He peers into the pan, stirs once, twice, then sighs. “I have, in my enthusiasm, moved past caramelised and into charred philosophy.”
I lean over. The onions are beyond help. “They’re black.”
“They are,” he agrees. “I shall call it intentional depth.”
“You’ve been stirring them for ten minutes.”
“Yes, well. I was emotionally occupied.”
He tips them into the bin with a dramatic flick of the spoon and starts again with the patience of an angel.
“Glen’s coming over,” he says casually. “I thought I’ll play domestic god for my darling.”
“He’ll enjoy that.”
“And then we’re off to the pub. Darts championship. His friends are very invested.”
I snort. “I still don’t understand how the two of you work.”
Rupert smiles to himself. “Because love is broad minded.”
“Glen is a builder,” I say. “A proper northern lad. He once called risotto fancy rice.”
“He did,” Rupert agrees fondly. “And yet he brings me tea while I paint and listens to me talk about colour theory.”
“And his mates adore you.”
“They tolerate me,” Rupert corrects. “Which is the highest compliment.”
I watch him move around the kitchen, comfortable, unselfconscious. Glen’s world and Rupert’s couldn’t look more different, and yet they slot together effortlessly. No explaining. No apologising. Just acceptance on both sides.
Rupert glances at me. “So. This critic.”
I stiffen. “What about her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Why does that matter.”
He shrugs. “Conversation.” He grabs a massive pot of cream from the fridge and I really hope he is not planning to use the whole thing in whatever he is creating.
“And what does she look like?” he adds, innocently.
I frown. “Why are you asking.”
Rupert smiles, all polished calm. “Purely out of social interest.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve described the sauce in great detail. I’m merely curious about the human who offended it.”
I hesitate, then realise I’m being ridiculous. “Chloe,” I say. “Her name’s Chloe.”
“And?”
“And what does Chloe look like.”
I exhale through my nose. “She’s… confident.”
