Me
Something comforting. Nothing spicy. I’m not a monster.
Chloe
Good. Given my ongoing status as a peri-peri chicken, additional heat is a bad idea.
Me
Noted. Food will arrive quietly and without judgement.
I take a minute to acknowledge that I have agreed to cook for a woman who told me to forget hernumber ten minutes ago and then immediately gave me her address. This feels significant. Or stupid.
Then I grab my keys before I can analyse it into paralysis.
The shop is quiet in that Sunday morning way, shelves half-restocked, the air smelling faintly of floor cleaner and resignation. I move on autopilot, picking things up without thinking too hard about why my basket is getting heavy.
Back home, I put music on low and get to work.
This isn’t work-work. There’s no ticket rail. No timer barking at me. No one asking whether I can make something without onions because they read somewhere onions are aggressive.
This is muscle memory. Hands moving. Heat controlled. Time allowed to do what it needs to do.
I lose myself in it so much so, I don’t notice Rupert until he leans against the doorway.
“That,” he says mildly, “is a lot of food.”
I glance up. “Hello to you too.”
Glen appears behind him, half-awake, wearing the silk bathrobe Rupert gave him for Christmas and blinking at the kitchen like it’s a documentary. “Are we hosting a party?”
“No,” Rupert says. “Tom is cooking with intent.”
I keep my eyes on what I’m doing. “Go away.”
Rupert doesn’t.
“Are we feeding the street,” he asks, “or have you finally accepted that you enjoy domesticity.”
“It’s for Chloe,” I say, because there’s no point pretending otherwise.
Glen’s eyebrows go up. Rupert’s mouth curves.
“Ah,” Rupert says. “Chloe.”
“Yes.”
“The woman you absolutely do not like,” Rupert continues, innocent as anything.
I stop what I’m doing and look at him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You heavily implied it,” Rupert replies. “Several times. With words. And tone.”
“I said it was complicated.”
“That’s what people say when they like someone and don’t want to examine it.”
