‘Yes.’
‘Can you stir something over the heat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you read the time, and listen for an alarm?’
‘Um, yes?’
‘Then you can make a soufflé. Put that butter in a small saucepan.’
He’s suddenly turned very bossy, and I like it.
I reach down below the stove and pull out a pan that I consider to be small, but he gently takes it out of my hand and passes me something small but very heavy, good for a couple of glasses of milk and no more.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ he says, biting his bottom lip to stop himself laughing. He’s enjoying this. And I’m enjoying James enjoying it. He’s given me a novelty apron, the kind you might get for Christmas; it’s a cow with all the butcher’s lines on it: Fore Quarter, Sirloin, Rump.
‘How do I turn this thing on?’ I say, playing the fool.
He leans over me, his forearm touching my shoulder as he presses down the gas knob and waits for it to spark. I feel the heat on my shoulder where his arm was, and now want to put other body parts in his way. I’m so distracted by being close to him that it’s hard to concentrate.
‘These are definitely not optimum soufflé-making conditions,’ I mutter.
‘Remove it from the heat and stir in the flour. That’s right. Like that. This is called a roux.’
‘Is it looking rouxly?’
‘Concentrate,’ he commands. ‘Now return the pan to a low heat and cook for two minutes, whisking continuously. No, that’s not whisking, that’s stirring. You have to really give it some muscle. Like this.’
He takes the whisk off me, our fingers touching in the process. The mixture of stress and sexual chemistry is kind of overwhelming and I want to suggest a drink to calm my nerves, but I’m not sure it’s wise.
He whisks, and it’s like proper, strong whisking. I notice the slightest flex in his arms and decide that arms are now officially my thing.
James makes his way over to the large stainless-steel fridge, pulling out some smoked haddock and unwrapping it from its waxed paper.
‘What time will your mum be back?’
‘Later. Hours.’
‘Oh, I thought she was going to be here.’
‘She was, but I asked her to leave us to it. Does it smell like biscuits?’
‘No, more like smoked fish?’
‘No, the roux? In the saucepan.’
‘Oh yes, I think so. Kind of? It’s gone a pale browny kind of colour.’
‘Cool! Now the milk.’ He hands me a small stainless-steel jug, and I tip the whole lot into the saucepan.
‘Ahh … we need to start again,’ he says, taking the saucepan out of my hand. ‘You’re supposed to add it slowly.’
‘Oh. Balls! Sorry.’
He tips my lumpy roux down the drain, wipes it clean and hands the saucepan back to me. I fall into the role of hopeless student, with a full pout and my best flirty eyes.
