Page 74 of When Lemons Give You Life

When it’s finally died down, and the last pan’s been scrubbed after dinner, I follow them out to the car park as a cleaner enters the kitchen. The cool air smells faintly of rain on asphalt and the lingering tang of onion from the vents. Nishan’s tires crunch over loose gravel as he drives off. Scotty keeps walking, his trainers scuffing the bitumen.

“Scotty, wait!”

He stops but doesn’t turn.

“I know I have a lot to explain.”

Still no movement. Two carers pass between us.

I take a step closer. “Would you come back to my room? Just for a minute. Please. There are too many people here.”

He turns at last. Eyes hard. “Fine,” he mutters.

I peel off my chef whites and lead him through the corridors.

He steps inside, springing back as he points to the bed. “Uh, I think we’re in the wrong room.”

“Scotty, meet Cliff. Don’t mind him—he’s my alibi.” I peel back the comforter to reveal the stuffed figure in all his lumpy glory.

Scotty blinks. “Geez. Talk about skeletons in the closet. Though this one’s clearly been well fed.”

“I went a bit overboard on the stuffing.” I lift the dummy by the armpits. “He’s somewhere between beer belly and second trimester, I’ve got catching up to do.” I pat my concave stomach.

He cracks a smile, his tummy rumbling as he eyes the dinner that’s already been delivered. “Sorry. It just smells really good.”

“It should do. After all, we made it. Help yourself.” I push the plate toward him.

He crosses his arms and looks away. “No. I don’t want to take your food.”

“Please, it’s the least I can do. They feed us too much here anyway. Quantity’s never been the issue, it’s quality.”

He reluctantly takes the plate, slicing through the layers of flaky, buttery pastry, revealing the rich chicken and leek casserole underneath.

“What do you think?”

“Mmmm.” He picks a fallen flake of filo from his lap. “Don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like it.” His hazel eyes glow. “Mum’s awesome, but she’s a bit challenged in the kitchen. Dinners for us kids were usually packet mixes of beef stroganoff or Chicken Tonight. Always the cheapest cuts of meat. Or sometimes no meat. Or, worse, Spam.”

I stifle a gag. The tinned meat that tests one’s will to live. “Dessert?” I pass him the glossy sticky-date pudding. We didn’t have the time or equipment to make ice cream so had to settle for store-bought, but I’m learning to tolerate imperfect.

“You serious?” Scotty asks. “You don’t even want a bite?”

“Absolutely. Anyone raised on Spam needs this more than I do. I need a drink. You want one?”

He looks at the clock. “Uh, okay, I guess. Just a small one. They let you have grog in your room?”

“No. But I have my methods.” I grin, pulling the whisky from the teddy bear. I pour two mugs, and we sip silently, the warmth easing the tension.

“So you were really a Michelin star chef?” he says between mouthfuls of pudding.

“Yep.”

“No wonder the food is so bloody good!” He polishes it off in seconds, then scrapes his metal teaspoon repeatedly against the side of the bowl as though it will summon more, like Beau used to. Scotty looks around the room, his eyes settling on our wedding photo. “Lisa mentioned your husband died. That him?”

I nod. “His name was Beau.”

“She told me he got very sick and died young . . . ?” he says, softer now.

“Yes, he—”