Chapter 8
Mandy
By half past seven, I have changed into flowy yoga trousers, taken my earrings off and decided Peter is late.
He is not, strictly speaking, late.
We did not agree a time. His text merely informed me that his dick had cleared its schedule. My body had responded favourably to the news, which is not something I intend to examine while standing in my kitchen with my phone in my hand.
Still, I have brushed my hair, put on lip gloss I can pretend is accidental and sipped the last of the wine knowing Peter promised to bring another bottle.
The doorbell rings at twenty-two minutes to eight.
I put my glass down and walk to the door.
Peter stands on the step with messy curls, colour high on his cheekbones above his beard, and two canvas shopping bags hanging from one hand. A bottle of red is tucked beneath his other arm.
I look at the bags.
Then at him.
“Have you misunderstood the assignment?”
He smiles. “Good evening to you too.”
“You were asked to bring wine.”
“I brought wine.”
“And half a supermarket.”
“Not half.”
“A third?”
“Closer.”
I open the door wider. “Why are you carrying food?”
“Because I have been walking for most of the day, and before my dick can perform, its owner needs feeding.”
I stare at him.
He steps past me into the hall. “Nutritionally sound. You of all people should approve.”
“That was not medical advice.”
“It hinted at the prospect of proteins.”
“It had the word dick in it.”
“Doctors are familiar with those.”
“Not usually in relation to shopping bags.”
He kisses my cheek as he passes, quick and cheerful, and carries the bags straight to the kitchen counter as though he has delivery rights.
I follow him, already suspicious.
He puts everything on the worktop. Potatoes. Beef mince. Carrots. Onion. Frozen peas. Stock cubes. Cheddar. Tomato purée. A bottle of Worcestershire sauce. A bunch of parsley sits on top, looking as if it has wandered into the wrong meeting.
“No,” I say.
Peter turns, holding a potato. “No to the potato specifically?”
“We do not do dinner.”
“We are about to.”
“No, Peter. We do dick time.”
“Lovely. Efficient. Slightly aggressive.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I. I am starving.”
“You could have eaten before you came over.”
“I could also have gone home, showered, cooked for myself and fallen asleep on my sofa like a man with no prospects and mud in his socks.” He holds up the potato. “Instead, I came here with ingredients.”
“And charm?”
“I was hoping that was implied.”
I fold my arms. “This looks suspiciously like a date.”
“It is not a date.”
“You brought dinner to my house.”
“I brought raw materials. A date would involve flowers, a reservation and me pretending I know more about wine than red or white.”
“You do not?”
“I know enough to bring red when instructed.”
I should say no.
Dinner is not what we do. Cooking together is worse. Cooking together is domestic. It has chopping boards and timing and the possibility of reaching for the same spoon.
But Peter is already washing his hands and rolling up his sleeves. There is a faint line of mud near his wrist from the walk, and his hair is still messy from the wind. He looks comfortable in my kitchen, which should be annoying.
It is annoying.
Not only annoying.
“What are we making?” I ask.
“Cottage pie.”
I look at the potatoes again. “That sounds ambitious.”
“It is mince with a hat.”
“That is not a recipe.”
“It is an emotional description.”
“I cannot cook.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“You once brought shop-bought coleslaw to a barbecue and served it in a ceramic dish so people would think you made it.”
“That was strategy.”
“It still had the plastic film stuck to the bottom.”
“One person noticed.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re too observant.”
He opens a drawer, finds the knives and puts one on the board. “Tonight can be educational.”
“I do not need a cooking lesson.”
“You need dinner. The lesson is a bonus.”
He says it lightly. No grand improvement project. No smug man in my kitchen, ready to rescue me from ready meals and toast. Only Peter, hungry and amused, preparing to cook because he wants feeding before sex.
I can work with that.
Probably.
“All right,” I say. “But assume I know nothing.”
“Noted.” He hands me a utensil I didn’t even know I owned. “This. Is. A. Peeler. Start with this one. It is the least judgemental.” He hands me a potato.
It looks extremely judgemental.
I peel slowly while he puts a pan of water on the hob. My first potato has corners by the time I am finished with it.
Peter picks it up and examines it.
“Rustic,” he says.
“Rustic means ugly.”
“Ugly with confidence.”
“That may be my cooking style.”
“We have discovered your brand.”
I should hate this.
I do not.
He chops the onion himself, mostly because my eyes start streaming the moment he cuts into it and I accuse him of bringing chemical weapons into my home. Then he shows me how to dice carrots without losing a fingertip, standing close enough that his chest brushes my back when he reaches around me.
“Fingertips tucked,” he says.
“I know how to use a knife.”
“You were holding it like it had insulted your family.”
“It might have.”
