Page 77 of Secret Paths

“That explains nothing.”

“It makes savoury things taste more savoury.”

“That also explains nothing.”

He hands me the bottle. “Smell it.”

I take a sniff and recoil.

Peter laughs. “Your face.”

“It smells like someone made vinegar angry.”

“And yet, magic.”

“British cooking is very strange.”

“Your national pride is inspiring.”

“I am allowed to question sauce.”

“Not in Yorkshire.”

The filling bubbles and thickens, turning from worrying to edible with impressive speed. The potatoes soften in their pan, and Peter drains them before putting them back on the hob for a minute.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Gets rid of extra water. Better mash.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It is not.”

“I remain cautious.”

He adds butter, a splash of milk and a handful of grated cheddar, then hands me the masher.

“Your moment.”

I take it. “What do I do?”

“Take out your feelings on the potatoes.”

“That sounds therapeutic.”

“Free therapy.”

I mash.

Badly at first. Then with more enthusiasm.

Peter leans against the worktop and watches me. “You have a lot of feelings.”

“I work with the public.”

“Fair.”

“And you brought unplanned dinner into a sex arrangement.”