I usher her out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom.
‘But, MUM, did you see that? He never likes ANYONE!’
‘I think Dylan slipped him some food or something. Anyway, get to sleep; I’ll see you for breakfast.’
As I make my way back to the kitchen, I pass Heisenberg in the hall. ‘Traitor,’ I whisper, but he completely blanks me, slipping round the door into Grace’s room. I nip into the living room for a quick moment to myself. Grace wasn’t supposed to meet Dylan – let alone like him – and I’m surprisingly jealous that my cat prefers this man to the person who buys his fucking food. I’m utterly confused.
Even with the door closed, the smells wafting from the kitchen are magnificent. I sigh, then push it open gently to find that Dylan has turned on the music player on his phone and is stirring in time to ‘Scooby Snacks’ by Fun Lovin’ Criminals.
‘This reminds me of school,’ I remark, closing the door behind me. ‘I went out with a boy called Gary Hughes – big dope smoker, terrible kisser, and this was playing the first time I ever got high with him.’
Dylan places a lid on the saucepan, lifts the bottle of red wine and pulls out a chair. He stands there for a moment, smiling. ‘Quite the wild child, weren’t you? I was in uni when this came out. I was dating Melanie Hawthorne – great kisser, but mediocre shag, bought me a ticket to their gig.’
‘Lucky you. Were they good live?’
‘No idea. She sold it when she found out I slept with her flatmate.’
‘You’re despicable.’
‘Corkscrew?’
I point at the drawer under the microwave. ‘I wasn’t the one getting wasted in high school,’ he continues, ‘but yeah, not my finest hour.’
I take two wine glasses down from the shelf and sit at the table while he pours.
‘It smells great, Dylan. You might be a cheating cad, but it seems you can cook.’
‘My sister is a chef. I pay attention. Your daughter is great.’ He lifts his glass and pours his wine directly into the Bolognese, before refilling it.
‘Let me guess – not what you expected?’
He takes a sip of wine. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything. I’m just saying – she seems like a great kid. You’re obviously a good mum.’
‘Wow. Is that a compliment?’
‘Just an observation.’
We drink our wine while Dylan’s music app shuffles to Simon and Garfunkel and we listen in silence over the sound of the simmering saucepan. It’s nice. For a moment I forget about the book and the reason we met and I enjoy just sitting in my apple-green kitchen with a pot of deliciousness simmering and a man whose playlist for the evening is making my heart less heavy. Dylan stands up and goes to inspect his culinary masterpiece and I admire how broad his shoulders are. I’d forgotten about that too. He mumbles to himself, adding more salt, stirs again and then invites me over for a taste. I take the spoon from him and sample it, being careful not to burn my mouth.
‘My God, that’s divine. You’re a genius. If you weren’t here I’d be head first into that pot.’
‘Thank you. Tastes better than that shit you buy in a jar, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s delicious. That little kick of chilli is making my tongue tingle. Do I have it all over my face?’
Dylan runs his thumb just below my lip. ‘You’re good now.’ He briefly sucks the sauce from the back of his thumb, and I find myself transfixed by his mouth. His perfectly pouty, heart-shaped mouth. I can’t look away. Is this the same voodoo shit he used on Heisenberg? Dylan catches me staring and for a brief second we lock eyes. He grins.
‘I’m sure he’ll enjoy it too. Can I have my spoon back?’
‘What? Who will? Oh yes, the spoon. Sure.’
He takes it and turns away, rinsing it under the sink. ‘Tom.’ He laughs. ‘I’m sure Tom will enjoy the Bolognese. You do remember Tom, right?’
Fuck. I have forgotten about everything, including the reason Dylan is in my kitchen. Did we just have a moment? Is Dylan even capable of having a moment?
‘Oh yes, of course. He’ll love it.’ I sit back down and proceed to inhale my wine.
Dylan turns off the hob and the music on his phone. ‘Just refrigerate that, and heat it up on Wednesday. There’s spaghetti in the small bag.’
