Chapter 8
Tilly stands at the counter in her tiny kitchen surrounded by ingredients.
A box of eggs, a stick of butter, a chunk of Gruyère and a slab of Parmesan …
She consults the recipe in the enormous book laid open on the counter and then glances down at Joe’s letter beside it, reading it for the third time.
Dear Tilly,
Did I make you laugh? I really hope I made you laugh. Now, I don’t want to say anything bad about your cooking but do you remember that lemon meringue pie? That’s all I’m going to say.
I know cooking has never been your thing but I’ve always found it soothing to follow a recipe, knowing that in cooking if you follow the instructions and keep practising, things should broadly turn out OK.
I hope this book encourages you to take care of yourself. You’ve made me feel so cared for, something I’ll always be grateful for. I just hope that you’ll remember that you need looking after too.
Make yourself some hearty, comforting meals (I like the look of the Souffléd Macaroni Cheese). And invite people over to share them with you. I know you probably don’t feel much like socializing right now but you have people in your life who love you. Lean on them, Tilly. You’re not on your own.
I’m sorry I’m not there to cook for you. But I’ll be there at your side as you chop and stir and hopefully don’t start any fires.
I love you.
Joe x
She glances down again at her new copy of Delia Smith’s How to Cook.
‘You did make me laugh, by the way,’ she says out loud, looking over her shoulder towards the urn on the bookshelves.
It had surprised her, the sound that escaped from her mouth as she peeled away the brown paper. But as soon as she saw the title she could picture Joe’s grin as he chose it and she couldn’t help but chuckle.
‘And how could I forget that lemon meringue pie?’
It was the first meal they hosted in their new flat, with Tilly’s parents visiting from Hay-on-Wye and Harper and Raj joining them. Joe offered to cook the main course but Tilly said she’d handle dessert.
‘I don’t know why I picked something so ambitious,’ she says as she weighs out the ingredients. ‘Maybe I was feeling grown-up because we’d just bought our own place, and I wanted to prove something. I’ll admit that using a blowtorch to scorch the meringue probably wasn’t the best idea …’
She did the blowtorching at the table, intending to add some drama to the occasion. Which it certainly did.
‘You were so calm about the fire,’ she continues, grating the cheese, the creamy, salty smell making her mouth water.
‘I just stood there screaming as the tablecloth caught light, but you grabbed a jug of water and threw it over the table. And my lemon meringue pie too, unfortunately. I remember you still said it tasted good, once you’d drained the water and brushed off the burnt bits. ’
She shakes her head as she recalls the memory. ‘You always were a terrible liar. But a great cook. Your sloppy joes were perfect, of course. I remember you saying you wanted to give my family the full American experience, so you made coleslaw, potato salad and home-made tater tots too.’
Thinking back to that meal, her stomach lets out a loud rumble.
Her appetite has been all over the place since Joe’s death.
Sometimes she completely forgets about meals, but on other days she turns to food to try to fill the emptiness, ordering takeaways and bingeing on biscuits and slabs of bread and butter.
Grief has given her a yearning for carbohydrates.
She turns on some music as she cooks, the flat filling with a backing track of cheesy pop and the smell of actual cheese as the macaroni goes into the oven to crisp up.
Since her visit to the bookshop she’s felt lighter than she has in weeks.
She didn’t feel tempted to browse, despite having dipped her toe back into reading with Matilda.
But she did feel welcomed, the warmth of the shop and the conversation with the staff acting like a blanket draped gently over her shoulders.
As she waits for the meal to cook, she flicks through the cookbook.
It is geared to novices like her; there’s even a page on how to make the perfect slice of toast. She adds page markers to the recipes she’d like to try, her stomach rumbling again at the thought of crunchy roast potatoes and warming stews.
Despite Joe’s encouragement in his letter, she isn’t sure she is ready to host a dinner party without him.
She wouldn’t be able to get past the empty chair.
But maybe he was right about making some proper meals for herself.
Takeaways and pesto pasta don’t exactly make for a balanced diet.
Her attention catches on a recipe for pumpkin pie, remembering the Thanksgiving with Joe’s family after they’d got engaged.
Joe waited the three months between the engagement and their trip because he was keen to tell them in person, over Thanksgiving dinner.
‘Because this year and every year what I’m thankful for is you. ’
But the announcement went terribly, ending with Ellen making her feelings about the engagement perfectly clear, Joe yelling, Ellen fleeing the table in tears, Hank following after her, and Tilly comfort-eating three slices of pumpkin pie. She hasn’t been able to eat it since.
Thinking back to that trip, she remembers with a pang that it wasn’t just Joe and Ellen who argued.
She and Joe fought too … They were down by the lake after dinner, and she remembers trying to keep her voice down, not wanting the sound to travel back to the house and give Ellen the satisfaction of knowing that despite the ring glistening on Tilly’s finger, they weren’t without their problems …
Before she can disappear too far down that spiral, the timer pings. She pulls the dish out of the oven, the surface of the macaroni sizzling and bubbling. She may have slightly overcooked it, but aside from a few burnt patches the surface is golden, the Parmesan crust enticing.
She sets the dish triumphantly on a mat and instead of bothering with a plate, reaches for a fork.
