“What’s in the pot?”
“Risotto.”
“This is by far the nicest kitchen I’ve ever been in. It’s actually murdering me—the next time I see mine it’s going to feel all shrunken and cheap.” She opened a floor-to-ceiling cupboard built into the alcove next to the stove. Jar upon jar of dried grains and pulses, expensive tins of Italian whole tomatoes, herbs and spices, rice and pasta, pickles, crackers, slabs of dark chocolate, olive oil, vinegar, mustards, Heinz ketchup, and tin after tin of baked beans. “Aladdin’s cave,” she said. “Whatisthis—No Deal stockpiling?”
“Normal stockpiling,” Dan said. “A cook’s pantry.”
“A cook’s pantry!” Coralie scoffed. “When you lived at Mum’s, I was lucky to find spaghetti.”
“That was different. She didn’t eat what I made. She hardly ate at all.”
“Not like me.” Barbie was up on his hind legs and rubbing his own belly. “I love everything Dan makes.” He wrapped his arms around Coralie’s brother and kissed him on the top of his head. In spite of herself, she blushed. Her eyes focused on a glittery magnet on the fridge. In glamorous scrolly writing, it said:
It’s not a whorehouse
It’s a whorehome
“Coralie, your name?” Barbie said. “Go on. Tell me.”
“I want Dan to take me on a tour, show me round the house. Is that okay?”
“It’s his house, too, love. Go for it.”
“Let me put the last of this in.” Dan ladled in the dregs of his stock, turned off the burner, and put the lid on. “It’ll be perfect when we get back.”
They ducked into the hall. “Sorry he’s somassive,” Dan said. “I was thinking I should somehow warn you.”
“He’s like someone out of a Guy Ritchie film—a lovable gangster.”
“An armed robber with a heart of gold. I won’t bother with downstairs; it’s all modern and boring. It’s the zone for his sons and their wives—the guest rooms and bathroom and a little kitchen for when they stay. That’s hardly ever—they live in Brooklyn. Come upstairs.”
“What’s in here?” Coralie pushed open the door. “God, it’s massive, it’s stunning, it’s beautiful.” The double doors between the two rooms were open. Every surface was painted red. Red walls, red ceilings, even the frames and shutters of the big bay window—surely unusual to have bay windows on two floors. The cornicing and ceiling roses had been left white. Unavoidably, the clear comparison was to the womb (if the womb was filled with wall-to-wall books, thick Persian rugs, and giant sofas on tall turned wooden legs). It made her own tasteful paint job—Farrow & Ball Mizzle—feel ludicrously drab.
“It’s sort of like a library and a study, and we can pull a big screen down and watch movies on the projector,” Dan said. “Barbie did it all long before I got here.”
“Who reads the books?”
“That’s a bit offensive, Cor.”
“It’s not you, though, is it?”
“I read! You’re not the only reader.”
“Fine, whobuysthe books?”
“Yeah, it’s Barbie. He’s one of those guys who walks into Donlon Books—you know, that shop on Broadway Market? Throws down his black Amex and gets anything that catches his eye. And he does read them, just not in any order. Literally sometimes he’s flipping between two or three at a time. A paragraph here, a chapter there. Like a book jukebox.”
“Dan!” a man’s voice bellowed up the stairs.
Brother and sister both jumped.
“I’ve asked him not to do that,” Dan said.
They ran down together. Barbie was at the kitchen door. “Danny, I’m worried about the risotto. Should it just be sitting on the stove like that?”
“I turned the hob off. But you’re right, it’s time to eat.”
Dan served it at the stove, then brought cheese to grate at the table. He shook up a dressing in a jam jar and splashed it over a salad. He elbowed Coralie. “Why are you staring at me?”
