Bon Appetit
By Janet Baldey
 
‘What’s this?’
          Bernard speared a charred and blackened lump on the prongs of his fork and held it up.
          ‘Fillet steak, dear, your favourite……’   Abigail’s voice faltered.   Her husband’s expression was wintry and his eyes glittered like chips of denim coloured ice.
          Suddenly the meat fell from his fork and there was a loud crack as the plate broke neatly into two.  
          ‘Just think..’ Bernard mused ‘..what it would have done to the lining of my stomach.’   He picked up the lid of a random dish and winced.   He looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
‘Potatoes, dear.’
 ‘And this?’
          ‘Gravy, dear.’   
          ‘With fillet steak?’   His eyebrows disappeared into his hair.
          ‘I’ll make myself a sandwich.’  He got up and pushed open the kitchen door.  As he did, Abigail noticed his bony wrists and the way his body swivelled inside his clothes as he turned.   With a pang, she stared at his scrawny neck protruding out of a collar two sizes too big and saw the seat of his trousers drooping over his shrunken buttocks.
          ‘Heavens..’ she thought …’ We’ve only been married six months and I’m starving my husband.  What will his mother say?’ 
          Miserably, she sat staring into space.   She’d spent ages frying that steak.   If only she could cook perhaps Bernard would look at her in the same way he’d done when they were first married.   He’d been so frigid towards her recently, turning over whenever she tried to cuddle up to him in bed.  
          ‘Too tired.’  He’d moan, retreating over to his own side leaving her to curl her body into a comma, feeling as cold and lonely as a small animal huddled under the snow.
          Suddenly, the letterbox snapped  and  she jumped.   ‘Post…’ she looked at the clock…’at this time of night?’
          The hall was in darkness but illuminated in a spotlight of reflected light, a leaflet gleamed.   Her fingers tingled as she picked it up and she gasped, as a picture of a handsome, dark-haired man smiled up at her.
‘LET ALPHONSE CURE YOUR COOKERY ILLS
‘DELICIOUS CORDON BLEU MEALS ARE ONLY A CALL AWAY.’
          As if in a dream, she reached for the ‘phone.
         
She took to Alphonse from the start; she liked the way his eyes sparkled like twin pieces of jet, his neat black moustache and the tickle of his butterfly kiss as he raised her hand to his lips.
          ‘Cher Madam,’ he said,  holding onto her hand, ‘soon these pretty fingers will be creating dishes to swoon over and your ‘usband will be cold no longer….’  
          ‘Such rapport…’ she thought, ‘it’s almost as if he’s reading my mind.’
          ‘To start, we vill create Coq au Vin…’ he closed his eyes in rapture…’tender, succulent chicken, in a rich red wine sauce wiz ‘erbs and garlic.   And for dessert, Crème de Chantilly, so light it will be like eating vanilla flavoured mist.   Come, I vill show you…’
 
          As usual, Bernard’s face bore a look of foreboding as she carried a steaming casserole to the table.   Warily, he opened the lid and sniffed.   He paused and sniffed again.   ‘Smells almost edible.’ he said and helped himself to a very small portion.   He chewed for a second and looked at her before helping himself to more,  ‘did you buy this?’
          ‘No, of course not.   It’s home-made.’   She didn’t think it necessary to mention Alphonse.
          From then on Bernard was in heaven.   Every evening he’d eagerly await her latest concoction, thick shellfish bisque, tender Boef-en-Croute or a silky omelette delicately flavoured with Brie.    His mouth worked overtime until his plate was empty and he was ready for dessert;  his eyes gleaming as he tucked into  a  creamy Bavarois,  Souffle au Chocolat or, her speciality, Tarte Tatin.
          It wasn’t long before Abigail noticed that Bernard was no longer skinny but decidedly porky.   His chin was fast disappearing into oily rolls of flesh and his eyes were likewise vanishing into the dough of his face.   She felt a twinge of alarm as he reached out a plump hand for yet another of her Bouchees, crisp pastry shells filled with fruit and cream, and as Bernard bit into it, sending golden flakes raining down onto the tablecloth, she plucked up courage.
‘Darling, don’t you think that, perhaps, you have had enough…’ her voice  trailed away as he shot her a glare so icy she felt frost forming on her eyelashes.  
 
From then on, she didn’t say a word but watched as Bernard swelled, becoming so huge he could barely squeeze through the door.   Now, there was no room for her to cuddle up to him at night, instead she was forced into the spare room as Bernard’s bulk hogged the bed and he lay on his back like an enormous walrus, his snores thundering through the house.
It only took a few months.   Just as Bernard was reaching for his third helping of Framboise au Crème, he suddenly froze, a trickle of cream running down his chin.   His face became post-box red as his piggy eyes widened and he clutched at his throat.
‘AArgh…’ he gurgled and slumped to the floor with a deafening crash.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Abigail thought….’I’ve killed my husband.  What will his mother say?’
 
‘Nezzer mind…’ Alphonse crooned as he gathered the grief-struck widow into his arms.   ‘You still ‘ave me.  ‘Ere, ma petite have another slice of gateaux, it will make you feel better.’
Speculatively, he wrapped an arm around her waist, noticing how much further it had to stretch now -  oui, her muffin top was coming on nicely.   She would take a bit longer than her husband but she was well on the way: very soon he’d be able to carve yet another notch on his chopper and his job here would be done.    He sighed, suddenly melancholy.  ‘So much tragedy in the world but at least, my way, zey die ‘appy.’
(988 words)