He shook his head, ripping it off and reading it before starting to leave. ‘I love you being here, Jessie, but you are totally messing with my head.’
I knew exactly how he felt.
* * *
‘How come someone who loves food as much as you doesn’t know how to cook?’ Elliot asked me, half an hour later, as he watched me lower two chicken breasts into a hot pan.
I shrugged. I’d learnt to cook a few basics before I left home. Pasta or curry from a jar, but all that felt like a lifetime ago. ‘To cook properly requires stability. I never stayed in one place long enough to acquire things like whisks and casserole dishes. The places I stayed rarely had a working oven. When I worked in pubs I usually ate there. Either that or takeaways and processed crap that I could stick in the microwave. You sort of get used to it.’
‘No Sunday omelette?’
Another staple of ours had been mixing all the Sunday roast dinner leftovers into an omelette.
‘Not for ten whole years. I mean, things have been different since living with Seb, of course. But he loves cooking, so I leave it to him.’
‘Seb?’ Elliot asked.
‘My boyfriend,’ I replied, aware that both of us might need reminding. ‘He’s gone travelling.’
‘Right!’ He gave a firm nod. ‘Your boyfriend. Of course. I knew that.’
We moved onto the next step in the recipe, chopping the salad. ‘How about you? You love food, too. And you’ve got this amazing kitchen. Why didn’t you learn to cook?’
Elliot was quiet for so long that I thought he must have forgotten the question. Then, when he’d carefully sliced up the last beef tomato, he glanced up with a sheepish look. ‘I can cook seven meals. Monday, pasta carbonara. Tuesday, Spanish rice. Wednesday, tacos… well, you get the picture.’
‘So today should be tacos?’
He nodded. ‘I eat a main meal at lunchtime when no one’s here. It’s easier for me to think, and I don’t have your brother trying to guilt-trip me into sharing my food.’
‘He would totally do that.’
‘It’s also easier to run if I haven’t just eaten a big meal.’
‘Crap, Elliot. Your run!’ I checked the clock. Eight-fifteen. ‘You’re late! Do you want to go now? I can finish the rest off myself.’
Elliot glanced at the recipes. The rest included piping out profiterole pastry and making a salad dressing.
‘It’s fine. I’ve been training. I can miss one run.’
Seeing the hunch in his shoulders and neck, I wasn’t so sure.
‘Elliot, please go on your run. I feel bad enough about you giving up your evening helping me.’
He furrowed his brow. ‘Giving up a solo game ofCall of Dutywas hardly a major sacrifice. And I can’t run now, I’d feel off setting out late.’
‘Okay, but what about Penny?’
Hearing her name, she emerged from under the table, tipping her head to one side as if asking, ‘What about my walk, huh?’
Elliot ran a hand through his hair a couple of times.
‘Once we’re finished here, we could take her for a walk?’ He looked at me, a glint of hope in his eyes that made it impossible to do the sensible thing and politely decline. ‘It’s probably good for her to start learning that a change in routine is nothing to freak out about, too.’
‘I’m sorry for disrupting your routine and freaking you out.’
‘I’m not freaked out, though.’ Elliot shook his head as if baffled at the realisation. ‘Or, not much, anyway. Although, I can’t see any basil in your ingredients pile.’
‘Yes, well, for some reason, the Houghton one-stop shop didn’t find room to stock fresh herbs.’
