Chapter Twenty-two
Unfortunately, the waitress arrives with our food and we both have to sit back and clear space for the plates.
She unloads the plates, giving him the cod and me the haddock. “What condiments would you like? I can ask the kitchen for more tartar sauce,” she says. It’s unusual because pub staff rarely ask; they just plonk down a cup full of sachets.
“This is fine. Thanks,” I say, but her attention is fixed on Osian.
He reaches over to take my plate and swaps it with his. “We’re good.”
She takes time arranging extra napkins. In fact, she lingers so long that I memorise the design of a tattoo on her wrist. Two hummingbirds intertwined.
“I didn’t want chips,” I tell Osian after she’s gone.
“It comes with it,” he says, too casually. “I ordered the salad as an extra.” He points his knife at a plate of rather sad-looking leaves and a dollop of coleslaw.
“Can you do me a favour?”
He raises his eyebrows in a question.
“When you start growing your vegetables, can you please grow some interesting salads and herbs?”
“First thing on my list, believe me,” he says, choosing a sachet of mayonnaise to squeeze over his chips. “After living in so many countries, I’ve learnt to appreciate salads.”
I try to push the chips to the side of my plate. “Take my chips. You only ordered them for me because you worried I might eat yours?”
“Not at all.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He looks sheepish. “So I’ve been told.”
“Don’t let it worry you.” I grin at him. “It’s a good thing to be bad at lying.” I slide the chips off my plate to pile high on top of his own. “And thank you for all this.”
“You can’t thank me for chips that you’re giving away.”
“I mean for being a friend.”
His face colours a little. He clears his throat. “I was actually about to suggest a way I might help.”
“Help?” Surely, we’re not talking about food anymore.
I watch him cut a bit of his fish, spear another chip with the same fork and dip both into a little mayo then a little ketchup before putting the lot into his mouth. How do men manage to devour huge forkfuls and not look graceless? Even the way he eats is sexy.
“You know I have a group starting in a few days,” he says when he’s had a little more of his food. “I was going to set them to preparing vegetable patches. But it would work just as well to make them plant flowers. The aim is to plant something, care forit and watch it sprout. So…” He shoots me a questioning look. “They could work on your flowerbeds just as easily. That way you get ten helpers for free.”
He goes back to eating, giving me time to digest the idea.
Free helpers.
“Presumably you would supervise them?” I ask.
“Of course, especially in the beginning because they are not professional gardeners, just people who’ve expressed an interest in learning. I’ll have to teach them what to do. And you will teach me what you want.”
I think about this. “Why are you trying to help me?”
“Why not?” He shrugs, playing this down.
“Do you think I might not cope; that I might have bitten off more than I can chew?”
