but his attention was more on the subtle shifts in Leah as her professional persona took over, showing itself in the confidence in her voice and body language. ‘What difference does the temperature make?’ he asked.
‘Partly consistency but mainly that over-cool temperatures hinder my ability to detect flavours.’ She gave him a quick smile. He found himself watching her mouth again. ‘So here’s the speed-dating version of how I’d assess a chocolate that’s new to me, starting with the packaging because quality chocolate usually gets quality wrapping. This looks good to me.’ She slipped a finger under the brown paper and pulled back the foil beneath to expose a dark slab of chocolate divided neatly into rectangles. ‘Of the chocolate itself, I note that the surface is smooth and free from bloom – the whitish marks we sometimes see on cheap products, those that have been around too long or stored badly. The colour’s good. The surface has a sheen which, in dark chocolate like this, lets me see other colours. It’s a sort of brown rainbow visible to the practised eye.’
Ronan inspected the slab. He saw dark brown. No rainbow. Curtis flicked him a what’s she on about? look.
‘The precision in the moulding is another sign of quality. Then I listen.’ She picked up the slab and broke off a rectangle, then broke it again. ‘It should resonate when it snaps. Hear it?’
‘Seriously?’ Curtis demanded. ‘Talking chocolate?’
Leah laughed. ‘Buy a cheap bar and you’ll be able to hear and see the difference. You won’t get that snap and the product will be grainy and without lustre.’ She turned the pieces of chocolate in her hands. ‘See how this snapped? It has a sharp edge. That’s how it should be.’ She broke off four generous portions and handed them out. ‘Don’t eat it yet. Smell it. Enjoy the aroma and prepare your taste buds.’ She inhaled, her eyes half shut. ‘Smells good to me.’
‘Yum,’ agreed Natasha.
‘So now – being glad that at a chocolate tasting we don’t have to spit, as we would at a wine tasting – place a piece on your tongue. Don’t chew unless it needs breaking slightly to release the flavours. Letting it melt on your tongue releases the cocoa butter and counteracts any bitterness. We’re not eating, we’re tasting. Close your eyes. Let yourself experience the flavour.’
Instead of closing his eyes, Ronan watched her close hers, observing her focused expression, and Jordan snaffling a second piece while Leah wasn’t looking, then blushing when he realised Ronan was.
Slowly her eyes opened again. ‘A beautiful, rich flavour. This is good chocolate, high in cocoa solids, well presented, great aroma, just the sweet side of bitter. I’d expect it to temper well and I could make high-quality chocolate products from it.’
‘What’s tempering?’ Ronan put in.
‘It’s a faffy procedure involving heating and cooling the chocolate slowly to avoid the cocoa butters separating out or crystallising. A product development kitchen for chocolate products will have a machine to do it with precision because it ensures smooth glossy chocolate for dipping and coating.’
‘Your sensory perceptions must be well developed.’ Ronan just stopped himself from using the word ‘sensual’ instead of ‘sensory’. The sensual experience had been his, watching her.
‘Can we try the other bar?’ demanded Jordan.
‘It is interesting to compare,’ she agreed. ‘It often helps me fully explore my impressions of one product to compare it to another. We need to cleanse our palates again, though.’
Nobody objected; in fact Jordan almost knocked his glass over in his haste to co-operate. Soon they were running through the process again, everyone closing their eyes and solemnly sucking chocolate. Unanimously, they scored the first bar higher than the second and Leah pointed out economies in the packaging of the second that hinted at a slightly lesser quality.
Generously, she let the kids ‘taste’ chocolate until it had all disappeared, then Curtis, Jordan and Natasha wandered over to the shadier part of the garden – ‘which means they don’t want us to listen in,’ observed Alister – and Michele stowed her phone and did the polite-company thing in asking Ronan all about himself. ‘So are you being paid not to work, this summer, like Leah?’
Ronan caught the faintly exasperated look that Leah sent Michele. He’d worked out that the two were sisters but thought some of Michele’s digs were a bit uncalled for.
Before Leah could respond, however, her phone buzzed to claim her attention, and Ronan responded courteously. ‘I broke my clavicle and had to have it pinned. Luckily it was my left side and painting uses my right.’ He rubbed the dull ache that made his shoulder heavy and stiff. From the corner of his eye he could see Leah tapping rapidly at her phone screen. The phone buzzed again almost straightaway and she snorted with amusement before resuming her tapping.
‘Poor you,’ said Michele. ‘How did that happen?’
‘I’m a helicopter pilot and I had a bit of an incident, but in a few weeks I should be passed fit to fly again.’ He deliberately glossed over what had happened. Those who didn’t fly treated it like a big deal to get an ailing helicopter to the ground rather than the simple good airmanship that it was. Now the op was over and the healing well under way he didn’t want to indulge avid requests for information. He just wanted to enjoy the extra time with Curtis.
Happily, Michele seized on his job as the interesting element of his explanation. ‘Helicopter pilot? Glamorous! Makes teaching look boring.’
Alister smacked his lips over his wine. ‘Ha! Maybe, though that depends on the teacher.’
Michele sent him a death glare and Leah hastily put away her phone and butted in. ‘A helicopter pilot? That’s cool.’
She had her work cut out as peacekeeper between her sister and her husband, Ronan decided as he smiled at her. ‘Flying’s my life. I work for an air tours company called Buzz Sightseer, flying tourists over London. I’m the chief pilot and helped build the company up from day one.’
Leah found herself fascinated as Ronan talked, relaxed and easy in his chair, long legs crossed at the ankle.
He lived on the southeastern fringe of London’s urban sprawl, was divorced, and shared Curtis’s care with ex-wife Selina. He’d been brought up in Ireland, ‘the rocky bit, right at the top’, but his dad had moved the family to England, where he helped Ronan through university and on his way to his commercial pilot’s licence before he passed away. ‘Dad would’ve been pleased that I got the career I love,’ he concluded. He gave the impression of calm control, of not wasting words, except to occasionally inject flashes of dry humour into the conversation.
When Leah finally glanced at her watch the time had whizzed around to almost four. Regretfully, she searched around in the grass for her sandals. ‘I’d better get off to the supermarket, unless we’re eating out tonight.’
Ronan sat up. ‘The supermarket in Muntsheim? I don’t suppose I could beg a lift? My car’s having work done and the garage said it should be ready round about now. I was going to call a cab.’
Alister sloshed more wine into his glass. ‘You can leave Curtis here if he wants. He seems to be stopping our two from bickering.’
Ronan grinned. ‘And miss a ride in your pink car?’
Alister snorted. ‘Not my car.’
‘I did think it was a bit pretty.’ Ronan went to check with Curtis, who looked up only long enough to say that the others had given him the password to the wifi and he was quite happy where he was. Ronan going off without him was, apparently, ‘Cool beans’.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Michele began to get to her feet.
Although she understood the eye-roll Michele directed towards Alister, Leah suddenly found she’d used up her quota of sisterly compassion for the afternoon. ‘Sorry, no room, I want to give my car a run,’ she whispered. Once she’d dropped Ronan