‘Aye. Maybe.’
She widens her mouth with her thumbs, fingers pulling down the bottom of her eyes. ‘How about this?’ she says, her words sloshing. I laugh.
‘Perfect, if you could just stay there for half an hour?’ I say, grabbing a pencil and roughly sketching her.
‘I would, but—’ she continues to talk through the face she’s pulling, but starts laughing and drops her fingers ‘—tea won’t cook itself, will it?’
I turn the page around and she snorts. ‘Dreamy, aren’t I?’ she winks.
I pull the clouds back towards me, Dad’s words echoing in my head.Art doesn’t put money on the table, lad.‘Maybe I should be concentrating on this kind of thing instead of the application. I won’t get in anyway.’
‘Look, I know I’m not an expert, but these are so good, Mike, they shouldn’t stay hidden away.’
She lifts another page, the same side profile and the only one that I’ve tried to paint. Watercolours for now; I might move on to oils tonight.
‘Has she written back?’ she asks, fingers following the deep snatches of oranges from the street lamp, the purple black twist of hair along her cheek bone.
‘I…’
‘Shit!’ She drops the paper and rushes from the room. The distinctive smell of veg caught in the bottom of the pan lines the edges of the walls. ‘Hope you like your cabbage well done!’ she shouts from the kitchen. I get up and head into the small room,where she’s wafting smoke with a tea towel. I open the window to let out the billowing smoke.
‘I was going to make bubble and squeak to go with the gammon. Chips do?’
‘You don’t have to cook for me.’
‘I like cooking. Well, I do when I’m not burning it.’ She heats up half a bottle of sunflower oil in the pan and I begin chopping the potatoes into chips.
‘So, did she write back?’ Kate asks again, lowering the sliced potato into the mesh basket, the oil fizzing and popping.
I lean against the counter and pull out the envelope. ‘This arrived this morning.’
Kate shakes the basket of chips.
‘So… what did she say?’ she asks.
‘It’s… it’s from Sarah.’ I turn the envelope around. ‘Recognise the handwriting.’
Kate takes out the gammon from under the grill and turns it over, slamming it back under the heat. ‘And what does fish face want?’
‘I don’t know, haven’t opened it yet.’
‘Give it here.’ I pass the letter over and she rips it open, unfolding the paper.
‘“Dear Mike”,’ she begins, clearing her throat. ‘“I’ve tried ringing but you’re either out at the pub or working, so thought I’d do it the old-fashioned way. I’m not convinced your mam has been passing on my messages.” Did I mention how much I love your mam?’ She grins over at me. ‘“Anyway, I need you to know that—”’ Kate looks up at me, like she’s on the verge of wincing.
‘Go on, it’s fine,’ I reassure her, even though it feels like something’s caught on my ribs and won’t shift.
‘You sure?’
‘You’ll only make me tell you anyway. Shall I do the eggs?’ I ask, needing to do something other than standing here with thesounds of next door having a row through the open windows. ‘“I’ve met someone”.’ She glances up. I pause, hand holding on to the egg carton. I take out the eggs from the fridge and return with the carton in my hand, Kate looking at me, concerned. I gesture with the carton for her to go on.
‘“We’re coming back home in a few weeks and thought it might be a bit awkward for us to bump into each other”. How considerate,’ Kate says sarcastically. ‘“And there’s something else. I’m…”’
‘Frying pan?’ I ask. But Kate steps towards me, taking the eggs from my hands. ‘She’s pregnant, Mike.’
I nod. Swallow. ‘Frying pan?’ I repeat. She holds her breath for a second then passes it over.
‘What else?’ I ask, turning the rings on and adding oil to the pan.
