“Swear you’re not making this up,” she said.
I put my right hand on the cookbook and raised my left hand.
“I swear on The 101 Best Recipes of French Cuisine,” I declared.
“One usually swears with the other hand.”
I changed hands and repeated the performance with a solemn expression. Isabella puffed.
“What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know. What do people do when they’re in love? Go for a stroll, go dancing …”
“But I’m not in love with this man.”
I went on sampling the caramelized duck, ignoring her insistent stare. After a while, Isabella banged her hand on the table.
“Will you please look at me? This is all your fault.”
I calmly put down my knife and fork, wiped my mouth with the napkin, and looked at her.
“What am I going to do?” she asked again.
“That depends. Do you like Sempere or don’t you?”
A cloud of doubt crossed her face.
“I don’t know. To begin with, he’s a bit old for me.”
“He’s practically my age,” I pointed out. “One or two years older, at the most. Maybe three.”
“Or four or five.”
I sighed.
“He’s in the prime of life. Hadn’t we decided that you like them to be mature?”
“Don’t tease me.”
“Isabella, who am I to tell you what to do?”
“That’s a good one!”
“Let me finish. What I mean is that this is something between Sempere’s son and you. I’d say give him a chance. Nothing else. If one of these days he decides to take the first step and
asks you, let’s say, to have tea, accept the invitation. Perhaps you’ll get talking and you’ll end up being friends, or maybe you won’t. But I think Sempere is a good man, his interest in you is genuine, and I dare say, if you think about it, you feel something for him too.”
“You’re mad.”
“But Sempere isn’t. And I think that not to respect the affection and admiration he feels for you would be mean. And you’re not mean.”
“This is blackmail.”
“No, it’s life.”
Isabella looked daggers at me. I smiled.
“Will you at least finish your dinner?” she asked.