‘That’s good. No damage and easier to treat.’ They eyed each other awkwardly and then both looked away.
‘Does it smell funny in here to you?’ asked Joe.
Lottie sniffed the air. It smelled a whole lot better than the drawing room did. ‘Still smells a bit like Christmas dinner.’ It was a smell she liked – a familiar smell. Then she remembered something. ‘Stuffing!’ She leaped to the oven and pulled open the door. On a baking tray at the bottom sat a number of small, round pieces of charcoal that had once been balls of stuffing, painstakingly made.
Joe peered over her shoulder and chuckled. ‘New balls, please.’
‘Iknewsomething was missing.’ She’d left serving up the meal to hunt for Aunt Nicola. Emily had taken over and somehow the stuffing had been forgotten. She plonked the tray on the kitchen table with a clatter. Lottie poked one of the cremated stuffing balls with her finger – it was rock solid.
‘Nobody else noticed,’ said Joe.
‘Unlike the bread sauce. I spent ages on these though. What an idiot to have forgotten them.’
‘You’re too hard on yourself, Lottie. You always have been.’
‘Thanks.’ She wasn’t sure what else to say. He was right. She knew she was her own worst enemy when it came to beating herself up. She fingered a burned stuffing ball.
‘You did a great job yesterday. Rose would have been proud. It was a really lovely meal.’ He looked self-conscious and shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘I mean it would have been better with stuffing and bread sauce, but otherwise it was great.’ He gave her a friendly smirk.
She pulled a stuffing ball off the tray and hurled it at him.
‘Hey! They hurt!’ He picked it up off the worktop and threw it back, hitting her shoulder.
They giggled like children as they flung the stuffing balls across the kitchen. One hit Joe in the chest and exploded in a cloud of black dust. Joe held his chest like he’d been shot, and slumped against the cabinets. ‘You got me,’ he croaked. ‘Goodbye, cruel world.’
‘Well that’s in very poor taste, I must say,’ said Angie, from the doorway.
Joe almost fell over in his attempt to stand up straight. He looked guilty but didn’t say anything.
‘It’s nothing to do with Bernard, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Lottie. ‘Oh, and since you ask: your uncle has made it through the night.’ It was Angie’s turn to look guilty.
‘If you gave me a chance, I was going to ask you exactly that.’
‘Ask me? Not planning to call the hospital yourself then?’ Lottie shook her head and turned away. She heard her mother stalk off towards the drawing room.
‘Shouldn’t you warn her about …’ Joe pointed after her.
‘The visit from the Christmas crapper?’ she asked, and he nodded. ‘She’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Oh my dear God,’ came her mother’s voice, a couple of octaves higher than usual.
‘There you go,’ said Lottie, feeling smug.
‘I think I should probably get going,’ said Joe. He rubbed his palm across his stubble. ‘I must look a fright.’
She let her gaze rest on him for a moment. He didn’t look a fright. A little dishevelled perhaps. A couple of creases around his eyes. A light tan on his skin. Possibly broader at the shoulders. A little more muscular in his arms. He’d matured nicely. Something flickered inside her. ‘No, you look fine,’ she said, wondering where that wave of sentiment had come from. She turned away.
‘I’ll round up the hound. And then I guess I’ll see you about.’ He glanced at her.
‘But you’ll be coming to the duck race?’ The words tumbled out and she disliked how desperate they sounded.
‘Do they still do that?’
‘Of course, it’s tradition. See you there?’ Lottie tried to sound nonchalant but failed.
‘Yeah. Okay.’ He seemed a little hesitant.
‘And you’re welcome to come back for dinner.’ She threw another incinerated stuffing ball at him and he deftly caught it.
