‘Thank you.’
‘It would have been so much fun,’ he says, with an exaggerated sigh. Does he actually sound pissed off? ‘Damo will not be happy.’
‘You were taking Damo as your plus one? To a family wedding?’
‘So?’ he replies.
I would laugh if it wasn’t so infuriating. I want to get off the phone now.
‘Tim, don’t come. I’ll call you, okay?’
‘Fine, fine, speak soon,’ he replies and hangs up.
I check my phone – it’s nearly 9 a.m. I feel a rush of exhilaration that I’ve put both fires out and I’ve still got a couple of hours to get my head back in the game before service.
‘Hello,’ I hear a sleepy voice, and I feel my tummy tingle as James comes through the archway between the lounge and the kitchen. ‘I missed you this morning.’
He comes straight over. There’s no nerves about possible mistakes or uncertainty about his feelings. He’s completely clear on what this is. He puts his arms round me, pulls the wooden spoon out of my hand and pulls me close.
‘You can’t eat that.’
‘Are you going to start telling me what to eat?’
‘It’s likely,’ he says, glancing across at the pot.
I bite my lip.
‘What time is your shift?’ he asks.
‘Eleven-thirty.’
‘Good,’ he replies and pulls me by the hand, turning off the curry as I give in. ‘I know a place.’
We get to the hall and James pulls the keys to the SUV off the hook and hands them to me. ‘Go get the car, I’ll be outside in one minute.’
I obey. It takes me a few minutes to figure out the car and its weird button ignition system, but when I drive down the path to the house, James is there, holding his coat and a pint of milk, looking deliciously unwashed.
‘Get in,’ I say as I pull up, stalling the car almost immediately.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?’
‘No, let me,’ I say. ‘It’s not far, is it?’
‘Just twenty minutes. Follow the main road out of town – same way as if we’re going to Skye, but turn right at the main intersection instead.’
‘You’ll have to show me, I can’t remember.’
‘Okay. How are you feeling about last night?’
‘You mean …’
‘Oh, I know how you felt aboutthat.’ He grins. ‘I meant the constipated … turtle? Was that what you called him?’
‘Tortoise,’ I say, a new wave of regret washing over me, which I swiftly shove down.
‘Let’s not talk about that now.’
‘Fair enough.’
