Pushing my trolley through the aisles of the supermarket, I marvel at the size of the tomatoes, the fragrance of the bundles of fresh basil, and the plumpness of the cherries and artichokes. I pile everything in, along with an abundance of cheeses and hams. My mind is already buzzing with ideas for sauces and salads I can make. But right now I need to plan breakfast—a breakfast to win the kids round.
I pick up several bags of fresh oranges that I’m going to squeezeusing Wilf’s old lever-arm juicer, visit the bakery counter for a crustyciabattaand a herb-toppedfocaccia, and grab a few boxes of eggs and a selection of yogurts and jams. I also buy the kids some of the treats I know they love: milk chocolate buttons for Archie, the same brand of white chocolate Theo gets in for Mabel, and a handful of protein bars for Callum. I feel the same excitement as when I’m shopping for a dinner party and am confident my menu is going to hit the target. At the same time, it’s strange to be shopping for a family. It’s something I never imagined I’d be doing.
When I reach the front of the line, I smile at the assistant, a middle-aged woman with a bored expression.“Buongiorno!”
“Buongiorno,”she echoes, with noticeably less enthusiasm.
As I pack my groceries, I wonder who she thinks I’m buying for. Does she assume my partner is a woman or is it obvious I’m gay? I wonder how she’d respond if my Italian was good enough to say, “I’m shopping for my boyfriend and his kids.”
When she’s finished scanning, I reach into my wallet for my new credit card—held jointly in the names Mr. T Armstrong and Mr. A Webb—and feel a thrill as I hand it over. Theo set it up, saying it would be the simplest way for us to buy food and essentials, saving us the hassle of working out who owes what with every bill. While I don’t dispute this, it also felt like a sign we were taking our relationship to the next level.
But I remind myself Theo’s a dad. He and his kids come as a package. So I can only really take our relationship to the next level if I can bring them along with us.
When I get back to the house, Theo has lifted the outdoor table and chairs out of the wine store and arranged them on the patio, where he’s sitting drinking a coffee. At his feet, Archie is wearing a Captain America baseball cap and playing with his action figures, organizing a rescue operation for Black Panther, who’s stuck in a plant pot.
Theo stands up and helps me with the shopping.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, as we carry the bags into the kitchen.
“Yes, thanks. I feel like a new man.”
I load the milk and butter into the fridge. “Brill! So you didn’t get bitten by mosquitoes?”
“No. They didn’t come near me.” He lifts out two cantaloupe melons and puts them in the fruit bowl. “I seem to remember it’s got something to do with blood groups.”
“Or maybe they’re just not that into you,” I quip.
“Maybe.” He chuckles. “How about you?”
“They’rereallyinto me!”
He grabs me around the waist and pretends to nibble my ear. “I’m not surprised—you’re bloody gorgeous!”
I slap him away, giggling. “Theo! Archie’s outside!”
“And?”
I grab the bottles of water and slot them into a cupboard. “Anyway, it’s fine. I’ve got some cream and I’ll pick up more spray and candles this afternoon. What time do you want breakfast?”
Theo tells me that Callum and Mabel still haven’t got out of bed but he’s going to give them till eleven o’clock, then wake them. As that’s only forty-five minutes away, I start work.
“What can I do?” asks Theo.
I thrust some dishcloths and antibacterial spray at him. “Give the table a wipe and set it.”
While Theo gets on with that, I clear myself a space on the only available worktop. Not only does the kitchen have hardly any counter space but most of the knives and peelers are blunt, I have to crack my eggs into a salad bowl to beat them, and all the pans are ancient, with no nonstick covering and their undersides black. Theo also tells me there’s only just enough crockery for the five of us—and that’s after taking down a decorative plate from the wall and giving it a wash.
“Didn’t your uncle cook for anyone?” he asks, as he towels the plate dry. “Didn’t he have any friends?”
“I don’t know.” I pause my chopping and shrug. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t like people. Or maybe they didn’t like him.”
“How could anyone not like someone related to you?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re very slushy this morning.”
“I can’t help it,” he chirps, “it’s the Italian air. It makes me feelmolto romantico!”
I laugh and go back to chopping my onion. Once I’ve fried it and added it to the mix for a spinach and ricottafrittata, I leave it to bake in the little oven and start squeezing my oranges. As I do, I feel a rush of happiness. Cooking for people is the thing I’ve always done best. I’m on safe ground.
