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I open the freezer. Handwritten stickers on the plastic boxes proclaim their contents: various pasta dishes, lots of curries, some roast dinners, and a few tubs of expensive ice cream. I’ve seen his handwriting, and this isn’t it. He’s also told me he hasn’t invited any girl back here. In that case, I reckon someone comes in and cooks for him, then freezes these meals, and he just reheats them as and when.
I could just use a couple of these, but I enjoy cooking and find it calming. He hasn’t eaten since lunch and he needs to keep his strength up, plus, I’m hungry too. Tonight we’re having a proper dinner.
He’s still talking, so I put some music on my phone, not too loudly, then get out the pasta, a tin of tomatoes, an onion, some tomato paste from the cupboard, and the bacon, a red bell pepper, and a green chili from the fridge. I stir fry the onion, add the bacon, pepper, and chili, tip in the tin of tomatoes, and add a sprinkle of herbs from the spice rack.
I’ve just finished cooking the pasta when James comes back into the house and walks through to the kitchen.
“You’re cooking,” he says, astonished. “I thought you were going to, like, make a sandwich or something.”
“I’m hungry, and you haven’t eaten since lunch, plus I enjoy it.”
His lips curve up. He puts his phone on the breakfast bar, pulls up a bar stool, and sits, leaning on the counter. “I should have known you could cook,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re very homely.”
“I don’t think it means what you think it means,” I say wryly, “or I hope not, anyway. It means plain and ordinary.”
“Jesus, I didn’t mean that! I mean that you’re good in the home—with kids, cooking, that sort of thing.”
“I know,” I tease, stirring the pasta. “Cassie couldn’t cook?”
“I doubt she even knew where the kitchen was.”
“Aw.”
He sighs. “That was spiteful. I didn’t mean to be.”
“It’s all right. I’m sure she had other talents.” I give him a mischievous glance. He doesn’t reply.
Deciding to leave it there, I drain the pasta and add it to the sauce, toss it around a bit, spoon it into two dishes, and top it with grated parmesan. “Come on,” I tell him, “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
I carry the dishes over to the dining table, where I’ve already laid out two placemats and cutlery. I return to collect Leia and take her seat over so she can see us. I put my phone on the table, leaving the music on, as it’s so quiet without it. It’s an old album playing, Kiwi artist Bic Runga’s Beautiful Collision, but he obviously knows it because I hear him hum along to When I See You Smile as he opens the kitchen cupboard.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” he asks.
“Not for me. I don’t drink when I’m looking after children. But please, have one yourself.”
“Actually, I might have a whisky,” he says. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not. It’s your house, and I think, of all days, you probably need one today.”
I sit and sip from a glass of water, watching as he goes into the kitchen and pours himself a large measure from a bottle with a green label. He might be sad, and possibly angry or resentful at what’s happened, but he’s still gorgeous. He’s tall, but he doesn’t seem as big as Henry because he’s slimmer, lithe and muscular rather than bulky. He’s wearing a white shirt today with jeans, but no tie, and he’s rolled up the sleeves. The open neck reveals tanned skin a shade darker and warmer-hued than my own light-brown, cool-toned skin. I saw there was a swimming pool outside, so I guess he spends a lot of the summer in there, catching the sun. He has a five o’clock shadow tonight, and his usually combed, neat hair is unruly, reflecting that he’s run his hands through it a lot today. He’s taken off his shoes and socks, and his feet are brown.
He brings the whisky back to the table and sits opposite me. He picks up his fork and leans on the table, poking the pasta, lost in thought.
Something occurs to me then. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if you mind me eating with you. Would you rather I took mine to my room?”
He lifts his gaze to me with a frown. “Like a servant? Don’t be daft.”
“Well, technically I am hired help.”
“You’re my friend.” He glares at me. “It’s not up for debate.”
I poke my tongue out at him. His frown lifts, although he doesn’t smile as such. Instead, he leans back in his chair with a big sigh and looks down at Leia.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask.
