Nash picks up the jug of batter and waggles it.‘No thank you.I can make pancakes just as good as you, Mr Professional Baker.’
Christopher watches as the batter slips into the pan, forming perfectly fat little circles.‘Unless they’re crepes, of course,’ Christopher retorts.
‘Hmm, I’ve changed my mind.No pancakes for you.’
Christopher laughs.‘I might have some bits for toppings in the freezer, so I’ll make myself useful and get those out.But I promise not to interrupt the delicate art of gently frying batter.’
‘I’ll allow it.’Nash tips the first pancake onto a baking sheet and slides it into the warm oven.
That’s about as effusive a yes as he can expect from Nash, so Christopher busies himself gathering ingredients.From the cupboard, he finds an old slightly sticky bottle of maple syrup that prompts Nash into a disgruntled ‘You call that syrup?’, and in the bakery downstairs, he finds some chocolate for shavings, and icing sugar, and manages to retrieve a bag of frozen blueberries from the chest freezer.He doesn’t usually use frozen, but they were cheap and good for making a sauce or ensuring he occasionally eats some fruit.He also finds some wrinkled lemons in his fridge in the flat – they might not have much juice in them, but there’ll be just enough to make a nice compote.
‘Are you particularly hungry?’asks Christopher, as he sidles up next to Nash at the hob to mix up the sugar, blueberries and lemon juice in a pan.On the countertop are multiple vats of pancake mix.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Just a lot of batter.’
‘Well, it’s not all for us, is it?’Nash says, clearly a little exasperated.‘I thought we could make some spares for anyone who wants some.They’re quite good if you cool them down and wrap them up quickly so they can’t go stale.And easy to heat up in the toaster.’
‘Well.That’s me told,’ Christopher says, feeling the tips of his ears heat up with embarrassment.Christopher hates it when their gentle teasing reveals that Nash is actually doing something nice for someone else.If he’s honest with himself, he likes the sparking back and forth, just a little.
The blueberries give into the heat, the juice releasing from them into the sugar and lemon, sending up a heavenly, zingy smell into the air.
He searches for something normal and casual to say and lands on, ‘Happy twenty-third of December.’
‘Is that its own holiday here?Like Boxing Day?’
‘Sadly not.’
‘Maybe we can make it one.Pancake day.’
‘Oh, we have one of those already.You know, the day before Lent.We all eat pancakes for dinner.’
‘Oh yeah, I think we used to do that as a kid in Canada.It’s been way too long.The US don’t really have it.We’ll have to come up with something special for the twenty-third in this fascinating country I appear to be stuck in.’
‘Ah, yeah.So, we should talk about that.’
Nash groans as he adds another short stack into the oven to keep warm.
The hairs prick up at the back of Christopher’s neck.‘God, it’s not that bad is it?’He didn’t mean to say it out loud, though he did think it, and it came out all sharp and sulky like ...what?Like they’refriendsand Nash has upset him?Nash doesn’t owe him anything.
To Christopher’s surprise, Nash holds up his spatula in a gesture of peace.‘It’s not about you.Sorry, I’m
just ...there’s some work stuff going on I need to deal with, and being here with the time difference makes it much harder.’
Heat gathers around Christopher’s collar, but all he can get out is a small nod.
‘From what I can tell, there’s no chance I’m going to get out of the UK until after Christmas,’ Nash continues.
‘You can stay here,’ Christopher blurts out.‘Obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Nash repeats, as though it actually was not obvious.Then he changes his tone, ‘Thank you.That’s very kind,’ he says, stiffly.‘Any way I can repay you, I will.Please just say.’
Still trying to find the middle ground between snapping and blurting, Christopher reverts back to his usual tight little nod.He swears he wasn’t always like this, sharp and a little spiky and uncomfortable, but maybe he was?Maybe he spent solong pretending that he was fine, that he was coasting along the middle ground of quiet acceptance, that he couldn’t pretend anymore and things started to unravel.In his heart, he knows that’s probably in part the truth of it all.It’s something he hasn’t wanted to look at directly – that part of him that knows he finds the people-ing much harder than some of his friends seem to, and the way he habitually closes himself off when he gets too afraid of what random reaction is going to spill out of him.
‘I think,’ he begins slowly, feeling his way through the words, ‘I think helping me help other people would actually help me.’
‘That was a lot ofhelps, but I think I follow.’
