Why in God’s name had I taken Dean Butterworth back?
‘Mum? Mum!’
‘Hmm?’
‘You’re pouring tea into the milk jug!’
‘Bugger!’ I stopped pouring, glanced across at Dean who was messaging someone and, standing to clear the table, I ordered Lola upstairs to wash her face.
‘She’ll only put it on again once she’s on the bus the village school will have ordered to ferry them across to Beddingfield High.’ Dean spoke without looking up.
‘She’s eleven, Dean.’
‘Exactly.’ He grinned, then stood, pocketed his phone and, seeing through the kitchen window Mum walk over from her own garden, grabbed his jacket.
‘Lisa.’
‘Dean.’
There was absolutely no love lost between my mum and my husband.
‘He’s still here then?’ Mum asked as the kitchen door banged behind him and he walked past the window, phone pressed to his ear.
‘Of course he is,’ I snapped. ‘He’s my husband.’
‘Yes, and a hard dog to keep on the porch.’ Mum raised an eye but said nothing further.
‘Well,you’re the expert in husbands like that,’ I muttered under my breath, fetching another jar of home-made jam from the pantry. Some husband, I conceded, buttering two more thick slices of the deliciously moreish sourdough bread I’d made and baked at 4a.m.
More damned calories I didn’t need.
I spread it lavishly with the previous season’s blackberry jam, not caring that stress and lack of sleep were making me, as they always did, turn to food for comfort. Well, I obviouslydidcare. It wasn’t easy inheriting a big backside, being described as a big handsome lass when both my two sisters had been blessed with the majority of Mum’s petite Asian genes. I sometimes felt like a cart horse in a paddock of tiny show ponies when all four of us Allen women were in a room together.
‘So, what does Dean think?’ Mum was asking now, watching my face closely as she always did when she was worried about me.
‘What does he think?’ I managed to get out through a too-enthusiastic bite of bread and jam.
‘Actually’ – Mum sniffed over her cup – ‘does Deaneverthink?’
I moved from the table, walking over to the window, wanting to cry which, with a mouth full of bread and jam, was not that easy to accomplish.
‘I’m sorry, darling, that wasn’t nice. It’s just, you know, you were doing so well without him. About to start a new career as a chef in your own restaurant…’
‘Mum, it’s notmyrestaurant. It’s Kamran’s restaurant. You know that.’
‘And Fabian’s,’ Mum soothed. ‘Fabian wants you to be a part of his dream with The White House. So, whatdoesDean think? Is he going to be around to look after Lola when you’re cooking at the new place? Most evenings? Is he… is he at all…interested?’
‘He thinks I’m mad.’
‘Mad?’
‘Giving up a good job to go into some venture that might not work.’
‘Typical!’ Mum sniffed, pouring herself what was left in the teapot. ‘What’s wrong with this milk?’ She sniffed again, this time suspiciously at the jug.
‘Nothing. I’ll get you some more.’ I moved from the window over to the fridge.
‘How are you feeling?’
