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He refuses to rise to this and all. His family must’ve really got to him.
I go looking for breakfast of my own, which I take as a good sign because I’ve not had much of an appetite the last couple of days. Only it turns out it’s actually a bad sign because I’m discovering the only food Jonathan has in the house is fresh fruit and the stuff I brought for the cat. And while it’s good quality and makes a big deal about how it’s made with real meat and fresh fish, I’m not quite that desperate.
“Do you not,” I ask, “eat? Like, at all?”
Jonathan gestures at his grapefruit. And, thinking about it, he does seem like a man who lives entirely on caffeine and citrus fruit.
“No, I mean like—there’s no bread in the house.”
“I eat lunch at work. If I’m hungry at home, I order something.”
That was what we’d been doing the last couple of days, but I’d figured it was just because I’d disrupted his routine. “I’m not going to spend the next two weeks living on takeaway. It’s bad for yez.”
“It’s convenient, and it’s restaurant quality food.”
I don’t know why this bothers me so much. It’s not like I’ve not had plenty of lonely trips to the chippy myself. Then again, maybe that’s why it bothers me. “So you’ve got this huge state-of-the-art kitchen you just never use?”
“I have breakfast here.”
“You cut a grapefruit in half. That’s not cooking, that’s…” I try to think of an analogy. “That’s cutting a grapefruit in half.”
“Sam, I know you’ve got a concussion, but I didn’t invite you into my house to get involved with my familyorto criticise the way I live my life.”
“And I wouldn’t”—again I’d have pushed back less but I was a bit ratty from lack of sleep—“except it’s how I’ll have to live my life too for a bit, and I don’t want be eating out of cartons until I go back to Sheffield.”
Jonathan gets up and leaves his plate with its empty grapefruit skin on the side for the housekeeper to deal with. “So what do you suggest?”
From how he asks it, I don’t think he wants an answer, but I give him one anyway. “I’m not doing anything all day, why not let me cook?”
“You cook?”
Not well, if I’m honest. But probably better than Jonathan does. “I can make a roast.”
“A roast?”
“Yeah, y’know, meat and two veg but not in a cock-and-balls way.”
He looks unimpressed. “I know what a roast is, Sam. I just mean—you’re going to cook me a roast dinner while I’m at work, are you? Will it be on the table when I get home?”
“Well yeah, if you text us what time you’re coming in.”
“I’ve got a housekeeper. I don’t need a wife as well.”
I wave a hand at him. “Okay, there’s a lot to unpack there, but I’m not saying I want to fetch you a pipe and slippers while you sit by the fire, I’m saying I’d like a home-cooked meal and it looks like making it myself’s the only way to get one. And obviously I could sit here and eat a roast dinner on my tod, but I’d feel like a bit of a dick.”
For a moment I’d swear he’s tempted. And who wouldn’t be? Everybody loves a roast. “Unfortunately, as we’ve established, I’vegot no food and if we arrange a delivery, it won’t get here until at least tomorrow.”
I’m not letting him off that easily, especially because now I’m seeing a chance to get out and stretch my legs. “Y’know, I’ve heard rumours that there’s these magic buildings where you go in, and you give them money, and they give you groceries.”
“I’m not l—”
“And don’t you dare say you’re not letting me go shopping. I’m concussed, I’m not on house arrest.”
There’s a long silence, in which it seems like Jonathan is deciding whether it’s easier for him to give me what I want or keep arguing with me until I give up. “Fine,” he snaps. “But it’s a workday so we’ll have to be quick.”
Turns out, going to a supermarket is like wiping your arse. You mostly do it alone so you assume everyone does it the same way you do, but there’s actually a surprising amount of variation. I think I picked up my habits from my mam. She’d go in with a good sense of what she was after but mostly she’d wander up and down, looking for bargains and that. Jonathan seems to have got his habits from movies about people escaping from prisoner of war camps in World War II. Plan the whole thing in advance, stay close, don’t talk, don’t get distracted, and get out as fast as you can.
I put up with this for all of two minutes while Jonathan berates me for dithering.
