“Like what?”
Nero gestured to the counter of risen bread dough. “Finding a home for this lot.”
“Can’t you put it in the fridge?”
“I didn’t mean literally.” Nero pulled the basic white bread dough towards him. “I’ve told you about the Vauxhall project?”
“Only that there is one. Not what it is.”
“It’s a bakery—a proper one—and a pizzeria. This lot is the start of it.” Nero gestured at the array of dough on the counter. “There’s more in the fridge.”
“Wow.” Lenny whistled. “I love pizza. Can’t eat it anymore, though. Gives me a right bellyache.”
“I might have an answer to that. Ever tried spelt?”
“Eh?”
Nero pointed at a nut-coloured dough. “It’s not gluten-free, but it’s easier to digest if you’re . . . what’s the word that ain’t as bad as allergic?”
“Intolerant?”
“That’s it. We’ve used it before in crackers at Bites.”
“The snack company?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, I forget how big Urban Soul is.”
Nero grinned, and a little pride tickled his gut. He didn’t own squat, but he’d helped develop every business to Urban Soul’s name, and he couldn’t deny he was proud of it.
Nor could he deny the warmth of Lenny’s answering smile, or the way it seemed to pierce his soul, or his not-so-sudden need for a distraction. He grabbed the bowl of spelt dough and a bag of flour. “Roll yer sleeves up.”
An hour or so later found them on the fire escape, drinking beer, smoking weed, and sampling the various spelt pizzas they’d cooked up.
Lenny was perched in the doorway, just his feet outside. “This is so good,” he mumbled around a mouthful of red pepper and manchego calzone. “Do you always use Spanish ingredients?”
Nero shrugged, picking at the serrano ham and olive flatbread he’d made for himself. “Not on purpose. I guess I use what’s familiar.”
“You don’t sound very Spanish.”
“That’s ’cause I was raised in Hackney.”
“To Spanish parents?”
“My dad.” The bread in Nero’s mouth turned to dust. He put his plate down and reached for his beer. “He came over with my grandparents in the sixties.”
“Are you close?”
“No. He died when I was seven.”
“I’m sorry.” Lenny swallowed the last of his supper. “So it was just you and your mum then?”
“Not for long.” Nero dropped his empty beer bottle with a clatter and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Oh.” Lenny said nothing more for a long moment, then stood and took a hesitant step towards Nero, right up to the open door. It took an age for him to bring his other foot forward, and Nero’s heart ached. He stood too, and wrapped his fingers around Lenny’s slender wrist, putting himself between him and the outside world.
“What about you? Are you close to your parents?”
