James nods, and Brett lets out a piercing whistle and the dogs start to bark again and run madly in circles around the tiny kitchen.
‘Out!’ James shouts once more, and Brett is back out the door with a dog by the collar in each hand, and a whole apple jammed between his teeth.
‘Does Brett help out round here too?’ I ask, as the door shuts and the room falls happily back into silence.
‘Only very occasionally,’ James says. ‘He’s an all-rounder. Does Mum’s roses.’
Then he snaps back into hot chef-mode and is on at me to butter some little ramekins. And poach the haddock. And I’m finding myself in a state of happy anticipation as I wait for my next instruction. I tuck my hair behind my ears and focus.
‘That’s it, now lower the fish into the simmering cream.’
I’m surprised by how satisfying this all is, as I marvel at the pan of bubbling haddock, and expertly sprinkle some grated Comté (a fancy French cheese) around the edge of the ramekins.
‘It’s kind of nutty and earthy,’ James says, feeding me a small slither from the edge of a knife.
‘Everything has so much fat,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Butter, cream, cheese. My mum would have a heart attack. She wouldn’t eat again for a week after one of these.’
‘You can have a soufflé now and then!’ he says, gasping. ‘God, I hate the thought of someone dieting a soufflé out of their life.’
I laugh, but I’m also vaguely irritated. ‘Everyone says that,’ I scoff. ‘“You just have to eat properly.” What do you mean by “properly”? Do you mean bone-broth and paleo, or vegan and plant-based? Do you mean low-fat, high-fat or intermittent fasting or super-low-calorie? Believe me, I’ve heard them all. My mum was on a diet my entire life. Every. Single. Day. It was probably a reaction to Dad’s job. I didn’t eat anything that wasn’t part of one of her diets.’
‘Don’t think like that,’ he finally says, after staring at me for a couple of beats. ‘About food. You’ll never enjoy it.’
‘You’re not a woman.’
He shakes his head and moves beside me to check on the fish, and we are hip-to-hip, the heat of the stove starting to make me sweat. I reach up with a tea towel and wipe my brow.
‘I just hate the thought of all that deprivation,’ James says quietly. ‘It’s, like, imagine you were a painter and people made rules not to use the colour yellow.’
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh, nodding, ‘Mm-hmm.’
James looks vaguely mortified and I curse myself for teasing him. It’s mean.
‘You need to flake the haddock and whisk the egg whites now,’ he says, back to business, and I oblige, draining the fishy cream into asaucepan and pulling the haddock gently apart with a fork. Once I’m done, he hands me a whisk. ‘I don’t think I’m really like a painter,’ he says quietly, shaking his head. He’s embarrassed, and it’s all I can do not to throw my arms around him to soothe him. He shouldn’t be embarrassed about being passionate about something. I’m making him unsure about himself, and I hate it.
‘Youarelike a painter,’ I say turning round. ‘An artist. It’s, like, totally art, innit?’
Why am I so allergic to being earnest? But he studies my face for a moment and then nods and smiles. It’s enough.
‘Soft peaks!’
He’s pointing to the egg whites, and I lift out my whisk and the peaks do indeed gently fold over. I think about my mum and wonder if diets are why she is so joyless, but I suspect it mostly had to do with Dad. And perhaps the dieting was more about keeping up those appearances. Seeming to be together and in control.
He reaches his arms round me from behind and begins to fold everything in the bowl together gently. I can feel his chest brushing my back, but he’s careful not to step too close.
I lean very gently back against his chest. My head sits right at his neck and I close my eyes, taking in the warmth from his firm chest on my back. We are still for a moment, as I enjoy the feel of the heat of James’s body against mine. Everything suddenly disappears – the sounds, the smells – and the only feeling left is the heat between us.
He lifts his hand as if he’s going to put it on my shoulder, and then stops and drops his hand to his side. Nearly. Henearlytouched me. His breath is so very close to my ear and it is slow, deep and steady. Mine is not.
And then we hear the sound of the front door and the heavy squeak of hinges.
‘James? Are you both still here?’ calls Irene from the hallway.
I step away immediately, turning to face James.
‘It’s your mum,’ I say breathlessly.
‘It’s okay, he says, reaching forward to touch my hand, but I jump back.
