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This time, Adam ushered her straight through the living room and into the kitchen. She couldn’t help gasping as she walked in. It was an open-plan extension with a slanting glass roof and folding doors which were half open, letting in the briny sea air. There was a big island topped with slate, a bright orange range cooker and thick, chunky shelves from floor to ceiling, which held painted crockery and bowls and glassware, more cookery books and a host of pans and kitchen utensils. Tongue-and-groove units painted in off-black hid the fridge, freezer and dishwasher. And all over the walls, more art, all with a food theme – the butchery cuts on a cow, a vintage Guinness sign, framed restaurant menus with the date scrawled on them. It was bold and bright and utterly mouth-watering. A place for friends and laughter and dancing.
‘Wow,’ was all she could think of to say. ‘I mean, really wow.’
‘Trust me, I still pinch myself whenever I come in here. I know how lucky I am.’ Adam smiled, pouring pale yellow wine into a long-stemmed glass and handing it to her.
‘I shouldn’t.’ Nikki took the glass anyway.
‘It’ll take the taste of dust away. It’s only light. Albariño.’
Nikki took a sip. The zesty lemony-ness filled her mouth as she looked around the room, doing her mental arithmetic, wondering just how long it would take to save up and do the same. She wouldn’t be able to afford such a high-end finish, but with Suzanne’s help she could do something slightly less ambitious. Suzanne was clever at sourcing cheaper options and getting a luxe effect on a tight budget.
Adam pulled up a stool for her to sit at the island. All across it were spread a sheaf of pen-and-ink drawings on thick white paper, coloured in with a watercolour wash.
Adam tapped one of the drawings.
‘You recognise it?’
‘Of course! It’s our beach.’ The secret beach. It was captured perfectly. Nikki recognised every rock and stone, the curve of the sand, the familiar waves. ‘And those plants – those are the flowers that grow on the cliffs.’ She recognised sea buckthorn and samphire; gorse and thrift, all intricately drawn and coloured in with a wash of pink and green and yellow. If she shut her eyes, she could imagine their herbaceous scent. The perfumed air here was intoxicating. ‘They’re very different from the paintings.’
‘She was very talented. It would have been annoying if she hadn’t been so self-deprecating. She called them her little scribbles.’ He picked one of them up. ‘I want to get them framed and give one each to her friends. A little piece of Jill to remember her by. It’s taken me till now to sort through them.’
He stared down at the drawing he was holding. It really was exquisite, capturing the wildness of the cove and its windswept beauty with just a few deft strokes of a pen.
‘She was incredibly talented. You must be so proud …’ Nikki tailed off, realising that Adam was trying his hardest not to cry. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’
‘No. It’s fine.’ His voice broke. ‘It’s just … oh shit … this wasn’t supposed to happen.’ He choked on a half-sob, tried to laugh, then swore again.
Nikki put a tentative hand on his back. For a moment, he tensed, and she was about to take her hand away, thinking she had crossed a boundary. Then he relaxed, and she held it there, for reassurance while he gathered himself together. She could feel the warmth of him under the soft cotton of his shirt, his muscles coiled and defined, and for a moment wondered what his skin felt like. Stop it, she told herself. Don’t go there.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Sorry. That was embarrassing. But you never know when grief is going to jump out, do you?’
‘I know,’ said Nikki. ‘But I always think it’s best to give in. Don’t fight it. Kind of like being caught up in a rip tide. It will spit you out eventually. Exhausted, but on the other side.’
‘I like that.’ Adam nodded. ‘Ideally, I’d have a good blub every morning, to get it out of my system. But that’s not how it works.’
‘Honestly. I get it.’ She was all too familiar with the heavy lump you carried with you. The sense of despair on waking. The struggle to pretend. The awful, awful desolation when you didn’t think you could bear the pain a moment longer. Somehow, you carried on. And gradually, very gradually, you got used to the burden. It never left you, but you learned to live with it.
Even now, it was there, deep inside her. Her grief, her longing, her sadness.
‘Anyway, I didn’t drag you in here to cry all over you,’ said Adam. ‘I wondered if you knew of any office premises to rent? I don’t need anywhere huge. And it doesn’t have to be glamorous.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I was going to be able to work from home. But the more time I spend here, the less I want to sully it with paperwork and figures and all the office crap.’
‘I think it’s important to separate home and work when you’ve got your own business. Otherwise, you never switch off.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll ask my brother. And my mate Joel, who sold me Number Four. Between them they know everything that’s going on in Speedwell.’
‘Thank you. I think it would make a huge difference.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Anyway. Pasta puttanesca do you? Otherwise known as tart’s spaghetti? Capers, olives, tomatoes, bit of chilli?’
‘That sounds perfect.’
Moments later the air was filled with the scent of frying garlic. She sipped the rest of her wine and watched as Adam moved around the kitchen, grabbing jars, knives, bunches of herbs, chopping with an impressive speed and precision, throwing things into the heavy frying pan on the hob and shaking it by the handle. He lobbed sea salt into a pan of boiling water and a drizzle of olive oil.
Before she knew it, he placed a bowl in front of her filled with a coiled nest of spaghetti topped with a glistening rich sauce.
‘Are you a trained chef?’ she asked.
‘God, no. Just an obsessive eater. I’m really only happy when I’m feeding people.’ He wiped a splash of sauce off the rim of his bowl with a finger. ‘Strictly speaking we should be having a big glass of red with this, but I know you need to be up early so I won’t tempt you.’
