32

Toby and Con were in the kitchen together. Toby was stuffing hunks of Greek cheese into raw chicken breasts and Con was wrapping them up in filmy slivers of Parma ham. In the oven was a tray of miniature new potatoes and garlic cloves, slavered in olive oil and strewn with pine nuts and rosemary needles. Some tenderstem broccoli sat in a steamer basket on the work surface and in the fridge there was a pot of home-made tuna pâté which they would have with some pumpkin and sunflower seed bread rolls that Toby had baked specially this afternoon.

Con couldn’t believe how much Toby knew about food. How did he know, for example, that you could put garlic in the oven like that, whole? And that you could cut open a raw chicken breast, stuff it with whatever you fancied, then seal it shut with this ham that was like a sort of meaty cling film? He was making out that everything was really simple and really unexceptional, but to Con what he and Toby were creating in the kitchen tonight felt like magic.

‘Thanks,’ he said to Toby. ‘Thanks for all of this.’ And then, quite unexpectedly, he found himself giving Toby a hug. Not a bear hug, but a sort of clasp. He was surprised by how solid Toby felt underneath his clothes for someone who looked like they could be blown over by a summer breeze.

‘You’re welcome. It’s nice to have an excuse, you know, to do some proper cooking. It never seems worth it just for me. Anyway – I hope you both have a great night. And you shouldn’t be disturbed. I happen to know that Joanne’s out tonight and I don’t suppose Ruby will be around, not on a Friday.’

Toby went upstairs and Con washed his hands thoroughly with antibacterial handwash. He was being ultra vigilant about hygiene. The thought of accidentally poisoning Daisy and her ending up in hospital because of him made him feel ill.

He checked the time. Seven-twenty-five. He heard the front door go and jumped. And then he held his breath, hoping that whoever it was would just go about their business and not wonder why there was music coming from the dining room and the smell of baked rosemary coming from the kitchen.

Footsteps creaked across the hallway floor towards the kitchen, then they stopped. Slowly the door opened and there was Ruby. Con exhaled.

‘What the …?’ Ruby looked round the dimly lit room in wonderment. ‘What the fuck is going on here?’

Con sighed. ‘Just dinner,’ he said.

‘Who for?’

‘For me,’ he said, ‘and a friend.’

‘A friend, eh?’ She smirked and pulled out a dining chair.

Con sighed. ‘Yes. A friend from work.’

She sat down and pulled a packet of cigarettes from her handbag.

‘No!’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t smoke in here. In fact, don’t smoke anywhere tonight.’

‘Er … excuse me?’

‘My friend. She’s not very well. She’s got a lung thing, condition. So please don’t smoke.’

‘Oh, my God, have I walked into some weird freaking parallel universe? Spooky old music, candlelight, ill girlfriends.’

‘Just don’t smoke, that’s all. Please.’

Ruby nodded, tersely, once, and put the cigarettes back in her bag. ‘Just for you,’ she said, ‘just this once. So – who’s the lucky girl?’

‘She’s no one,’ said Con. ‘Just a girl.’ He watched the clock on the TV click from 7:29 to 7:30. ‘Look, Ruby,’ he said, ‘I’m not being funny or anything, but she’s going to be here in a minute and I kind of made out we’d have the house to ourselves tonight. So …’

‘You want me to fuck off?’

‘Yeah, well. Yeah.’

She sighed and stood up. ‘Fair enough,’ she said, ‘fair enough. But don’t expect me to lock myself away in my room all night, OK?’

She picked up her bag and turned to leave the room. ‘What’s she got then, this girl? Asthma or something?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Con, ‘she’s got asthma.’ And then the doorbell rang.