My throat stops constricting, my shoulders relax, the rising tide of Christian Bale–related panic recedes. OK, that is definitely a more logical explanation than that he’s a serial killer who likes to murder people in different styles of kitchen. Maybe I do watch too many true crime shows.
“Let me give you the full tour,” he offers, jumping to his feet.
Jasper tells me that his company is called Contessa Kitchens, and that all his kitchen designs are named after women he admires. The kitchen we are in is the Michelle （as in Obama）。 There’s the Maude （after his mother）—a modern take on a rustic farmhouse theme. The chic cream design I’d stumbled into is the Diana （as in the princess）。 The dark charcoal fixtures make up the Emmeline. And then, finally, there’s a more traditional oak-framed kitchen called—wait for it—the Malala.
As Jasper gives me the tour, he gears into “salesman mode,” and I hear a lot of words I don’t know the meaning of, like compact laminate and polymer resin. He explains all the Contessa styles can be adapted to a U-shape, an L-shape, a peninsula, or islands, but he might as well be speaking Danish for all the kitchen-speak I understand.
I nod along, impressed by his enthusiasm.
“You’re regretting asking about the kitchens now, aren’t you?” he asks as his gaze settles on my perplexed face.
“No, not at all.” I quickly change whatever expression my face was displaying. “So, all the kitchens are named after women?” I ask, leaning against the dark mahogany island of the Emmeline. “Isn’t that slightly, I don’t know, sexist?”
Jasper looks wounded.
“Oh no. It’s a tribute to some of the people throughout history I most admire, just as you might name a ship in someone’s honor.” He pauses. “I have four older sisters. I was a feminist before I could walk.”
I’m not convinced any of these women would be thrilled about having a kitchen named after them, but he appears so earnest about it, it must be well intended.
“And is there enough demand for new kitchens on an island this size?” I ask.
“Oh yes. It’s the first thing people change when they buy a new house. People like to make the heart of the home their own.” Jasper leans an elbow against the wall, then ruffles his hair with the other hand. “There’s a manor in St. Lawrence that’s had three of my kitchens in about as many years—the chap keeps getting divorced and each new wife insists on ripping their predecessor’s kitchen out.”
The story amuses him, so I smile along, but the thought of such waste casts a bleak image in my mind.
Jasper suggests we move to the living room, almost as though he wants to reassure me that there are some rooms in his house that aren’t kitchens. He holds the door open before following me through. The living room has an old-fashioned feel: green velvet sofas, wooden side tables with protective glass tops peppered with ornaments, and a well-polished grand piano in the corner.
“This was my uncle’s house—he didn’t have children, so he left it to me. This décor needs redoing, but I’m putting it off because, well, I’m only good at kitchens,” he says, with a charming, self-deprecating shrug.
Walking over to the piano, I lay my fingers on the lid.
“What a glorious piano,” I say. “You play then?”
Jasper walks over and takes a seat on the sofa. “I was in a quartet at university, but I haven’t played much since. My sisters are always nagging me to keep it up—saying it’s a waste to let it slide. They also tell me women love men who are musical.” He winces at the admission, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise, as though this is the first I’ve ever heard of such a thing.
Stepping away from the piano, I look around at the pictures of his family on the wall.
On the mantelpiece, I notice a photo of four naked men on a beach, their bottoms on display, all turning their heads to face the camera. One is clearly Jasper, and the man next to him almost looks like—
“Wait, is that Henry Cavill, the Superman actor?”
“It is—I was at school with his brother. Skinny-dipping on a stag do is par for the course here.”
I can’t help smiling, imagining what Suki would do if she were here: She’d probably be stuffing the photo into her handbag. Next to the naked men is a picture I presume to be Jasper as a boy, standing by a house on stilts on a small rocky beach, next to four girls of varying heights.
“Oh, is this the écréhous?” I ask, pointing to the picture.