Page 80 of Secret Paths

“Ah. The most sensual of all arrangements.”

“I am not lying on the sofa. It has poor lumbar support.”

“Very romantic.”

“I am a doctor. Spines matter.”

He picks up his wine. “Lead the way.”

We take our glasses upstairs like two people who have not just turned dinner into an event more intimate than sex. I tell myself that is absurd. People eat together every day. People cook. People laugh over sinks and carry wine to bedrooms and complain about being too full.

It does not have to mean anything.

My bedroom lamp is already on. I sit on the bed first, then shuffle back until my shoulders find the pillows. Peter stands there for a moment, glass in hand, looking amused.

“What?” I ask.

“You look very prepared for a formal nap.”

“This is how adults digest.”

“I had no idea.”

“You will learn.”

He sets his glass on the bedside table and lies beside me on top of the duvet, fully clothed, one arm tucked beneath his head. I expect him to make a joke. To touch my thigh. To turn towards me and remind me why he is here.

He only exhales and stares at the ceiling.

“This is dangerously comfortable,” he says.

“I know.”

“My mistake was feeding us.”

“One of several tonight.”

“I can accept constructive feedback.”

“No, you cannot.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I enjoy pretending.”

The wine warms my limbs. The cottage pie sits heavy and pleasant in my stomach. The house is quiet around us, the sort of quiet that usually feels like mine alone. Tonight it has Peter’s breathing in it, and I am surprised by how little I mind.

“So,” he says after a while, “what is the worst thing you have ever eaten?”

I turn my head. “That is an odd question.”

“You looked traumatised by the potatoes earlier.”

“They had soil on them.”

“Potatoes grow in soil.”

“I prefer not to be confronted by the process.”

He smiles. “Worst food. Go on.”