Mussels

‘Et Viola!’ Anne said placing the bowl of mussels on the table.

‘Moules?’ Philippe said giving the evil-eye to a pile of sloppy orange membranes. Their gritty shells as black as crow feathers. His stomach began to heave. ‘I cannot eat these, I am allergic.’

‘Stop being silly’ Anne said ripping a bread roll in two and dunking it into the steamy white wine broth. She let the juices soak halfway up the bread and then bit in.

‘Annie.’ Philippe said sharply ‘I am not being silly, you know yourself they will give my heart palpitations.’

‘Heart palpitations?’ She laughed dismissively. ‘You are just being fussy.’

‘Fussy? Fussy! Mon dieu!’ Philippe exclaimed turning his chair away from the table.

‘Just eat one. They are nice.’ Anne persisted.

‘Do you know what would happen if I ate just one? My heart would begin to beat faster and faster and faster until it was banging against my ribs. Until it jumped out of my chest onto the table in front of you!’ He said banging his fist.

‘But they are so fresh, Jean Louis pulled them off the rocks just this morning.’

‘What is with this woman?’ He declared angrily. ‘Do you want to see me dead?’

She plucked a big one from its shell with her fork and waggled it under his nose.

‘I’m positive they will not do you any harm.’ She urged smiling.

Philippe pushed the fork away.

‘Were you not listening about my heart?’

‘Your heart?’ she said ‘Paf! Your heart was fine yesterday and the day before and day before that. I’m sure it will be fine today.’

Philippe was struck dumb.

‘Can you really not eat mussels?’ Annie asked eventually stern in tone.

‘Oui.’ Philippe replied cautiously.

‘Or is it that you just do not like them?’ She forked the mussel into her mouth and chomped it shut.

‘Annie? Please tell me what is going on.’ Philippe said perplexed.

‘Ok, if you want to know. A week ago, while making your dinner, I slipped a tiny slither of mussel into the sauce. I watched you closely as you ate it all up. You were fine. The next day I put half a muscle in, the next day a whole one, the next two and so on. And still, you are alive, no?’

‘What?’ Philippe cried slapping a hand over his mouth and one onto his belly. He wretched, he was going to be sick.

‘Why Annie?’ He asked meekly, his head down near his lap.

‘Because everyday Jean Louis comes by with beautiful fresh mussels and I have to say ‘No, Philippe cannot eat them. I have to make him his steak.’ Everyday steak! Steak or chicken, but chicken with no bones! You are the fussiest man in the whole of France!’

And after a few minutes in silence Philippe said:

‘But what If I’d been telling the truth? I would be dead.’

‘If you died at least I would know for sure.’