“I’m not good talking about Robert.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’m not good enough for you.”
“Beg to differ.”
“People will think I’m…”
“It doesn’t matter what people think. I’ve never cared about that. Unless they’re a food critic.”
He laughed. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
I wanted to see him now, but understood he might need time. Space.
“We have a shift together.”
“Before that. Can I make you breakfast? I’ll come to you after I’ve taken Lolly to school.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. So will I.”
Chapter 10
Jack
The cellars in my house had never been properly tanked, but they were high enough for me to have a punching bag installed, one I’d made good use of since I’d walked away from Simone. My knuckles were grazed and bruised, the good sense to wear boxing gloves having not been available on short notice, but it only served to remind me what a complete tosser I could be.
All the advice I tried to impart on my teenaged daughter had been lost on my own ears, to the extent where Lauren had growled at me and told me to move on or do something about it. She’d even asked if was ashamed of what we had and had then questioned me on whether having her when I was so young was spoiling my chances with Simone. That had been when I had hit the punching bag hard enough to knock a knuckle slightly out of place.
Lauren got out of the car leaving words of wisdom and an array of hair ties, plus enough hair to make a wig fit for a president. At some point, I’d teach her about detailing a car because there was no way I was ever cleaning out hers given the amount of hair she moulted. Then we’d move on to cleaning out the plug hole in the shower.
Simone’s house was possibly quicker to get to on foot rather than heading through rush hour in the traffic, but my car was full of pretty much every type of breakfast food you could imagine, not that I was overcompensating.
Food spoke. For me, making someone a meal was a way of communicating. When I cooked for Lauren, I was telling her I cared, that I wanted her to be healthy, that I understood her. I chose foods I knew she liked, selecting flavours that appealed to her and textures that would suit her mood. At work, I cooked for strangers. I wanted them to enjoy an experience, not just eat to serve a purpose. If they were having a bad day or a bad date, I wanted there to be something that worked out better.
I’d cooked for Simone, at her house and in her restaurant. I wasn’t trying to impress her with my skills, because she was already aware of them, instead I was trying to use food as a way to apologise for being such a dick, or as my adorable daughter had called me, a hippotwatamus. Because Simone was a chef, she understood the language of food. She knew what waffles and bacon and pancakes with maple syrup translated as.
“I’m assuming you’re moving in for at least two weeks with that amount of shopping. Or you’re expecting guests.” She eyed the four full carrier bags when she opened the door. “Or we’re opening a fourth restaurant and this is your way of telling me.”
“I said I’d make you breakfast and I didn’t know what you wanted. Can I come in?” I was still standing on her doorstep.
“I’m still thinking about it. I’ll take the food though.” She held her hand out for a bag.
I shook my head. “We’re a package deal.”
“You and the food? Or you and some strange inferiority complex?”
“She shoots; she scores…” She also took a bag.
“Come in. We can talk.”
I followed her down the hallway, noticing a few pictures and photos on the walls that I hadn’t paid attention to last time I was here. Half a dozen black and white pictures were in a line above a radiator, all of her cooking, candid shots. Her hair was tied back in them, and I suspected that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, but she looked radiant, all smiles and sparkling eyes, even picked up by the camera.
“The photos…”
“Were put there by Ava. She thought it was a great idea. I hate walking past pictures of myself every day, but I haven’t gotten round to taking them down yet.”
