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Maybe Julie's right, and this Chester Square gig will take me out of myself, stop me rattling around in an empty house missing Marcus. Maybe I'll get a glimpse of the Christian I used to know and love before the ex-girlfriends and Inland Revenue knocked the stuffing out of him.

"Okay, I'll think about it," I say. "Speak tomorrow."

CHAPTER ONE

MONDAY

The front door of number forty-one is not in Chester Square at all but to one side of the property, in Eccleston Street. This particular house has always intrigued me because at some point the owners built a square extension at the back, with clerestory windows running around the top—a gallery, or perhaps a library?

By Belgravia standards, the place looks shabby. The Grosvenor Estate, which owns everything around here, has draconian rules on exterior maintenance, so it's not a case of peeling paint or cracked windows, but there's something unloved about it. Cinerarias in the window boxes look as if they'd benefit from a feed and water, and the steps could do with a sweep.

Beside the door—regulation black gloss, somewhat scuffed—is a touchpad with numbers, and a round button marked VISITORS. I press this and there's a jangling of bells, followed by the clash of electric locks leaping back. The door half opens, and a pale, slender, young woman in a high-necked white chef's tunic looks me up and down. It's as if she's gone out of her way to be unmemorable: no makeup or jewelery, wishy-washy hair.

"I'm Suzie," she says. "Suzie Wheeler."

Not the enthusiastic welcome one might have hoped for... Thank you for coming to the rescue at short notice, Paul! Or: You must be Paul Delamare—our knight in shining armor!

"I'll show you up. Christian isn't here yet." She's a rhotic speaker—burrs her Rs as they do in the West Country; my mother was, too. As the door closes behind us I notice she bites her nails.

"Is there a code so I can get in and out by myself?" I ask. 

"1904," she replies.

I've set the questions for a few food quizzes in my time, so I parry this with "Invention of the tea bag."

"Also the boss's birthday." She smiles, cautiously. "Not the year, obviously—the nineteenth of April."

My first impression on stepping inside is the smell. I have an especially keen sense of smell—it's something chefs develop. This is that instantly recognizable "institutional" pall, of dinners and disinfectant. Otherwise no surprises: a thick but well-worn carpet in burnt gold, console tables with magazines and tired vases of chrysanthemums, dingy Victorian landscapes hanging from picture rails.

I follow Suzie up a broad flight of stairs—"the Grand Staircase," she says with a sniff—and along a landing. If downstairs is like a waiting room, this has more of an auction house vibe, crowded with lumber and glass display cases. I'll take a proper look later, but we seem to have a collector in our midst—of antique cooking equipment.

We pick our way to a door bearing a hand-painted plaque: SHELLEY ROOM. Suzie taps on it, calls out, "Your visitor, Mrs. Hoyt," then melts away. I step into the oak-paneled lair of the cookery school's proprietor-cum-principal.

She's standing at tall French windows, facing away from me. Her silhouette is trim—braid-edged tweed suit, ash-blond hair swept back under a wide headband—against the green backdrop of the planes in the square's central garden. In the middle of the room stands a large antique desk of the bank manager sort, topped with green leather, framed photographs, and a laptop. A few tidy piles of paper are kept in check by antique brass weights, the bell-shaped type with a handle at the top. Running along the walls are further display cabinets and an ornate cast-iron strongbox, with a coat of arms traced in gilt. Hanging on the paneling: prints of herbs, fruits, and spices; framed advertisements for Victorian bakeware and gadgetry; one of those School of Arcimboldo oil paintings in which the subject's face is modeled from vegetables.

I'm busy taking all this in when the woman wheels round. She's not that much older than I am—late forties, perhaps—elegantly made up and presented, but holds her face to one side, as if hiding something.

"Rose Hoyt," she says, extending a hand for me to shake. With the other, she dabs her eye with a handkerchief. "You must excuse my appearance. I presume from your surprised expression that Christian didn't mention it."

I fumble an apology and turn away. Her face appears to have fallen at one side, perhaps because of a stroke or palsy. Something similar happened to a matron at school during the school holidays—we were terrified it might be catching.