“I must say, honey,” said Fee when they all at last were gathered at the dinner table in the long, light kitchen, “that this food is truly excellent. Isn’t it excellent, Lulu?”

“Wonderful,” said Lulu. She inspected a slice of French bread covered with roughly chopped tomato. “Really wonderful, Soph. Congratulations.”

“It’s terrific, isn’t it?” Jamie smiled proudly at Sophie. “Amazing, Sophie. I think it’s your best yet.”

“The secret to bruschetta,” said Sophie, “is not to put the tomatoes on the bread too early. I used to do that for ages, didn’t I, Jamie, and I used to wonder why the bread was always all soggy, and it was horrible Ruby, oddly enough, who told me that trick. Now, for this, I put the tomatoes on just before I brought it all to the table, and isn’t the bread nice and firm?”