King Charles the Cat meows, going straight to the kitchen, clearly at home.
‘It’s a nice evening. I thought we could sit outside,’ Jill says. ‘You’re looking very nice, Will.’
‘Thanks.’ I’m pleased my carefully chosen outfit, brand new, is being received well.
‘You boys head on out. I’m just finishing the garlic bread.’
Trying to ignore my ravenous stomach and the fact that my last meal was airline food, I follow Sam outside.
For a city home, Jill’s garden is larger than I thought it’d be. Private, but condensed, with furniture carefully chosen to give it as much space as possible. She’s planted some trees with pebbles over the soil, so that the same colours of the home continue out here. A glass table sits at one end of the garden, lit up with solar lights. Next door is the gentle murmur of neighbours, no doubt having their own evening meals. The city sprawls away from us, but here it’s as though we were secluded.
Sam and I sit next to each other, admiring the indigo sky.
‘Your mum was always the best hostess,’ I say, as Sam poured us both red wine.
‘She loves entertaining.’
At that moment, Jill strides out, carrying a bowl of chopped vegetables. Tomatoes, potatoes, leeks, onions, you name it: it was in there. Two metal tongs protrude from the bowl, which she places at the centre of the table already set with cutlery and plates.
Sam hands me a tong, the cold chilling my hand as I add salad then fragrant chicken breast seasoned with herbs and garlic bread to the side of my plate.
‘Oh my God, Jill, this sauce is delicious.’ I fork salad and chicken into my mouth relishing the explosion of taste. ‘What is it?’
‘Homemade salad dressing,’ Jill explains. ‘The secret ingredient is freshly cracked black pepper.’
I don’t even have to lie to flatter her. The food is somewhere between spice and garlic that sizzles on my tongue and leaves a gorgeous aftertaste. It’s better than the food I eat at home.
Ollie made an excellent salad.
‘What have you been up to all these years, Will?’ Jill asks.
I taste my wine, trying to settle on the best response. Do I big it up and make myself more important than I am? ‘To be honest, not that much.’
Crickets chirp around us, and the neighbours laugh, and a dog barks in the distance. King Charles the Cat– because his name isnotMerlin– strolls out to join us, pawing at Sam until he feeds him a slice of chicken. He chews it with vigour, a purr emanating from him.
‘I’m thinking of becoming an illustrator, but I can’t find the clients or the work.’ A lie, but who is keeping score? Sly Clive won’t let me have a look-in.
‘You were always creative,’ Sam says.
‘I guess I was,’ I agree, memories of my own youth coming back to me. ‘But now I’m working in an animation company?—’
‘Oh, wow,’ Jill gasps.
‘Doing Excel spreadsheets,’ I finish.
‘Oh.’ Jill recovers quickly. ‘Well, you’re still in the industry.’
‘It’s fine. You can agree with me, it’s crap.’
King Charles the Cat jumps on Jill’s lap, and she scratches him behind the ears, his purr rumbling.
‘So, my life is very mediocre right now,’ I say. ‘I’m underpaid, not doing what I want, and I’m in Athens having planned to get my ex back and only now realising how nasty that is.’
Sam looks away, pouring himself more wine. Instead, I look to Jill for some moral support.
‘Your ex is Greek?’ she asks.
‘No, but his partner is. He’s getting married here,’ I explain, and Jill bites her lip. ‘I know. I’m awful.’
