Cooking for Picasso by Camille Aubray Read Free Book Online

I give the instructions to? Some of these need to be warmed up.”
    One of the young men heard her and said, “Better come with us,
chérie,
and explain it all to our hostess.” The driver jerked his head at Ondine and she had no choice but to slip into his front seat where the giggling girls were now crammed.
    “Onward, sir! Here, Ondine, have some champagne,” shouted the first fellow as he passed her a glass. The car lurched away so she sipped hastily, just to keep her drink from spilling. It was very good—like cool, golden sunlight in a glass. Ondine, crushed between the car door on one side and a girl’s corsage on the other, felt dizzy from the mingled perfume that transformed the auto into a hothouse of orchids and gardenias. And each time the driver made a turn his passengers whooped and exaggerated the swerve, leaning chummily against one another.
    “Hooray for my birthday party!” shouted one of the girls.
    Her friend announced pertly, “We all know why you’ve dragged us down here; it’s because you’re in love with a boy from Nice! You should have come to
my
party in Paris last week. Jean Renoir showed up, just to persuade Coco Chanel to design costumes for his next film. Renoir insisted that, since she did the costumes for one of Cocteau’s ballets, there is
no way
she can refuse
him
now. I heard Picasso painted the backdrops for that ballet, you know. I wonder if he’ll do that for Renoir’s film, too?”
    This caused the birthday girl to squeal, “Did
Picasso
come to your party? I’d
so
like to meet him!”
    “No, don’t you know that nobody can find Picasso these days? He’s simply disappeared. I hear he’s gone to the Orient to paint geisha girls! Would you pose nude for him?
I
would!” the other girl said.
    One of their escorts insisted, “Picasso’s not in the Orient. I know for a fact that he’s gone to Spain.”
    Ondine stifled a giggle. The champagne was making her wonder how they’d react if she blurted out her big secret:
Hah! Picasso is a mere stone’s throw away from us this very minute!
    For the car was cruising past the steep hill that Ondine had cycled up only this afternoon. But she remained silent as they moved on, circling along the coast and then up another hill to the long, private driveway of a large white villa with an array of autos parked haphazardly near it. The limousine had barely come to a stop when one of the men jumped out and opened the front door that Ondine was leaning on.
    When she tumbled out, he caught her by the elbow with impeccable good manners. “Whoops! May I have this dance?” he joked. Picking up a tray he shouted, “Come on, let’s all help Ondine carry the food!” His friends took the remaining trays and the group plunged across the lawn leading to the villa, where Chinese lanterns glowed in the deepening darkness.
    “Here we are!” he called out to a tall, slender older woman with alabaster skin, who came gliding across the lawn toward them, her long neck making her look like a swan. She must be the hostess, for she had a natural air of authority.
    Ondine’s escort declared, “
Voilà!
Where do you want this luscious food?”
    The swan-woman answered, “
Mes enfants,
bring them to the kitchen.” Ondine heard the tinkling of piano and violins tuning up inside the house. Still carrying her tray, she followed the young people to the terrace, where waiters were offering drinks to guests who wafted about in billowing silk and chiffon.
    But now the hostess stepped in front of her, blocking her path and signalling to a waiter to take Ondine’s tray away. Ondine hastily tried to explain which appetizers needed heating.
    “Thank you very much,” the hostess said in a firm, dismissive tone. “My chef will know what to do. Good night.”
    Ondine flushed as if she’d been accused of trying to steal the family silver. She had come so close to the villa that she could see through the long windows into the dining room, where a magnificent