‘Crikey, there’s a lot of maths involved here.’ Haf grimaces and peers over the instructions. ‘There’s even a formula for angles and stuff. Shit. I can do statistics, but this might be beyond me.’
Kit snorts. ‘Well, this is going to go well. I am shite at maths.’
Haf looks up at her slowly. ‘Isn’t maths like important for the whole making-buildings thing? You know, your job.’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh God, please let me know what buildings you’ve worked on so I’ll be sure to never go near them.’
‘Unfortunately, I worked on this extension,’ Kit says, pointing at the whole room. ‘Sorry to tell you. She’s pretty study though. No collapses yet.’
Kit knocks on the wall with her knuckles, then pretends to startle at something going wrong, which makes Haf shriek. Naturally, Kit finds this hilarious and barks with laughter.
‘That was mean.’ Haf pouts.
‘It was, but I’m making you a tea so that should make up for it, don’t you think? Anyway, all the maths is done by computers. It’s not like I’m wandering around building sites with an abacus or anything.’
Not only is there an alarming amount of maths required in the instructions, but Esther has compiled a resource of the various decorations they should attempt. Drizzled icing to look like snow, powdered sugar shaken over the top – this seems like an easy one, at least – plus wreaths and holly made out of green-dyed royal icing. This was going to be one sweet house.
‘Let’s divide and conquer,’ says Haf as Kit sets down their steaming cuppas. ‘I’ll get us going and roll out the dough ready for baking. You handle the music.’
‘Are you sure you’re safe to operate an oven and move hot things around? No offence, but I saw what you did to the gravy yesterday. The mulled wine too.’
‘You weren’t even there for that one!’
‘I hear things.’ Kit says this in such an off-handed way that it makes Haf think of Esther.
‘Oh, great.’
Hafisan unmitigated disaster in the kitchen, but Kit looks so tired. But then again, it’s not for her to say what Kit should and shouldn’t do. So that leaves fake confidence and lying her arse off, which seem to be her new hobby.
‘I’ll just concentrate really hard,’ she says. ‘It’ll be fine!’
She turns on the oven to preheat, and in seconds, the terriers appear at her feet, sensing that food that might be imminent. ‘How did you guys even get inside?’ she mutters to the dogs, who are both doing big, deep sniffs.
‘We will have to hope that’s true,’ concedes Kit, sitting down on a stool at the kitchen island. ‘Someone entirely conscious is probably better than me, a half-asleep barely assembled meat sack, even if you apparently cannot cook. It’s all on you, Hughes.’
It’s embarrassing that this use of her surname makes her stomach flip.
Friends. They’re just friends.
‘How did you know that’s my surname?’
‘You’re dating my brother. The least I could do was look you up. Google is free, and so is Facebook, unfortunately.’
‘Oh?’ she asks, trying to be casual. ‘Did you find out anything interesting?’
Kit shrugs, and pulls out her phone. ‘It’s very trusting of you to let me control the music. What if what I choose is God awful?’
‘I have a broad taste,’ Haf says, hoping that the dismissal meant everything on her profile is sufficiently locked down. ‘Though if it’s really bad, I will judge you.’
‘What if it’s a playlist of all Britain’s entries to Eurovisionafter2013?’
Haf does a full body shudder. ‘Dear God, that’s a human rights violation.’
To her relief, flaccid attempts at Euro-pop doesn’t play from the kitchen speakers. Instead, a jaunty guitar strikes up, joined by Dolly Parton. Thanks to Ambrose’s love of the Christmas album, she’s become quite the Parton connoisseur. As the chorus of ‘Two Doors Down’ – an absolute banger – starts, Haf joins in as she unwraps the thick, sweet dough from its cling film. It’s still a little cool from being stored in the fridge overnight, but hopefully it’ll roll out okay. The rolling pin isa terrifying marble affair that would definitely be the murder weapon in a cosy crime novel, and she can feel her biceps twinging as she lifts it.
The song builds, and she looks up from her dough to see Kit dancing. Kit plucks ingredients from packets to inspect them closer with a flourish, and bopping as she sketches decorative designs on a notepad. When she stops to think, her hands point into finger guns, tapping in the air to the beat. She is by no means a good dancer. Every movement is slightly off beat, and her waving arms never quite reach the ethereal elegance of a ballet dancer; the effect is a little bit flapping gosling, truth be told. But Haf can’t tear her eyes away from this awkward, spiky girl.
