"You'll need this," Jean said briskly as she tied an apron around Alice's waist. Alice felt as though she'd been handcuffed when the strands were made snug behind her back. She remained rooted, glaring at the collection of bowls, jars, and bottles on the kitchen table, as though staring down a firing squad. She had to protest: "You shan't make me into a womanly woman, no matter how hard you try. I'm not going to be someone I'm not, just to get..." She flared her nostrils. "A man."
Jean tossed her head back. She could be outraged too. Then her features softened. She saw the fear in Alice's eyes. She sat down.
"When I first cooked, I just helped out. With mum and aunties, a wee girl, with the smallest apron tied under my armpits, and it still dragged the floor. At first I was only allowed to stir, then chop, but I was always the helper. I married, but cooked for Christopher's tastes, then the boys came along, and children only wanted plain things. After that, Dr Blake preferred simple food. Nearly all my life, I've cooked for others."
Alice raised her eyebrows as if to say: See?
Jean's gaze cast over ingredients before them. "And now there's Lucien. He's dined at the finest restaurants in Europe, eaten the exotic cuisines of the Orient, and had to survive on cockroaches. He will eat anything. So now it gives me such pleasure. I'm not doing it as a wife, but for myself. He just gets to come along for the ride." Jean cradled an egg tenderly in her palm. "We'll start with an omelette. Home-cooking, but classic."
Alice was intrigued. The table did look like a laboratory. "I suppose it's worth trying," she said slowly and Jean smirked with satisfaction.