Page 31 of Just for the Season

Leaving work now five minutes later than expected (I didn’t realise at the time but those babies got some SERIOUSLY sticky stuff just under the edge of their table – impressive) but all still in hand on the lasagne front.

Okay I’m back at Ellie’s now and have all the ingredients so no supermarket dash necessary.

All made hooray. On my way.

I say:

No, no, surely I should pick it up from you. Least I can do

She replies:

Remember, YOU are doing ME a favour and also the lasagne dish is already nestled very nicely on my front passenger seat, which dips in the exact perfect way to hold it and who’s to say your car is as well designed as mine for lasagne transportation. See you in a minute. Switch your oven on.

* * *

And five minutes later, she’s at my front door bearing a lasagne.

‘You’re an angel,’ I tell her.

‘Yes,’ she says, her features very serious. ‘Making a lasagne for someone is so angelic compared to being their fake boyfriend. If I were you I’d ask me for as many favours as possible until we fake break-up. You have a desperate and bored person at your complete mercy. You should take advantage.’

‘Well,’ I say, in an equally serious tone, ‘I’d like to have the whole house cleaned and meals cooked every single day. I wouldn’t mind having the lawn mown too and actually I’d like to have some wardrobes built in our spare room.’

‘I wasn’t joking,’ she says. ‘I am so grateful. I’d happily do all of that. Although I’m not an experienced carpenter.’

‘Any experience at all?’

‘I once assembled an IKEA bed. And I would more than happily assemble as much IKEA furniture for you as you would like.’

I laugh. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Good. Right. I’ll let you go and put that in the oven, and make sure our own one isn’t burning – I killed two lasagne birds with one stone. Have a lovely evening.’

And off she goes, leaving me with a lasagne in my hand and a smile on my face.

* * *

‘This lasagne’s amazing,’ Ruby says forty-five minutes later. ‘The cheese sauce is even better than usual and so’s the sauce the beef’s in.’

She’s right. It is. If I were a competent home cook I’d ask Frankie for her recipe.

‘I didn’t actually make it myself,’ I admit.

‘Thought not. Different lasagne dish,’ Ruby says.

‘Good observation. Thank goodness I didn’t lie about making it,’ I say.

‘Life lesson,’ Ruby replies. ‘Only lie if you won’t get found out.’

‘Er… yes, but also no? Morals?’

‘Oh, please.’ Ruby grins at me. ‘So who did make it?’

‘Frankie.’

‘She’s a good cook,’ Ruby comments.

The evening passes with no teenage strops whatsoever, and when her friends have left, Ruby says, ‘Thank you for getting the lasagne and cake. I feel like… sometimes it’s almost okay not having Mum here. Like… sometimes you can be as good as a mum.’ That’s a pretty big compliment coming from Ruby.