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I am about to take the piss and tell her she isn’t my girlfriend, but decide against it because she still seems fragile. ‘Why?’
‘So your food isn’t cold?’
She looks at me like it is the most obvious thing in the world. The last time anyone cooked for me, all it required was buttons being pressed on a microwave. I suddenly feel uncomfortable.
‘I’ll probably be back at about nine, which might be too late for you.’
‘It’s fine, I’ll just stagger the time I pop yours in. I’m going to the LeCreuset shop today anyway. I’ll get a big dish and two small ones.’
I have no idea what she is talking about, so I agree and she picks up her bag and leaves. She is such an odd creature that I consider the possibility that she may be more interesting than she looks.
Nah.
My work day is tough, so I’m thankful it is Wednesday. I’ve been training in Muay Thai since I was eight and, on Wednesdays, immediately after my own fight training, I run a class for seven, pain in the arse, fourteen-year-olds. I am not a natural teacher, so it’s a nightmare. I inherited the knuckleheads from my own Muay Thai instructor and training partner. He went to visit his family in Thailand for two weeks and I grudgingly agreed to fill in. That was over a year ago. Now I am stuck with them and they are painfully hard work. Today is no different, but I take comfort in the fact that the one thing I can count on, every Wednesday evening, is total exhaustion.
By the time I get back home, it is almost ten. Ariella is in the kitchen, filling a glass of water.
‘You look exhausted.’ Concern floods her face. ‘Want some dinner?’
It’s surreal, having someone standing in my kitchen, comfortably drinking water in a faded Gonzo and Camilla T-shirt, asking me that. I remember. ‘Ah, your baby chicken.’
‘I’m sorry…I didn’t make the poussin. They delivered to my old address after all. You said you liked bangers and mash. It’s not quite right, but would you like to give it a try?’
She’s nervous. I don’t understand why; I’m the one at her culinary mercy.
‘Of course. I’ll eat anything.’ I drop my bag, ready to sit at the counter.
‘I’ll get it ready while you shower.’
‘I can serve myself, it’s okay.’
‘I just need to do some last bits to the mash. Go.’ She smiles shyly at me as she quickly pulls her long, thick, dark, curly hair into a bun at the top of her head.
Surprisingly, I do as I am told without resistance and head into the shower. This is new. It feels like I’ve walked into the 1950s. Frankly I don’t get the appeal. She had better not start with the whole ‘How was your day?’ conversations.
I return and find that she has set a place for one at the central island; and by setting a place, I don’t mean the food is there – I mean a proper place setting. She has put out what looks like a black slate mat, polished cutlery, an almost blindingly white starched napkin, wine glasses, a water glass, a jug of iced water and the pepper shaker. It looks like a table setting at an expensive restaurant. Oh my god, she’s nuts.
‘Come, sit.’ She beams at me.
I am a little scared, but I take a seat. She retrieves a small orange dish from the oven and places it on the black slate.
‘This looks amazing.’Please don’t kill me, you psycho.
‘Thank you. Red, white or beer?’
‘Er, beer please?’
She whips away both wine glasses and pops a bottle of beer on the table before she opens it. When it is all set, she removes the lid of the orange dish. The smell that hits me is mouth-watering.
‘I’ve never made bangers and mash before, but I had a lot of fun playing with it tonight.’
She looks unsure. Maybe even a little nervous. I relax.Okay, this is her thing.
I spot a couple of tiny black specks in the mash, but decide not to mention it. She looks handy with a knife and she is staring intensely at me. I take my first mouthful. Oh my days, it’sinsane.
‘What’s in this!?!’
‘You don’t like it?’ She looks anxious.
