Page 57 of When Lemons Give You Life

Our eyes meet. I look away first.

Mum flips the pancakes and turns them onto two plates. She sets one down in front of Lisa, smoothing her fingers over her dark hair. “There you go, my best girl.”

Lisa beams, clapping her sticky hands.

Mum passes me the second plate. I pour the maple syrup slowly, watching the amber spiral fill the edges, waiting for something I know probably won’t come. Some part of me still wants her to say it. Just once. To call me her best boy. But there’s only silence.

I knew I’d never be her best boy. Her best man. Not even after getting rid of her worst. Not after being responsible for the death of her favorite.

34

Griff

I unzip the seam along Pooh Bear’s back and reach in. Once gloriously overstuffed, his secret stash of three-ply is down to one sad, crumpled roll. Time to restock. I place the order on my phone then pick up The Death Menu, now crossed out and filled with a real menu, a life menu. With food that sustains.

I’ve done alright with limited ingredients thus far, but I’m itching to expand like a master painter who’s only been given a box of crayons. My eyes return to the screen. Then it hits me—online grocery shopping! Lisa tried to convert me during the pandemic, but I turned up my nose. As a chef, selecting my own ingredients was nonnegotiable. An online shopper wouldn’t know a perfectly ripe cantaloupe if it jumped up and bit them on the bum. But now . . .

I download the supermarket app, set up an account using the abandoned house’s address, and within minutes I’m adding everything to my cart like a kid in an online candy store. Portobello mushrooms. Pancetta. Goat cheese.

Then I look at the cart total. Yikes. And I haven’t even added Wagyu.

I open a new tab and check my secret bank account. It’s taken a hit these past months of trying to fill the boredom with online shopping. I scowl at the novelty cat clock that lives under my bed, the one I bought off Temu when I was halfway through a bottle of port.

If I want better ingredients, I need more cash. But I can’t touch my main account, not without raising suspicions from my accountant. Damn dementia. Once it’s official, you can’t access your own money. Can’t make more, either.

Wait a minute. I not only have a job, but I’m damn good at it, so it is fair I receive remuneration, right? Plus, if Martin is a half-decent bloke and gets paid for a role he isn’t doing, he’ll let on, and I’ll be found out. The employment form has Martin’s bank details on it, so I have to change those to my own. Not just to be paid for my work, but to stay hidden.

According to Nishan, the only way to update my details is to collect the paperwork from reception during business hours, Monday to Friday. Days I am not Martin.

It’s a big risk, but on Monday morning I suit up in my best outfit—the one they stuffed me into for Christmas carols—and one of Beau’s old ties. Off goes the beanie. I shave, slick my hair, and trim the nostrils; I’m going for “dignified staff member” not “escaped garden gnome.”

Reception is by the front entrance, so I can’t just wander down the hallway like a confused resident looking for the toilet. If I was a real staff member off-duty, I’d be coming from outside. So, I climb out my window, stroll around the building, and walk in like I own the place. A face mask and Beau’s old reading glasses add a solid layer of disguise, even if I have to squint over the top to see. Donning my best poker face, I march toward the desk, trying not to look like my digestive system has been replaced with a NutriBullet.

The young blond receptionist offers a smile. “Hi, I’m Tiff. How can I help you?”

“Hello, I’m Martin McDonald. Weekend chef. I need to update my bank details, please.”

She pulls a folder from the drawer. “You don’t have to wear a mask in common areas anymore, you know.”

“I know, force of habit. Can’t be too careful.”

She shrugs, then looks at me through narrowed eyes. “Have we met before?”

“Not officially no, but I’ve seen you around.”

She buys it and hands me a form.

“Cheers. I’ll just be a tick.”

I stroll to the visitor’s toilet, lock the door, and whip out my phone, grateful I took a photo of Martin’s paperwork. I fill in his full name, date of birth and employee number, only substituting my own bank details. The account name won’t match, but Beau once told me just the numbers matter after I accidentally transferred three thousand dollars to “Paul the Panter” and had to reassure him Paul was a painter not a stripper. It looks like pay is monthly, so I’ve changed it in time.

I puff out my chest at my reflection in the mirror. Robin Hood for the elderly.

Striding confidently back to the foyer, I recoil as I come face-to-face with Allison, who is reprimanding Tiff. “This is the third time you’ve forgotten! How many times do I have to say it? When a resident passes away, make sure you ask the family for twenty dollars to cover the cost of the plastic storage bags we pack their clothes in.”

“But those bags are only five bucks, aren’t they?” Tiff asks, a surprised look on her face.

“Yes, but we are a business here, remember, not a charity!”