‘He used to have a Porsche which was much worse,’ Joe told me as we pulled it out the driveway and onto the country lane that led from my parents’ house. ‘Swapped to this last year, thank god. He wanted something with a bit more space.’
‘For his ego or his aftershave collection?’ I asked, winding down the window.
‘Subtlety has never been my father’s strong point,’ he replied with a small smile.
‘And yet you decided to drag yourself all the way up here to spend a last-minute weekend away with him.’ I tapped my nails against the cream leather interior. Soft as a baby’s bum. ‘Such a good son.’
He turned the steering wheel and the car rolled smoothly onto the main road.
‘Between you and me, I might’ve had an ulterior motive.’
‘Such as?’ I looked over at him, his profile strongagainst the colours outside the window, a blur of leafy trees and stone walls and endless golden fields of wheat.
He didn’t reply, not right away, instead he stared straight ahead and put his foot down, the speed of the car pushing me back into my seat. Pinching my lips together, I kept my eyes forward and my mouth closed. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to speak next. If he had something he wanted to say, he could say it. I was perfectly happy to sit in silence and watch the world pass by, ramblers waiting to cross the road with their rucksacks and walking sticks, flocks of fluffy sheep, a cherry red stop sign, his lightly tanned forearm that drew a straight line from his muscular shoulder down to his wrist, his huge hand that palmed the gear stick and the fingers splayed across the leather-covered steering wheel, as his thumb rubbed rhythmically against the buttery fabric and—
‘So where are we going anyway?’ I asked, clearing my throat and crossing my legs. ‘You said you’d volunteered us for a mission.’
He glanced over at me, wearing the look of a man who knew he’d just won a point.
‘Your mum needed someone to pick up her order from the butcher and I needed to get away from my dad.’
‘And I need to be here because?’
‘You’re my glamorous assistant. You’re going to help me carry two dozen pork sausages, a dozen beef burgers and a fuck load of chicken.’
‘A fuck load?’ I repeated with concern. ‘Is that metric or imperial?’
‘It’s exactly what your mum told me,’ he said, stillgrinning. ‘She said something about better to have too much than not enough but unless they’ve invited Joey Chestnut, I’d say they’ve likely overdone it.’
‘Joey Chestnut?’
‘Competitive eater. Have you ever seen a hotdog-eating contest?’
‘Relieved to say I have not.’
‘Don’t look it up. At least not until after the barbecue. It’s intense, I was there when he broke the world record, seventy-six hotdogs and buns in ten minutes.’
‘I’m guessing this was when you lived in America?’ I said, momentarily wondering if I’d missed my calling in life. My personal record was only four hotdogs and three buns after a particularly stressful IKEA visit but I was sure I could do better with the right training.
‘Land of the free, home of the brave,’ he said with a nod.
Two cars ahead of us, a set of traffic lights turned red and we slowed to a stop. The car hummed, desperate for Joe to lift his foot up off the brake and I understood its yearning. I felt safer when the car was moving. Sitting here in a heavy silence, waiting, impatient, was too much. Unable to resist one moment longer, I looked at Joe. He was looking right back at me, those blue eyes holding me still in space and time. Why did the worst men have the most beautiful eyes? If there was any justice in the world he’d be made to trade with a nice accountant called Gareth, who always called when he said he would and took the bins out without asking. Joe didn’t need another weapon in his arsenal. If he walked out into a sunlit meadow and sparkled from head to toe, I wouldn’t even be surprised.
‘These must be some impressive sausages if they’resending us all the way out to the butcher,’ I said when we arrived at our destination, opening my door and hopping out the car before Joe could turn off the engine. ‘My parents aren’t exactly known for their discerning culinary tastes. Dad’s favourite food is Butterscotch Angel Delight and my mum doesn’t even bother to heat up the tin of rice pudding before she digs in.’
‘Pulling out the good stuff for guests maybe?’ he suggested, quickly positioning himself to walk on the outside of me, closer to the busy road.
‘Two years ago, they had Stephen King come to visit and ordered him a Domino’s.’
Joe whistled, long, loud and clear. ‘Then these must be some pretty impressive sausages.’
The butcher’s shop was in Baslow, much further away than the supermarket or even the butcher in Harford, so I knew there had to be a reason Mum had insisted on buying her meat here. It was a traditional Peak District ‘ye olde shoppe’ limestone affair with a huge glass window displaying its wares and a sign above the window that read ‘McIntyre’s Meats’. Inside, I saw a solid brick wall of a man expertly handling a shiny silver cleaver.
‘I think I see why Mum likes this butcher more than the other,’ I said, the puzzle pieces falling into place as I watched him effortlessly hack a rack of lamb in two.
‘She did say something about him having a lot of followers on Instagram,’ Joe replied. ‘She didn’t mention the fact he competed in the Mr Universe competition on his days off.’
The butcher raised his head, presumably alerted by the extra testosterone in the air, but if Joe was threatened by the appearance of another super-hot man, youcouldn’t tell. Probably too dangerous to show fear in his presence, especially when he was armed.
