Page 48 of Read My Lips

“And now you know where I really come from too.”

“I never said that.”

“Oh, please. Admit you wanted to know. Because it’s interesting how different we are.”

The pan winced and hissed as he tossed in everything we’d sliced, calming down only as he stirred it. Flavours wafted up with eye-watering intensity, mellowing soft and fragrant as the onions turned see-through. How many times had someone asked him that? How many times had I wondered?

Heat itched into my cheeks.

“Alright, I wondered. But I want to know because you’re telling me. Because you’ve got... traditions.”

He gave another stir, glancing over his shoulder to catch my eye and cracked a tin of tomatoes open.

“Do I indeed?”

I folded my arms across my chest.

“No, you’re right. You’re standing here cooking things your dad taught you, that someone taught him. From the place he grew up. No traditions there whatsoever.”

“Everyone has family recipes.”

“Not me.”

Simon’s face glazed with lazy disbelief. “Not even Sunday roast?”

“I wish. Gran never liked cooking. She did a lot of tinned pies and marrowfat peas.”

“Tinned pies.” Simon made a face. If he’d ever had a marrowfat pea in his life, I would eat his hat. “How very interesting. You must tell me more about your peculiar Northern culture.”

“Oh shut your face.”

“Sorry. You didn’t go down the coal mines as a twelve year-old instead of getting a newspaper round?”

I snorted, shaking with laughter. My half-arsed shove sort of turned into me wedging myself in against his side, and he jostled me back, his ruffled laugh blooming louder in my ear, eyes sparking contagious joy. God this was dangerous. His breath gusting against my neck felt far too good to be pretend.

Simon sobered slightly.

“What about things with your mother?” And then it didn’t feel good at all.

I squirmed out of reach.

“Uh – yeah.” Breath held deep enough to burn my lungs. I counted another five seconds before risking letting it out. “Suppose we had things we’d do. Not cooking.”

“Like what?”

“She – um.” The words were right there, lining up to tumble out of me, whether I wanted to tell him or not. “She used to read to me. You know, bedtime stories – sound out all the words and do the signs in English order. I was struggling with my reading – getting it to map across from BSL. Every night for years she’d do that, even though she didn’t really speak with anyone else.”

Simon nudged my trainer with the toe of his shoe. “She sounds kind.”

A bubble swelled in my chest, pressing too tight against my ribs.

“She – yeah. Best Mam ever.”

“So, how did you end up with your grandparents?”

Should have seen that coming. Too late for an about-turn now. Idiot.

“She got ill.” My nostrils flared. That still got me after years. Oh god. I was about to ruin this. Drag the mood right down. He’d only been doing polite small-talk. “But I was only with them for a bit really.”