Page 37 of Secret Paths

“Breakfast.”

I take a sip of coffee.

When I look back, one bowl has become a face.

Banana slices form the cheeks. A row of strawberries creates a bobbed hairstyle. Two blueberries sit at either side of the yoghurt pretending to be earrings.

I stare at it.

“Is that Mrs Higgins?”

Peter looks pleased with himself. “It is an affectionate likeness.”

“She looks unwell.”

“She looks glamorous.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Not a small one, either. It catches me so unexpectedly that coffee sloshes over the side of my mug and onto my hand.

Peter reaches for a tea towel.

“Careful.”

“I am fine.” I wipe the coffee away, still laughing. “You have made her look deranged.”

“I have captured her essence.”

“Bernard would eat her earrings.”

“Bernard would eat the whole bowl.”

“That is because it is food.”

Peter carries the bowl to the table with a flourish.

“Breakfast, Doctor.”

“Silly man.”

His grin widens. “You are welcome.”

We sit opposite each other at the small kitchen table. Peter eats his own yoghurt without turning it into a portrait, which feels like a missed opportunity, while I pick one of Mrs Higgins’s blueberry earrings out of mine and eat it.

The conversation drifts, as though we have been having breakfast together for years rather than one night. Bernard’s sausage-roll theft becomes a discussion about whether Mrs Higgins has created a monster. Peter tells me he has once seen Bernard steal a pork pie from a table outside The Running Horse without breaking stride.

“That cannot be true.”

“It was terrifyingly efficient.”

“A whole pork pie?”

“Mrs Higgins was devastated. She had not even had a bite.”

I laugh again.

Peter watches me over the rim of his mug, and there is something in his expression that makes me look down at the table.

This is not a date.