A Night In With Grace Kelly

‘Libby.’

Olly, thank heavens, has stopped me before I can divulge any more of this detailed hotel-trip fantasy that’s really one I’ve often played out in my head for the two of us, on the long nights this past year when the alternative has been crying into my pillow.

‘Sorry, sorry, that was probably a bit too specific—’

‘Is that the mystery cheese?’

This is why he’s stopped me. He’s staring at the cheese plate that’s been sitting between us for the last few minutes.

‘That one, right there,’ he’s going on. He points at the plate. ‘I think it is. I honestly think it might be.’

If this sounds a slightly intense tone to take about cheese, I should probably just fill you in on exactly why this is.

Years ago – when I was eighteen and Olly was turning twenty-one – he and I took a trip over to Paris on the Eurostar for a hedonistic day of drinking, eating, and (this being Olly, a foodie to end all foodies) trudging round various destinations in search of highly specific types of Mirabelle jam, or spiced sausage, or premier cru chocolate. And cheese. So much cheese, in fact, that we ended up digging into it on the Eurostar home, whereupon we discovered that one particular cheese – a creamy white goat’s cheese, rolled in ash, and tart and lemony to the taste – was in fact the exact definition of ambrosia. (This might have had something to do with the amount of vin we’d imbibed on the day’s trek; also, possibly, something to do with the fact that we were deliberately trying to divert attention from the unexpected snog we’d found ourselves having in a bar on the Left Bank at some point in the afternoon, and waxing absurdly lyrical about a cheese seemed, at the time, as good a way as any of achieving this.) We didn’t know the name and – despite many years of searching, or more to the point, Keeping An Eye Out – neither of us ever found that Mystery Cheese again.

‘Well, you’ll have to taste it,’ I say, in an equally intense tone. ‘We won’t know until you try.’

‘We have to taste it,’ he corrects me, picking up his knife and dividing the portion of white, ash-flecked cheese into two with a chef’s deft movement. ‘Come on, Libby. Close your eyes. This could be the moment.’

We both fall into a reverential hush as we each take a half of the cheese, close our eyes, and put it in our mouths.

‘What do you think?’ Olly asks, in a hushed voice, after a moment.

‘I don’t know …’

‘First impressions?’

‘First impression was that it’s definitely not the one … but second impression … I’m not sure. It might be?’

‘The texture doesn’t seem quite right.’

‘I agree. But the taste was pretty much bang-on.’

‘Do you think? I thought the Mystery Cheese had a bit more pepper to it.’

‘Wasn’t it ash?’

‘No, no, I don’t mean pepper in the actual cheese, I mean a peppery taste.’

‘Oh. Right. No, I think you’re right. I mean, you’re the expert.’

‘I’m not the expert!’ He looks faintly annoyed. ‘We were both there!’

‘Yes, OK, but you’re the one who takes this kind of thing that seriously.’

He looks, for a moment, wounded to the core. ‘I thought you took the Mystery Cheese seriously, too.’

‘I do!’

‘I mean, I know it’s only a silly thing, obviously. I’m not that stupid! It was always just … our thing. Wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ My voice has got stuck in my throat. I reach for my champagne glass. ‘I’m not saying I never took it seriously, Ol,’ I say, after a long drink. ‘I’m saying you’re the cheffy, experty, foodie person. You’re the one who remembers the precise taste of a Sangiovese wine you drank in Italy three years ago versus a Sangiovese wine you drank at your parents’ house three weekends ago. I could barely tell you, most days, if I was eating a tuna mayo sandwich for lunch or a chicken mayo sandwich.’

‘Then you need to start buying your lunchtime sandwiches elsewhere,’ Olly says, faintly irritable. ‘There’s absolutely no excuse for tuna to ever taste anything like chicken.’

‘It’s not a big deal. It’s only a sandwich.’

‘And the Mystery Cheese was only a cheese. I get it. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Olly, no, it does matter! Come on.’ I reach across the table, surprising myself even as I do so, and put my hand on his.

I’m seriously hoping he can’t feel the faint throb of my pulse, quickening as my skin meets his skin.

But I don’t think he can, because if he did, he’d react in some way, wouldn’t he? Pull his hand back, or give me a funny look, or ask me if I was about to expire, or something? And he doesn’t do any of those things. He just leaves his own hand exactly where it is, under mine, and says absolutely nothing for a moment.

Then he says, ‘I really don’t think it’s the cheese, anyway.’

‘No. Neither do I.’ I move my hand back to my side of the table. ‘But that’s a good thing, I guess. Because we can keep looking.’

‘Yeah. That’s true. I mean, it’s always been a source of comfort to me,’ he adds, meeting my eyes again and pulling a cheeky grin, ‘knowing that it’s out there.’

We’re piss-taking again. This is a good thing.

‘Just waiting for us to happen upon it,’ I say.

‘Biding its time.’

‘Hiding its light under a bushel.’

‘Waiting in the wings.’

‘And I’m not even sure,’ I say, ‘that I even liked this one that much anyway.’

‘Me neither.’ Olly peers at the cheese plate, his handsome face looking more noble than ever in the bistro’s candlelight. ‘That Comté looks good, though. You have a bit of that, and I’ll try some of the Camembert.’

We fall into a companionable silence as we find our way around the cheese platter together for the next few minutes.

Well, as companionable a silence as it’s ever going to be between us any more, given that I can’t even look at him without feeling lust and misery wash over me in equal measure.

Then, breaking the silence, he says, ‘You’re probably right about Tash, though, Lib. We do need to make more effort to spend time together. I mean, that’s what grown-up relationships are about, right? Compromising. Going the extra mile.’

I’m about to quip that I wouldn’t know, having never been in a grown-up relationship.

But, somehow, my heart isn’t in it.

So I just nod, as enthusiastically as I know how, and reach out a hand to cut myself a sliver of Roquefort.

*