Page 141 of Secret Paths

Peter turns. “Doctor.”

“Finance officer.”

He points the wooden spoon at me. “That sounded almost respectful.”

I step out of my shoes and leave them by the mat. Peter once moved them to the cupboard and I reacted as if he had suggested burning down the house.

He has not moved them since.

Instead, he bends, picks them up, and places them neatly side by side by the mat.

Compromise, apparently, is very sexy.

I drop my bag onto the chair by the door, then immediately pick it up again and move it to the floor.

Peter notices.

His gaze flicks to the bag, then back to the pan.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That look was not nothing.”

“I would never give you a look in your own kitchen.”

“You absolutely would.”

“I would, yes.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

He only smiles and goes back to stirring.

There is flour on his forearm, and a smear of tomato near his thumb. A year ago, he would have been a secret in this kitchen. Meetings behind closed doors. Voice lowered if a car slowed outside.

Now his coat hangs on the peg beside mine.

His keys are in the chipped blue bowl by the kettle.

His phone is charging from the socket I always meant to get fixed because it buzzes if the plug sits at the wrong angle.

Nothing about the room has changed very much.

Everything in it has.

“Wine?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Long day?”

“Flu seasons has officially begun.”

He pours me a glass from the bottle already open on the table. There are flowers there too, in the old jam jar because I still do not own a vase. Autumn colours. Nothing neat. Nothing pink and polished. The kind of flowers that look as if they might have been gathered in a hurry by someone with good intentions and no training.

I touch one of the dark red petals.