His hand covers mine briefly on the handle. “Like this.”
The contact lasts two seconds.
That is enough.
His voice is near my ear. “You have to look at what you are doing.”
“I am.”
“You are looking at my hand.”
“That is where the knife is.”
“That is a beautiful defence.”
I elbow him gently. “Move.”
He laughs and steps back.
The first few pieces are uneven. By the time I finish, we have a pile of carrots that would pass inspection if the inspector were kind and slightly short-sighted.
Peter heats oil in a frying pan and adds the mince. It hisses loudly enough to make me step back.
“It is not attacking you,” he says.
“It sounded aggressive.”
“It is browning.”
He breaks up the meat with a wooden spoon, then lets me stir once the onion and carrots go in. I am beginning to suspect stirring is mostly how competent cooks make incompetent cooks feel included.
“What now?” I ask.
“Tomato purée.”
I pick up the tube. “How much?”
“A decent squeeze.”
“That is not a measurement.”
“It is a cottage pie, not a controlled drug.”
“I prefer instructions with numbers.”
“One tablespoon.”
“Thank you.”
I squeeze in too much.
Peter looks at the pan.
I look at him.
He nods gravely. “Bold.”
“Is it ruined?”
“No. It will have character.”
“That is what people say when something is ruined.”
“You will learn to trust me.”
“Ambitious.”
He adds stock, peas and a shake of Worcestershire sauce.
I watch the bottle with suspicion. “What is that actually for?”
“Depth.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It makes savoury things taste more savoury.”
“That also explains nothing.”
He hands me the bottle. “Smell it.”
I take a sniff and recoil.
Peter laughs. “Your face.”
“It smells like someone made vinegar angry.”
“And yet, magic.”
“British cooking is very strange.”
“Your national pride is inspiring.”
“I am allowed to question sauce.”
“Not in Yorkshire.”
The filling bubbles and thickens, turning from worrying to edible with impressive speed. The potatoes soften in their pan, and Peter drains them before putting them back on the hob for a minute.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Gets rid of extra water. Better mash.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It is not.”
“I remain cautious.”
He adds butter, a splash of milk and a handful of grated cheddar, then hands me the masher.
“Your moment.”
I take it. “What do I do?”
“Take out your feelings on the potatoes.”
“That sounds therapeutic.”
“Free therapy.”
I mash.
Badly at first. Then with more enthusiasm.
Peter leans against the worktop and watches me. “You have a lot of feelings.”
“I work with the public.”
“Fair.”
“And you brought unplanned dinner into a sex arrangement.”
“That is at least two potatoes’ worth of emotion.”
“Three.”
He laughs, and I grin before I can stop myself.
We spoon the mince into a dish, spread the mash on top and scrape lines across it with a fork. Peter lets me scatter cheddar over the surface, then rescues the bowl before I turn it into a cheesy nightmare.
“That is enough.”
“You said cheese gives depth.”
“I said Worcestershire sauce gives depth.”
“I prefer cheese.”
“Most reasonable people do.”
The cottage pie goes into the oven.
Which means we are now waiting for dinner to cook.
Together.
In my kitchen.
Peter pours wine. I wipe the worktop because I need something to do that is not acknowledging how ordinary this feels. He watches me, but for once he does not comment.
We lean against opposite sides of the kitchen while the smell of beef, stock and browning cheese fills the room.
“This takes a long time,” I say.
His mouth curves, and for a moment the kitchen warms for reasons that have nothing to do with the oven.
When the cottage pie is finally done, the top is golden and bubbling around the edges. Peter serves it into bowls with the care of a man who has made something properly and wants it appreciated, even if he would deny that under interrogation.
I take a mouthful.
Then another.
Peter watches me far too closely.
“Well?” he asks.
“It is fine.”
“Fine?”
“Pleasant.”
“You ate half the bowl before choosing pleasant.”
“I was gathering evidence.”
“You like it.”
“I might not hate it.”
“That is practically a love poem from you.”
I take another bite to avoid giving him the satisfaction.
He sees straight through it, of course.
Between mouthfuls, he tells me Bernard disgraced himself at the quarry, and I am grateful he waits until I have finished eating before he provides detail. I tell him about a patient who tried to book an appointment for a recurring knee problem and brought in a typed timeline going back to 1998.
“How many pages?” Peter asks.
“Eleven.”
“Font size?”
“Ten.”
He winces. “Committed knee.”
“It had footnotes.”
“No.”
“It did.”
“I respect them.”
“I wanted to frame it.”
We clear the bowls together. Peter washes without asking. I dry because standing beside him with a tea towel feels less alarming than sitting down and admitting I enjoyed this.
His shoulder bumps mine at the sink.
I do not move away.
Neither does he.