Right on schedule, I see him park in the street outside. ‘Nice Jeep,’ I mumble to myself. ‘Paid for by the souls of single women, I expect.’ I count to three and take a deep breath before I let him in.
‘Hello!’ he chirps, wiping his shoes on the doormat. ‘Point me in the direction of the kitchen then.’
He drops two shopping bags on the kitchen table and slips off his jacket. ‘Nice place, Cat. Different to what I imagined.’
‘I’m scared to ask what you imagined,’ I reply, peeking inside the bags. There are loads of ingredients inside: bottle of red, tinned tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, garlic, onions, some sort of green plant. I’m impressed.
He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. ‘I imagined something a lot less colourful.’
I have no idea whether this is a dig at my beautiful apple-green kitchen or if he does actually like it. Either way, I don’t care. He’s here to cook, not remark on my fabulous home interior.
He takes all the ingredients out of the bag and then starts opening drawers at random, grabbing knives, saucepans and the chopping board.
‘Where’s your music?’ he asks, opening a tin of tomatoes. ‘You need music to cook.’
‘Do you? Well, it’s in the living room, but Grace is asleep; I don’t want to wake her.’
He nods over to the kitchen door. ‘You sure about that?’
I turn around and see Grace standing at the door in her red dressing grown. ‘Mum, can I have a drink?’
‘Yes, I’ll bring it through. Go back to bed.’
She creeps over to the fridge beside me. ‘Who is that?’ she whispers, pointing to the man who’s frantically chopping an onion at my countertop. ‘Is that Tom?’
I hand Grace some milk while Dylan sniggers. ‘No, honey, this is Dylan. He’s helping me make spaghetti Bolognese.’
‘But it’s bedtime. That’s weird.’
‘I know.’
Dylan stops chopping, wipes his hand on a tea towel and holds it out. ‘I’m Dylan. You must be Cat’s sister Helen. She never told me you were so small.’
Grace bursts out laughing and shakes his hand. ‘You’re silly. I’m not Helen, I’m Grace. This is my mum.’
Dylan grins at her. ‘Very pleased to meet you. Your mum said she didn’t know how to make spaghetti Bolognese for you and this upset me, so I rushed round to teach her how. Do you want to help?’
‘No, it’s late,’ I interrupt. ‘Grace has school tomorrow.’
‘Oh pleeease, Mum!’ she begs. ‘Just for a minute?’
‘Oh, all right, but just for a little while.’
I stand back and watch as Dylan lets Grace pour olive oil into the saucepan, which he heats up to fry diced bacon. Then she tears at the green plant (which turns out to be rosemary) while he chats to her about the fact that raw celery sucks, but cooked, it adds flavour to the meal. Her little cheeks are flushed with excitement and she’s really paying attention. This man, in the space of ten minutes, seems to have completely charmed my eight-year-old.
I feel something brush past my leg and look down to see Heisenberg sitting at my feet, staring at Dylan. I don’t like that look in his eye, but for once I’m not the enemy in the room. If Heisenberg wants to maul Dylan, it’s unlikely I’ll stop him.
‘Grace, it’s time to go to bed. The cat is wondering what you’re doing out here.’
She hops off the kitchen chair and bends down to pat Heisenberg, who miaows at her. ‘OK, fluffy face, I’m coming.’
Dylan puts down his wooden spoon and looks over. ‘Cool cat. What’s his name?’
‘Heisenberg. He only likes me,’ Grace replies. ‘He doesn’t even let Mum cuddle him, and her cuddles are the best.’
He walks over to Heisenberg and bends down. ‘I’m sure your mum’s cuddles are excellent, Grace, and your cat has the greatest name ever.’ He offers his hand to Heisenberg, who gives it a sniff, then arches his back. I close my eyes and prepare for Dylan’s imminent demise. Seconds later, Grace gives a little gasp and I open one eye to see Heisenberg practically dry-humping Dylan with happiness. He’s purring like a power drill and wrapping his entire body around Dylan’s leg. What kind of black magic is this?
‘Bed, Grace. Let’s go. Say goodnight to Dylan.’
