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‘Can I tell you something even stranger?’ I say, leaning forward to take the cup of tea and saucer he hands me. ‘When I opened your bag – before I knew it wasn’t mine – some of the things inside, they made me feel that I was meant to find you.’
‘Really, like what?’
He walks around to my side of the kitchen island, pulling out the bar stool next to me, and I feel flustered by his proximity. Don’t tell him everything, Laura, you’ll freak him out. Apple peel, apple peel.
‘To Kill a Mockingbird is my favourite book.’
‘No,’ he says, eyes wide with surprise, ‘I’ve only read it about fifteen times.’
‘You haven’t!’ I gasp.
‘I even went to law school because I wanted to be Atticus Finch,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘Though I soon realised being a lawyer wasn’t all about getting to be the good guy; often you’re forced to be the bad guy too. Thus, my career in the legal profession turned out to be short-lived.’ He shakes his head, as though not wanting to get too far off topic. ‘What else was in my bag? You have me well and truly intrigued now.’
‘Phil Collins.’ I let the name hang between us.
‘Only the greatest musician ever born!’ says Jasper, slapping his hand on the counter.
‘You had the piano music in your bag, and, well, to say I’m a massive Phil fan would be a huge understatement.’ I feel myself grinning – everything he is telling me is confirming my instincts about the case.
Jasper shakes his head, smiles, then starts talking to the ceiling, ‘Alexa, play “I Wish It Would Rain Down”,’ and the walls begin to sing. ‘I found that sheet music in an obscure music store in London; I thought playing more music I actually like might encourage me to practise more.’
The chorus kicks in, and we both start singing along. He knows every word, just like me. It’s cheesy, but delightfully so. We’re both nodding our heads to the beat. Jasper rolls up the sleeves of his jumper, picks up two wooden spoons from a pot and pretends to play the drums on some saucepan lids; it makes me laugh.
My mind starts getting ahead of itself: maybe our suitcase story will be made into a musical one day. Reese Witherspoon could buy the movie rights and turn it into something like La La Land or Les Misérables. Ooh, it could be like Mamma Mia but full of Phil Collins songs.
‘I don’t know anyone else who truly appreciates Phil’s genius. I mean, who else can combine up-tempo pop with that kind of musical dexterity and lyrical complexity?’ says Jasper.
‘Right! Exactly,’ I say, throwing both hands in the air. ‘I’ve loved him since I was a girl. I inherited my dad’s old LP collection, and all the Phil records are scratched from overuse—’
‘You listen to LPs?’ Jasper grins, ‘I have a whole library of LPs upstairs. OK, favourite song, on the count of three – one, two, three …’ and then we both say, ‘“Sussudio”,’ at the same time. He holds my gaze, and I feel that warm glow that comes from knowing someone likes you.
‘Well, well.’ He smiles up at me. ‘I think we should make a toast.’ He pauses, contemplating what to toast to, and then says, ‘To lost luggage.’
‘To lost luggage.’
Looking at Jasper take a sip of his tea, it’s as though someone has found the list in my head filed under ‘perfect man’ and made him flesh. I ask Jasper where the loo is, just to give myself a time-out from all the delicious eye contact, and he points me down the corridor. There are all sorts of interesting prints and vintage maps adorning the wall; they don’t look like the kind of art someone our age would choose. I must have walked further than he instructed, because when I open the door, I find, not a bathroom, but another kitchen. Unlike the kitchen we were in, this one is cream and white, and all the units gleam as though brand-new and unused. I shut the door, confused. Why would anyone need two kitchens? Maybe this is some kind of granny annexe or a lodger lives here.
Following the corridor around, I pause to inspect a line of butterflies in wall-mounted cabinets. They’re both beautiful and strangely morbid. The next door I come to is open a crack. I reach out for the handle, inexplicably nervous about what I might find behind it. As I push the door slowly open, I find – another kitchen.
What the hell? I am Alice in Kitchenland, and it’s slightly freaky. This kitchen is stylistically entirely different from the first two, dark charcoal surfaces and deep mahogany cupboards, with a large steel extractor unit in the centre of the room. I back out, my heart racing.
Bugger, I knew he was too good to be true. It’s not as though I’ve opened doors to find a string of corpses or a coffin with my name on it – but I still feel unnerved. Is Jasper obsessed with kitchens? How many more kitchens are there? Why do guys that tick every other box always have to have a weird ‘thing’? Why can’t I just meet a normal, unmarried man, who likes Phil Collins and has a regular number of kitchens in his house?
‘So um, I think I went too far down the corridor and – you have two kitchens?’ I say as nonchalantly as possible, once I’m back in the first kitchen with Jasper. Best to just ask him. I genuinely can’t think of anything other than ‘kitchen murderer’ right now, like he has a fetish for killing people in a culinary environment, but he likes to mix it up with different backdrops. I won’t let on I’ve seen all three; he might conclude that if I’ve seen three, I’ve seen too much, and he’ll have to murder me right here with a bread knife.
‘Five actually,’ he says with a grin.
I swallow nervously. There is a touch of the Patrick Bateman about Jasper, now that I look at him with fresh eyes. Not in personality, but he does look like Christian Bale. Oh God, what if this is my last night on earth? I haven’t even seen the latest Bond film yet – I’ll die not knowing if Phoebe Waller-Bridge managed to revive the franchise.
‘Sorry, I should have warned you,’ says Jasper. ‘You’re probably thinking I’ve got a bizarre kitchen obsession now.’
‘Ha ha, no,’ I let out a high-pitched laugh.
Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.
‘It’s my job – I sell kitchens,’ he explains. ‘We needed a showroom, and I inherited this house that’s far bigger than I need,’ he shrugs. ‘When people want to see the kitchen fixtures they’re buying, they come here. There are three in the main house, two more in the outbuilding. I host a lot of culinary and lifestyle photo shoots too.’
My throat stops constricting, my shoulders relax, the rising tide of Christian Bale-related panic recedes. OK, that is definitely a more logical explanation than that he’s a serial killer who likes to murder people in different styles of kitchen. Maybe I do watch too many true crime shows.
