My Favourite Part

26: your secret's safe with me

I began to realise that dinnertime at the manor might be more than I had anticipated before we even got to the table.

I was in Eric's room when I found out that 'washing up for dinner' meant a little more than washing my hands and running a comb through my hair. When he gently encouraged me to wear my pair of nude heels instead of the trainers I was reaching for, I thought he was pulling my leg.

When I was trotting down the stairs in nude heels, I thought it was a little funny that a 'casual dinner' required a set menu, with low-carb, vegan and gluten-free options, outlined on a canvas made of gold metal foil paper.

As I sat behind my place card, centre-left of the grand oak dining table, by the flickering light of a candelabra, I put the pieces together, and caught on that tonight was less of a simple supper, and more of a full-blown dinner party. Fantastic.

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It's a mad hatter's tea party if I've ever seen one. Glasses chink and clink as Jono slur-yells 'Imbibe, gentleman!' every time he takes a swig, Nelly pleads with Alistair again – this time to stop him trying to snatch the flame from the candle – and a grey-haired man, who I think might be Sir Ian McKellen, strikes up a tipsy and interminable rendition of 'And did those feet in ancient time', at chandelier-shattering volume.

Eric's place card sits him on the other side of the table, but he's right opposite me, meaning that I can do fun things like shoot him incredulous looks every time yet another course comes out of the kitchen, or brush my foot against his calf whenever he speaks, and blush at his just-for-me glances, avoiding Lolly's leer when she catches me bite my lip.

"And for the main course! Voila!" Kitty calls, gleaming as though she made it herself. On command, the house-help, led by Ana, file into the dining room, each carrying a small silver food cloche that makes a ding sound when it's placed before a guest. At this table, Kitty's neither the intimidating ice queen, nor the sharp-witted matriarch, but someone else entirely – eluding grace and glamour. On the rare occasions that we have a dinner party at ours, Mum's always running about with a cloth over her shoulder, cooking from hours before people even arrive, and recruiting Auggie and I to steam some extra asparagus, or put the finishing sprinkles on the cupcakes – not Kitty. Kitty's poised, relaxed, with all the elegance of a woman paying a lot of money for excellent service and whatever expensive bird this is.

"Kitty, you did not!" Someone gasps, in evident awe of the platter.

"Oh, but I did, and you are so very welcome."

The menu says it's ortolan – the French songbird, illegal to capture or cook – and I thought it was a joke, but sure enough there's a tiny orange-coloured bird body on my plate. Maybe it's the little legs in the air, or the fact that I feel like it's looking right at me, but the sight of it makes my stomach turn. I grimace before glancing up at Eric uncertainly, who rolls his eyes and switches his silver plate with the starter soup. I giggle and do the same.

The glowing hostess is inspecting her bird carefully with the tip of her fork, and oh God, I hope she doesn't explode again. I think Ana, with nervy, unblinking eyes on Kitty's prodding fork, is hoping the same.

"Seems to be an awful lot of thyme on mine..." She remarks, still examining.

When Jono speaks, he's slightly muffled by the champagne flute at his lips, but the exhaustion in his tone is loud and clear,

"Oh, don't work yourself up, Kit, you'll get frown lines." The low laugh of self-proclaimed gentlemen sounds when he adds, in a murmur, "And I paid such a pretty penny to get rid of them last time."