‘So you can cook,’ she imagines Joe saying with a raised eyebrow, blue eyes glinting. ‘Maybe you set light to that meringue pie on purpose, so I’d offer to cook everything after that. For health and safety reasons.’
‘Hey, you were the one who insisted on always cooking. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how you used to sing and dance around the kitchen as you cooked, as though it was your personal dancefloor, flapping me with a tea towel if I tried to help, telling me you were in the zone.
It was just a bonus that your food always tasted so amazing.
Or maybe food just tastes better when someone else cooks it. ’
She pictures him sniffing the air, eyes closing slightly in appreciation.
‘This smells amazing, though, Mouse.’
Even though, deep down, she knows the voice is just inside her head, she still flinches at the sound of his old nickname for her. No one has called her Mouse in what feels like a very long time.
‘And you didn’t need to get the fire extinguisher out even once,’ she imagines him adding.
‘It does smell pretty great, doesn’t it?’
After giving it a moment to cool down she sinks her fork into the dish, cracking through the crunchy, cheesy topping and scooping up a hearty portion of the creamy pasta, strings of melted Gruyère dripping down as she pulls the fork towards her mouth.
Her eyes close in pleasure as she takes a bite of absolute comfort, the taste bringing back a memory – as suddenly and as vividly as if it weren’t four years ago – and Joe is humming tunelessly, a wooden spoon held in his hand as he stirs the sauce.
That particular night, they are due to go out for the fourth night in a row.
To go axe throwing, of all things, for Joe’s friend Leo’s birthday.
Joe gets his energy from being around other people and doesn’t always understand Tilly’s need for a quiet evening in with a book, where she doesn’t have to speak to anyone.
It has been a long day at work, brainstorming ideas for a memoir that is being pushed through quickly to coincide with a sex scandal that has just broken.
Despite wanting nothing more than to change into her PJs and flop into bed, Tilly doesn’t want to disappoint Joe.
She is just wondering whether he’d mind going on his own when she steps into the living room to find the furniture entirely rearranged.
The coffee table and dining table are pushed back against the wall, the sofa turned around and draped with blankets that fall to the floor, weighted down by cushions.
The lights are dimmed, the fairy lights around the bookshelves glowing cosily.
Joe is in the kitchen but he turns around at the sound of Tilly approaching.
‘What’s all this?’ she asks, struggling to find her voice. ‘Shouldn’t we be leaving soon?’
Something smells delicious, the room filled with the aroma of butter and cheese. She steps behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, taking a breath of the familiar cedarwood of his cologne and the jasmine scent of their shared washing detergent as she snuggles her chin into his shoulder.
‘I thought we could have a cosy evening in tonight instead,’ he replies, placing the wooden spoon on the side of the pan and turning around so he is facing her, his hands on her hips.
He has already changed out of his work suit and is in what Tilly always thinks of as his ‘true’ uniform – shorts and a T-shirt that skims over the solid muscles of his chest, the bare skin of his forearms covered in surprisingly soft blond hair.
He reaches to cup her cheek in his palm, her skin tingling at his touch every bit as much as it did when they first started dating. ‘I know you’ve been working hard on the Kelly Maynard project and this week has been full on with social stuff too. I called Leo and said we both had colds.’
‘You, Joseph Carter, are voluntarily choosing a night in over throwing axes?’
Joe just shrugs. ‘If I really start feeling deprived I can get out the toolbox and have a go throwing a couple of spanners at a chopping board or something. And I’m not choosing a night in over throwing axes. I’m choosing a night in with you, which is better than pretty much anything.’
She nudges her hips against his.
‘Even better than the crazy golf on Tuesday night with your workmates? Where you beat me catastrophically and did a victory dance?’
‘OK, that was pretty great.’ He grins, then tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his expression more serious.
‘I know we do a lot of stuff with my friends, and I’m sorry if it’s been too much lately.
I just like showing you off. I like you knowing the people in my life.
But I know you need your down time too. And it’s nice to have you all to myself. ’
She glances again at the rearranged furniture and piles of cushions. ‘Did you … build me a den?’
‘It’s not just any den! Look!’ He leads her to the makeshift fort and pulls back the corner of the blanket door. Inside is a stack of books, a reading lamp stood in the corner.
‘It’s a reading den. I know you’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately. I hope this might help.’
‘Is that a cheese board?’
‘For my little library mouse. To keep you going until dinner’s ready.’
‘This is amazing. I can’t believe you did this for me, Joe.
Thank you.’ She pulls him towards her by the front of his T-shirt, leaning in for a kiss that starts soft and quickly grows heated, the thought of having him to herself for the night almost as delicious a prospect as whatever is simmering on the hob.
‘Maybe we can find some other uses for the den later,’ he says with a rough laugh, pulling away and planting a final kiss on her forehead. ‘But for now, relax and read. I’m making macaroni cheese, does that sound OK? My mum’s was my ultimate comfort food as a kid. I’ve been craving it recently.’
‘That sounds perfect.’
Tucked away behind her fortress of pillows, she feels shielded from the rest of the world. But it is the perfect type of aloneness because, just behind the blankets, there he is.
Tilly puts down her bowl and fork now.
A few minutes later, warm from the effort of moving the furniture by herself, she crawls into a makeshift den made from pillows and blankets, to eat the rest of her dinner in there.
Sometimes life calls for a pillow fort. And sometimes you just have to build that fort yourself.