Chapter 9
“Oh dear,” said Oliver, coming into the kitchen. “Am I being punished?”
I dumped a can of chickpeas into a pan of summer vegetables that were supposed to be roasted but looked more charred and shrivelled. “No. I’m making you dinner. Because I love you”—my voice was getting faster and smaller as I went on—“andalsoweneedtotalkaboutsomestuff.”
“Who are you and what have you done with Lucien O’Donnell?”
“Very funny.” Tossing a can of tomatoes after the chickpeas, I squinted into the depths of my sad and soggy veg. “What does a simmer even look like?”
Oliver peered over my shoulder. “Not like that.” He reached past me and turned the hob up and, once the tomato juice had started bubbling, back down. Then he gave me the softest peck on the cheek and asked, “How was Spud today, by the way?”
“Good,” I said, nodding. “You can check the Shit List if you like.”
He gave a low chuckle. “I do actually trust you. Now if you’re okay to keep an eye on that, I’m going to change out of my work clothes.”
Privately, I always kind of liked the moment just before Oliver changed out of his work clothes. When he looked all buttoned-upand serious but just on the edge of becomingnotbuttoned-up and serious. But my personal fantasies weren’t quite a reason to make the man I love sit around all evening in an uncomfortable shirt. Well, not unless it was a special occasion.
I kept an eye on the vegetables while Oliver nipped upstairs, although I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to be keeping an eye on themfor. I gave them a halfhearted stir and watched in culinary despair as one of my aubergine fingers fell into two limp halves held together with a stringy skin that used to be purple.
Still, it was the thought that counted.
Figuring it wasn’t about to get any better, I dished up two bowls of vegan gunge, scattering coriander over the top like a cushion over a stain on the sofa. As I carried them through to the dining room, I heard a “Who’s a good boy?” from the study, and then Oliver emerged in fullAt Home with the Blackwoodsmode. Which was to say, he was wearing a slightly more comfortable shirt and slightly less formal trousers.
“I think it’s a good sign,” he said, “that Spud’s already going into his pen voluntarily.”
I plonked Oliver’s bowl in front of him. “He’s hiding from my cooking.”
“Well, that still means he views his pen as a place of security.”
“Doyouneed a pen?”
Oliver gently forked up a lump of what might have been pepper, might have been courgette, or might have been a bit of undissolved stock cube. “No no, this is lovely. Thank you.”
“It’s not lovely,” I said, “it’s disgusting. We both know it’s disgusting.”
“It’s lovely that you tried.”
I wasn’t sure what it meant that I didn’t find that patronising. Maybe it was the raw sincerity with which Oliver said it. Or maybe it was just that having a realistic sense of each other’s weaknesseswas an important part of an adult relationship. At least I hoped it was because I had a lot of weaknesses to have a realistic sense of. “We could still get a takeaway.”
“Certainly not. You made this. We’re eating it.”
“Okay, now I feel likeI’mbeing punished.”
“If so”—Oliver smiled across the table—“it’s entirely self-inflicted. Now what was it you wanted to talk about?”
I squirmed. “Umm, it might actually be a couple of things.”
“I assume one of them is to do with you sleeping on the floor the past two nights. I’m a little worried I don’t know what the other is.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said, casually dismissing my medium- to long-term employment prospects in order to focus on a dog. “There’s a chance CRAPP might be falling over.”
Oliver’s smile was neatly put aside in favour of just the right level ofhere for you but not freaked out. “I’m surprised to hear that. I thought the Beetle Drive went well this year.”
“It did. But most of our funding came from the earl, and he’s sort of…snuffed it.”
“Sort of?” Perhaps he was following my lead, but Oliver let his smile creep back just fractionally. “You mean he’s only snuffed it a little bit?”
Okay, that hadn’t been the right time to hedge. “No, he’s definitely snuffed it all the way. Died. Had funeral. Buried. Full Solomon Grundy Weekend experience.”
