Page 112 of Secret Paths

“I was wondering whether to replace the toaster.”

“Growth.”

“I said wondering.”

“Less growth.”

She picks up her mug and leans against the worktop as if she does this all the time. As if she wakes up in my bed, steals my clothes, insults my appliances and drinks tea in my kitchen every Saturday.

The thought should not make me as happy as it does.

“What do you usually do on a Saturday?” she asks.

“Avoid DIY. Consider laundry. Sometimes achieve neither.”

“Ambitious.”

“What about you?”

“Admin. Washing. Farmers’ market if I can be bothered.”

“You don’t cook.”

“That does not stop me eating apples and raw carrots like a woman with an extremely low-effort health plan.”

“I respect the system.”

“It has kept me alive so far.”

“For a doctor, your standards are worrying.”

“My patients get the good advice. I get caffeine and supermarket hummus.”

Her mouth twitches.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

There is a question sitting between us. What now? Not in the enormous life-altering sense, although that one is hovering somewhere nearby being unhelpful. Just what now, this morning, in this cottage, after breakfast.

Mandy looks towards the sitting room. “Do you have television?”

“I am wounded.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I have smart TV, if you must know.”

“Good. Let’s stream some Homes Under the Hammer?”

“It is like you know my soul.”

“No one wants to know your soul before midday.”

“Harsh.”

She shrugs with a grin.

So we watch Homes Under the Hammer.