Page 73 of Secret Paths

I look at the bags.

Then at him.

“Have you misunderstood the assignment?”

He smiles. “Good evening to you too.”

“You were asked to bring wine.”

“I brought wine.”

“And half a supermarket.”

“Not half.”

“A third?”

“Closer.”

I open the door wider. “Why are you carrying food?”

“Because I have been walking for most of the day, and before my dick can perform, its owner needs feeding.”

I stare at him.

He steps past me into the hall. “Nutritionally sound. You of all people should approve.”

“That was not medical advice.”

“It hinted at the prospect of proteins.”

“It had the word dick in it.”

“Doctors are familiar with those.”

“Not usually in relation to shopping bags.”

He kisses my cheek as he passes, quick and cheerful, and carries the bags straight to the kitchen counter as though he has delivery rights.

I follow him, already suspicious.

He puts everything on the worktop. Potatoes. Beef mince. Carrots. Onion. Frozen peas. Stock cubes. Cheddar. Tomato purée. A bottle of Worcestershire sauce. A bunch of parsley sits on top, looking as if it has wandered into the wrong meeting.

“No,” I say.

Peter turns, holding a potato. “No to the potato specifically?”

“We do not do dinner.”

“We are about to.”

“No, Peter. We do dick time.”

“Lovely. Efficient. Slightly aggressive.”

“I am serious.”

“So am I. I am starving.”