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He steps back, with a slightly camp flourish. “Go on then. You show me the respectful way to put a lemon into a chicken.”
Upending the bird, I coax it open and gently drop the halves of lemon into it. “You see? It just goes in. You don’t have to get wrist deep.”
“It saysstuff. Stuff, to me, implies vigour.”
And now it’s my turn to giggle into dead poultry. “Goodto know. But not in this context. Why are you trying to make a chicken anyway? We’ve still got that casserole from yesterday.”
Jonathan rolls his eyes, but it seems to be largely at himself. “I thought I’d better practice. For when my family come round.”
I’m honestly a bit surprised—not that they’re still coming for Christmas because you probably couldn’t stop that lot coming even if you booby trapped the driveway—but that Jonathan’s preparing for it in a way that doesn’t involve buying things and giving orders. “You know I’ll help,” I say.
“I didn’t want to take you for granted. Especially after—” He runs aground.
Though, frankly, I’m not sure I’m in safer waters myself.
Then Jonathan’s phone rings and I’ve never been so glad of a distraction. Even if part of that distraction is the two of us running round each other trying to work out how to answer a phone with chicken on our hands.
Eventually Jonathan manages to swipe it with his knuckles and stick it on speaker.
“I’m making a chicken,” he says at once.
“That’s nice.” It’s Les’s voice at the other end. “Is Sam with you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m going to go rinse my hands now so there might be a bit of a sink noise.”
While I’m doing that, Les goes on. “I’m just calling to say that we’ve had a spot of bother at the house, so if you need any help with Christmas we won’t be here.”
“What happened?” asks Jonathan, wiping his fingers on a piece of kitchen towel.
I hear the loud but tinny tones of Wendy’s voice at the other end of the line suggesting that we don’t need to be bothered with the details. “Your mam says we shouldn’t bother you,” Les relays.
“Tell Mum that I’ll only worry more if you don’t tell me.”
“He says he’ll only worry more if we don’t tell him.”
There’s more voices off in the background.
“We’ve had a pipe burst,” Les explains. “It’ll be fine. I shut off the stopcock before it could do much damage, but this close to Christmas it’s hard to get anybody out, so we’ve no water.”
More voices.
“Your mam wants me to tell you we’re fine.”
And more.
“She wants me to tell you that Barbara Jane’s finding us a hotel.”
“Get somewhere nice,” Jonathan says at once. “I can cover—” Then he stops. He doesn’t look at me, he looks at the chicken. “Unless—I’ve got spare rooms if you want to—that is, if you’d rather.”
Les is quiet. Then I hear muffled conversation. “He’s asking if—” followed by “don’t be—” then “I think actually” before Les comes back with “Are you sure, son?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” asks Jonathan, and I have to give him points for cheek. “I’m sure we can arrange a hotel if that’s easier, but since you’re going to be here for Christmas anyway, and since I’ve got the space…”
“It’d be Barbara Jane as well,” Les points out.
“That’s fine.” And he sounds like he means it, or he’s trying very hard to sound like he means it.
Les pauses a moment. “And Johnny.”
