THE NEXT MORNING, when I arrived at the office, Frances was talking on the phone. She was preparing a party for a firm of City lawyers that was being held in an old warehouse by the river. As I switched on Milena’s computer, she slammed down the phone and strode over to me. “They want a Shakespearean theme,” she said. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Can’t you just hire some young actors?” I said. “They can walk around with the canapés and say lines from Shakespeare. About cakes and ale and, well, there must be some other references to food.”

“And they want Elizabethan food. I mean, honestly! I had this ridiculous woman on the line just now and I said, “What do you mean by Elizabethan food? Carp? Pike? Capon?” She said, “Oh, no. They just want normal food with an Elizabethan twist.”

There were shelves of books and magazines in the office for just such a crisis and Frances started to rummage through them, speaking half to herself and half to me. I went to my new account. My new email address and password were impossible to remember. I had to copy them painstakingly from the piece of paper on which I’d written them.

“What exactly are sweetbreads?” said Frances. “Some kind of gland, aren’t they?”

“I’m not sure if they’re right for finger food,” I said. I had to make an effort to keep my voice level because I had noticed there were two messages for me. The first was welcoming me as a new account holder. The second was from “gonefishing.”

Frances walked across the room toward me, reading aloud as she did so.

“Jugged hare,” she said. “Lobster. This is hopeless. We might as well be cooking larks’ tongues.”

“You just want little things that have an old-fashioned look to them,” I said. “Quail’s eggs. Bits of bacon. Dumplings. Scallops.”

I clicked on the message.

“Who are you?” it read.

I clicked “reply” and quickly typed. “I’m Jackie, as you can see. Have I got the wrong address? Who are you?”

I highlighted and underlined the last word: “Who are you?” I pressed send.

“That sounds right,” said Frances. “We can just put Ye Olde English garnishes on the plates. Bits of parchment. Branches of rosemary. Little ruffs. We can hang some tapestries and garlands on the wall. Pickled walnuts,” she added, warming to the subject. “Medlars. Quinces. The problem is, people won’t know what they are.”

“It’ll give the staff something to talk about,” I said. “In fake Elizabethan language, of course. ‘Odds bodkins.’ You know.”

There was a ping from Milena’s computer. A message from “gonefishing.”

“Who are you?” it said, same as before. I pressed reply again.

“Don’t understand,” I typed. “Did you get my last message? Have I got the wrong address? Could you give me your name?” I pressed send.