More plates landed on the bench: prosciutto, little balls of mozzarella, strips of roasted eggplant, artichokes.
‘How far back does that fridge go?’ marvelled Netta. ‘It’s like a clown car!’
‘I have a very disciplined packing technique,’ said Don, seriously. ‘You’d be surprised how much you can fit into a fridge if you’re strategic.’
Rhona rolled her eyes. ‘The kitchen is Don’s kingdom. I was banished long ago for disrespecting the dishwasher-stacking regime.’
A bowl of red sauce and a big ball of pizza dough were the final additions to the bench.
‘It’s pizza night,’ announced Don, slapping his palm to the dough. ‘I hope you’re a fan, because otherwise we’re a bit fucked, I’m afraid.’ He locked eyes with Netta.
She laughed. ‘Who doesn’t like pizza?’
‘Psychopaths!’ shouted a young female voice from upstairs.
Netta swung her gaze to Rhona. ‘Carly?’
‘She’s a shy flower,’ Rhona said, laughing. ‘Struggles to speak her mind.’
‘So, tell me, Netta. Why does it feel strange to be back in London?’ asked Don.
Netta paused. Now wasn’t the time for honesty. ‘It’s just been so long—almost twenty years—everything feels the same and so, so different.’
‘Twenty years!’ exclaimed Don. ‘But surely you were but a zygote twenty years ago!’
Netta snorted, her hand flying to her mouth to catch the wine she had yet to swallow. ‘Oh, you’regood,’ she said. ‘I was twenty.’
‘Well then, you’re old enough now to help me roll the pizza dough,’ said Don. He looked up to the mezzanine, where Miles and Carly remained unseen. ‘SEEING AS MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD CHILDREN WON’T HELP.’
Netta pushed up her sleeves and washed her hands in the huge sink. ‘Where do you want me, chef?’
Don pointed to a bench on the other side of the kitchen, where a row of six pizza trays and a rolling pin lay waiting. He divided the dough into equal portions and dropped a piece onto each tray. ‘There’s some flour in the bowl just there so it doesn’t stick.’
Netta sprinkled some flour over each piece of dough, and, of course, all over the front of her black dress. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, trying to dust her belly with one hand while wielding the rolling pin in the other.
‘Here.’ Don threw her a dry tea towel.
She snatched it mid-air, catching it just as the woodpecker declared another arrival at the front door.
Rhona disappeared from the kitchen to answer it and Netta busied herself making an even bigger mess of her dress, the towel doing nothing other than spreading the flour into a bigger, infinitely more noticeable smudge.
Heavy footsteps followed Rhona’s back down the hall to the kitchen and a familiar voice greeted Don behind Netta’s back, causing her stomach to drop so fast and so far it felt like it was holding hands with her colon.
Morrison had arrived.
Chapter Twenty
MO
Even though Mo knew Netta had been invited to dinner, it was somehow still a surprise to see her ensconced in Rhona’s kitchen. But there she was, rolling out pizza dough in a little black dress and sexy boots.
Netta turned around slowly, still holding the rolling pin. She was covered in flour. ‘Oh, hello again,’ she said.
‘I didn’t realise it was that kind of party.’ The left side of Mo’s mouth hitched into a half grin as he rubbed the back of his index finger under his nose.
Netta’s hand flew up to the tip of her nose, which was dusted in white flour. Her cheeks bloomed crimson as she frantically swiped at it with a tea towel and Mo regretted the joke instantly. Not only would she think he was rude for not leading with ‘hello’ like a normal human, now she’d probably think he was some kind of drug pig too. Perfect.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What Ishouldhave said was: hello, Netta, nice to see you again.’
