Seraphina looked at him in disgust.
‘Ofcourseit is, that’s what she said, isn’t it? I think it’s a lovely name, I wish I was called Pixie. Or Robert,’ she added contemplatively.
I was distracted.
‘Robert? Why Robert?’
‘It’s the postman’s name,’ explained Caspian, as Phina was now transfixed by the cartoon again. ‘He’s one of her favourite people.’
‘Oh, right. Actually, my name isn’t really Pixie, although that is what some people call me.’ Well, it was true as of today, anyway. ‘My name’s Penelope, or Penny, so you can call me that if you prefer?’
Caspian nodded solemnly. ‘I do like Penny.’
He resumed his potato. I was just going to put the kettle on when the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go,’ I said to Pilar, who was elbow-deep in the sink.
I opened the door rather apprehensively, as the possibilities of who might turn up on the Lords’ doorstep felt infinite but was delighted to see that it was the courier I had arranged before I arrived. She handed me a large box that I knew to be filled with all manner of Christmassy craft materials, games and little toys that would keep the children busy until the New Year. I signed on the dotted line and staggered back to the kitchen with it.
‘Ooh, Pixie, whatisit?’ squealed Seraphina. ‘Is it presents?’
I grinned.
‘Of a sort, I suppose, but nothing that I’m opening tonight.’ They both groaned theatrically, and I relented. ‘Okay then, andonlybecause it’s nearly Christmas…’ I peeled the box open, being careful not to let them peek inside, and pulled out a clockwork Santa and snowman. ‘You can race these guys up and down the table, but you have to keep munching. Deal?’
They agreed enthusiastically and with them happy and occupied, I went over to Pilar, who was alternately studying a recipe and gathering together the ingredients.
‘Can I help?’
‘Claro qué sí. You are okay to chop?’
I nodded and she pushed a bunch of carrots, a board, peeler and a wicked-looking knife towards me. I started my task and glanced over towards her. The recipe was stuck into an old exercise book, fat with clippings and covered in scribbled notes.
‘Is that recipes you’ve collected?’
‘Yes, and it was my mother’s also. My best recipes are saved here, and some in my head.’
‘You should write them all down. Do you have children who might want them?’
‘Ah, yes. My daughter, Marisol, is waiting for me to die so that she gets this book.’
She cackled with laughter, clearly not planning to pass it on any time soon.
‘My parents are awful cooks, that’s why I had to learn, otherwise I would have starved – or lived on toast. I’d love to learn some of your recipes, my stuff is all fairly basic.’
‘Basic is good, it is your ingredients that matter.’
We chatted for a while about food and Spanish cuisine, about which I knew very little, then the conversation took a more personal turn.
‘So, tell me,Penélope…’
I loved the way she pronounced it, with the emphasis on the middle ‘e’ and wondered if I should start telling people thatthiswas my name: not Penny, or Pen, not even Pixie.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
I quickly peeled an onion, hoping that I would be able to blame it for the annoying tears that had sprung to my eyes.
‘Erm, no, no, I don’t. Not anymore.’
