“Fuck me, why does your house need three kitchens?” His mouth gapes open, and he glances around at the cornicing and the ceiling roses and the elaborate light fixtures hanging from the centre.
“Well, this one is essentially my kitchen. I use it when I’m here by myself and the chef isn’t here. The one next door is the service kitchen. When my father’s home, he’ll have someone come and cook for us because he’s too fucking important for domestic labour.” With my tone, I try to emphasise thatIdon’t think he’s too important to cook, that’s all his own doing. “And then the bigger kitchen beyond that is for when we host big parties and gatherings.”
Harry nods, but it’s a dumbstruck information-overload nod. “You actually cook for yourself?”
“Out of all the things I just told you, that’s what you focus on?”
He shrugs.
“I mean, I’m not adventurous. I have kind of a limiting diet,” I say. Harry raises a brow. “I’m lactose intolerant, and any dairy product, milk powder, or whey will end in catastrophe for my toilet.”
Harry laughs, and I lead him over to my fridge.
“I tend to stick to vegan foods because that way I know I’m safe, but can I tell you a secret? My favourite thing ever to cook and eat is Heinz Cream of Tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich for dunking.” I tilt my head back and fake drool Homer Simpson style.
“Shit, that does sound good.”
“It’s not gonna happen, though. I’ll be spending the rest of the night on the toilet. Like, I can’t invite you into my home and then gas you to death with my toxic stench.”
Harry shrugs again and reaches into the fridge. “I’m anosmic. I literally can’t smell anything.” He grabs the Cheddar and plonks it on the counter. “I’m not going to force you to spend your evening shitting, but Iamgoing to firmly request tomato soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, a bottle of beer . . .” He takes two beers out, and sets them next to the cheese. “AndThe Muppet Christmas Carol.”
“Huh?”
“That’s my favourite movie, so that’s what we’re watching. I don’t know what streaming service it’s on, but—”
“No, absolutely not. We are not watching a Christmas movie in May.”
Against my better judgement, and because I’m still reeling from the film suggestion, I fetch a frying pan from the bottom cupboard and bread and butter from the counter. It’s vegan butter, not as nice as cow’s butter, but I figure Harry probably won’t be able to tell the difference.
“If you can’t taste anything, isn’t food really boring?” I ask.
“Eh, I can taste it,” he says, scratching his chin as he thinks. “It’s . . . I still have taste buds, so I can tell if it’s sweet or salty or sour or bitter, but I don’t have the smell thing to go with it, which is where most of the taste comes from, so it’s more about texture, I guess. But I’ve never known anything different. Nobody else in my family has it.”
“Huh, interesting.” I butter four slices of bread and then grate cheese into a bowl. “I’ll order you an Uber when my digestive system goes into overdrive. Sorry,” I say, and pop a wedge of Davidstow into my mouth. Fuck, it’s good. It’s so fucking good that I have to cling to the counter as though I’m having anastral projection. “So, what are your favourite textures?” I say when my spirit finishes climaxing.
“Meat. I really like chicken. And pork, and beef. Fish, but only like fillets of fish. I can’t stand those little bony fuckers.”
“Sardines?”
Harry fake vomits. “Or seafood. No. Yuck.” He shudders. “I like anything . . . heavy? Creamy, like soup, ice cream, milkshakes. I like bread. I love bread, actually, and cake, and . . . oh, Jaffa Cakes. I love them.” He’s grinning so wide that dimples have appeared on both cheeks, and I have the sudden and very peculiar urge to kiss him.
Weird.
And wrong.
So very wrong.
“Back to our evening’s entertainment. What other suggestions do you have?”
Harry pinches his smile between his teeth. “What?The Muppet Christmas Carolis a banging movie.” He holds out his palms in a surrender gesture. “You just don’t like it because the miserable rich dude gets forced to catch feelings.”
I have no rebuttal.
“What’s your favourite movie, then?” he demands, placing a fist on his hip. “What cinematic abomination does Scrooge himself deem superior to a film that has actual Charles Dickens in it.”
“Dickens is played by Gonzo! A fucking puppet!” I yell, accidentally opening the pantry door too forcefully. It slams against the wall and bounces itself closed again.
“Aha! So you have seen it.” Harry rescues me from the flyaway cupboard. “And you must love it because the only people who don’t like that movie are straight-up cunts.”
