Life With Riley

Louvered saloon doors opened at his touch, displaying gleaming ceramic tiles and stainless steel.

An enormous refrigerator stood next to a matching upright freezer, and a bumpy cotton cloth covered a table in the center of the room. Riley deduced someone had hastily thrown it over the food preparations.

Benedict said, “Have a look and see what’s there.” He turned to another telephone on the wall, pulled out a volume of yellow pages from the phone books sitting beneath it and began leafing through.

Riley lifted the cloth, peeking at mounds of vegetables and a bowl of flour, a block of cheese, some serving plates—and an open recipe book.

Benedict dialed a number, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Look in the fridge and the pantry too. It’s over there. Anything that’ll spoil, you’re welcome to—yes, hello?” He turned to speak into the receiver. “Could you do a dinner party at short notice?”

Riley went into the pantry, which was about the size of a normal kitchen and was stacked with packets and cans and bottles, and wire baskets of vegetables. She took a couple of neatly folded plastic bags from a shelf, returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding chicken pieces in a marinade, a couple of dozen oysters in their shells, and a covered dish of raw cubed fish in lemon juice.

Benedict was dialing another number. “Hello, I need a rush job…tonight…. I understand, thanks anyway.”

Holding the phone, Benedict was running a finger down the page in front of him. Riley lifted the cover from the table, folding it back.

Benedict slammed the receiver back on its hook, letting fly an expletive that made her turn her head.

“An answering machine.” He returned to his perusal of the phone book, and reached again for the handset. “Hello? Yes…can you do a dinner party tonight? Yes, I did say tonight. I know, but—A nice evening to you too.”

When he cut the connection, Riley stifled a giggle. “You mean,” she suggested, “May your soup be watery, your main dish burnt to a crisp and your dessert melt on its way to the table.”

Benedict gave a reluctant laugh. “Something like that. I might have better luck with restaurants.”

As he closed the book and reached for its companion volume, she said, “Why don’t I do it?”

“I’m capable of finding a decent restaurant, thanks.”

She cast him an impatient look. “I mean I could cook dinner for you—call it a part payment for the repair to your car.”

“You?”

“I can cook. Ask my roommates. I mean housemates.” She still had trouble with some Kiwi idioms.

“This is a bit different from cooking for your housemates, Riley.”

“I know.” She decided to ignore his patronizing tone. “But with these ingredients—” she indicated the laden table “—I promise you I can do it. I even know what Mrs. Whatsit was going to cook.”

“Mrs. Hardy,” he said automatically. “This dinner party is rather important to me. I really don’t think—”

“I’ve worked in restaurants.” She wasn’t a great academic, but she was good at picking things up by watching, and some of the chefs had encouraged her desire to learn. “If you’re not satisfied you don’t need to pay me—or rather, I’ll still pay you. Do you want me to serve, as well?”

“Mrs. Hardy would have, but—”

“Okay.” She put down the plastic bags. “I won’t turn up in your dining room like this,” she assured him, catching his dubious survey of her. “I’ve got decent clothes in the car. Oh, you’d better show me where the dining room is. You’ll want the table set if Mrs. Hardy hasn’t already done it.”

“Don’t you have responsibilities of your own?” he said slowly. “I mean, what about your—”

“Nothing to worry about,” she said breezily. “If I can use that phone, I’ll just let my housemates know I’ll be late home.” It was Harry’s turn to provide dinner and he usually bought a take-out meal, anyway. Purposefully she moved toward the phone.

Benedict shifted aside. “Won’t you need to arrange—”

She put a hand on his chest and gave him a small, reassuring pat before she picked up the phone and began dialing. “Look, it’s not your problem, okay? But it will help to solve mine if you let me take it off what I owe you. Tell you what,” she added, fishing Snoopy and her keys from her pocket, “you could go and get the bag that’s on the back seat, for me. It’s got my good clothes in it.”

Looking rather stunned, he took the keys from her, opened his mouth to say something, closed it again and walked out.

By the time he returned with the cheap shopping bag, Riley had realized how she’d spoken to him, and as she hung up the phone she said guiltily, “I’m sorry—I treated you like one of my housemates, didn’t I, instead of my employer for the night? Thanks, anyway.”

“Is it okay with them, then?”

“No worries.” She took the bag and peeked into it.

“I suppose it’s handy to be living with other people.”

“Yes,” she said, rummaging in the bag for the blouse and skirt. She could never afford a place on her own, and she’d been lucky that they got on so well. “I’ll need to borrow an iron later. I hope these’ll be all right?” She held the clothes roughly against her and looked at him anxiously.

Benedict cleared his throat. “They’ll be fine. You looked very nice this morning. The iron’s in the laundry, through there.” He indicated the direction. “Look, it’s a bit much, throwing you into this. I can help if you tell me what to do.”

She wondered if he had an ulterior motive, like keeping an eye on her to ensure she really could do what she claimed and still leaving himself the last-minute option of a restaurant. But she smiled unoffendedly at him and said, “I’ll let you know. Now, where’s the dining room?”

“Uh…” For a minute she was afraid he’d decided to turn down her offer after all. His eyes had gone glassy. Then he seemed to give himself a little shake, a fine tremor running over his hard-muscled body inside the sharp business suit. “This way,” he said.

Chapter Three

Riley left Benedict putting plates and cutlery on the big dining table and hurried away to the kitchen.

When he came back she was slicing onions. “I thought I’d serve the oysters au naturel with lemon wedges,” she said, pausing to wipe her forearm over her eyes, “and arrange them around the fish salad.”

“Sounds fine.”

“What about wine?”

“I’ll deal with that.”

He probably wouldn’t have trusted her with it, anyway. Not that she often got a chance to sample good wine, but she did know enough to bluff her way through a wine list.

“Glasses,” she said, sniffing as she tipped the onions into a dish. They were very strong. “I couldn’t find wine goblets.”

“They’re kept in a cabinet in the dining room, and I’ve already put them on the table. Do you want a tissue or something?”

“Thanks, I’m okay.” She turned to rinse her hands and then eyes at the tap.

When she raised her head he was standing beside her with a paper towel ready. Riley took it from him and blotted her face. “Ta.” Raising her reddened eyes to him, she was surprised to see him looking back at her rather fixedly, his own eyes dark and intense.

Riley blinked again, uncertainly. Her tongue crept unconsciously to her crooked tooth, parting her lips.

Benedict’s black brows drew together, and he stepped back. “What else do you want done?” he asked, looking at the table.

“Um…” For some reason she felt a bit breathless. She walked jerkily to the stainless steel lidded bin near the twin sinks, dropping the crumpled paper towel into it. “You could get a tin of coconut cream from the pantry for me. I can’t reach it.”