‘You can’t live on ready meals, Andrew.’
The wretched woman was some sort of psychic.
‘It’s about time you learned to cook.’
‘I’m too old and I’m not interested. Honoria was a good cook. I could never match up to her.’
‘Nonsense! You can do most things if you put your mind to them, even at our age.’
‘You’re not as old as me.’
‘I’m not far off it. Here…’ She reached into her basket and pulled out a pink and white striped paper bag. ‘Two lamb chops from the butcher. You take them and cook them for yourself tonight and get some vegetables from that lovely garden of yours. I noticed plenty of courgettes and potatoes the other day.’
‘Been spying on me, have you?’
The woman totally ignored him. She would not be riled.
‘Honoria’s cookery books are still on the shelves in the kitchen. They will tell you what to do or you can look on the internet or’ – she tilted her head mischievously – ‘I could come over and show you.’
‘I’ll manage,’ he said.
‘I thought you would,’ she said with a chuckle, before checking her watch. ‘I must be going. I’m off to visit Rita. Have you been?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘I’m sure she’d love to see you.’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s the least you can do after all those meals she’s cooked for you over the last few years.’
She had the lightest of tones, but he wasn’t stupid. She was being subtly censorious.
‘Look at those roses,’ she said, turning towards a bucket of flowers outside the florist. ‘Pink is Rita’s favourite colour. You could take her some. That would cheer her up.’
She stood on tiptoes and kissed him again.
‘I’ll tell her you’ll drop by tomorrow, shall I?’
He was about to resist, but she’d quickly turned and was heading across the road with a jaunty wave, leaving him feeling extremely put out. Somewhere at the back of his brain he heard Honoria’s voice.
‘Andrew, if it wasn’t for people like Irene, you’d be a total curmudgeon. And why shouldn’t she kiss you on the cheek? Touch is very important. You need to stop being so grumpy and make more of an effort.’
She was right, of course. Always had been. A miracle that she’d married him and a miracle that he could still hear her voice. He didn’t always listen to what she said now she wasn’t here in person, but perhaps he should.
Rita was sitting in a high-backed armchair in the living room, Hercules curled up in a brand-new basket next to her.
‘Here she is,’ Jules said, ushering him through.
‘Andrew, what a lovely surprise. I didn’t know you were coming.’
He looked at Rita, wreathed in smiles, and immediately felt guilty. Astonishingly she looked genuinely pleased to see him.
‘Are they for me?’ she asked, gesturing to the flowers. ‘They’re beautiful. Pink’s my favourite colour, you know.’
‘From the garden,’ he muttered.
‘Garden flowers are always the best,’ she said, burying her nose in the soft petals.
