‘Fine.’
He throws the peeler and the potato he’s been working on into the sink and stomps out of the kitchen.
‘If you want something done, do it yourself!’ I shout after him, losing what little patience I had.
‘I don’t evenlikeroast chicken!’ he shouts back, picking up the remote control and directing it at the television.
‘You can’t live off fish and chips forever,’ I call.
‘I can and I will!’
He turns up the TV to a volume that renders me incapable of retorting and the sound of Jamie Dornan’s Northern Irish accent fills the tiny cottage.
Really?The Fallat this time of the day?
Michael loves serial killer and crime TV series like nothing else. I hate them with a passion. Trying to find something to watch that we both enjoy is a near impossibility.
We were not cut out to be housemates, I think with a sigh.
I thought it was a stroke of genius at first: rent out our parents’ house for the summer and make us a killing while I move into Michael’s spare room. I knew it wouldn’t be a walk in the park, but I’d be popping over frequently anyway. Then Michael went and sacked his last support worker seven and a half weeks ago – not that I’m counting the days – so now he has no outside help, and neither do I.
I finish peeling the potatoes and make a start on the carrots and soon the aroma wafting from the oven begins to work as a balm for my bad mood.
Sunday lunch used to be our family tradition, a way to bring us all together around the table, something that became especially important to my parents once Michael had moved out. They continued with the weekly ritual when I was at university and I’d FaceTime in if I could. I was always expected to attend when I was at home for the holidays, and last summer Mum had made a point of asking me to avoid Sunday shifts at Seaglass. The fact that I grumbled about it fills me with the deepest regret.
My top priority last summer had been working to save up enough money so that I could leave at the end of it. I still feel guilty about that, even though Mum and Dad were none the wiser about my plan to move to London. I’m relieved I didn’t tell them before the accident because I know how much I’d regret it now, but I do wish I’d made it clearer how much I loved spending time with them. I would give anything to be sitting around a table with them today, raising a glass, telling them how much I love them.
My eyes prick with tears. The anniversary of their deaths falls on a Sunday two weeks from today and I thought Michaeland I could have a special lunch in memory of them. I figured I’d better get some practice at cooking roasts before then as I’ve never done one before, but I’ve had a lump in my throat all morning. This will be our first proper Sunday lunch since we lost them. I’d be even more of a wreck if my brother hadn’t been winding me up.
I push these thoughts aside. I’m already blinking back tears, but I’ll end up in a heap on the kitchen floor if I’m not careful, which is the last thing either of us needs. I try my hardest to hold it together around Michael. He’s doing so well, much better than I am, it seems at times.
I’m just starting on the gravy when the doorbell rings, barely audible over the noise of the television. Michael presses Pause, but when I glance through to the living room, I discover that he’s halfway up the stairs.
‘Oi! Can you answer the door?’ I ask irately.
‘I NEED A POO!’ he bellows.
I’m frozen for a second, dumbstruck by the reality of our situation, and then I put down the wooden spoon, switch off the hob and go to the door.
My hands fly to my face in shock when I see Finn standing on the doorstep.
I’m a mess, no trace of make-up covering the dark circles under my eyes or the zit on my chin, my hair unwashed and twisted into a ramshackle bun on the very top of my head, my too-baggy jeans and white T-shirt smeared with grease because I couldn’t find a tea towel, and who cares what I look like anyway?
But, oh. Finn. He looks exactly the same: tall and slim, his pale orange T-shirt washed to within an inch of its life, rippedjeans sitting just so on his narrow hips, black boots, long dark lashes, slightly crooked nose, beautiful blue-green eyes steadily holding mine from beneath those few stray strands of tousled dark hair.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask with a gasp.
‘I just got back,’ he replies softly, his eyes scanning every inch of my face.
I feel vulnerable and exposed.
‘You’re visiting your family?’ I ask shakily.
He nods.
‘When did you arrive?’
‘An hour ago.’
