Extract From Notebook 4
I enjoyed my weekend, Nell. It was fun following you around the market on Saturday.
I always learn so much about you when you shop.
Depending on what you buy, I know what you’ll be doing that evening.
If you stop at the local supermarket, it means you’re not doing anything special, just cleaning your house or washing your hair.
If you stop at the butcher’s for steak, or the wine shop, it means that someone is coming for dinner.
This morning you bought an astonishing amount of fruit; apples, pears, oranges, grapes—green and black—kiwis, and some blackberries.
I was glad you didn’t buy strawberries, it’s far better to wait until summer, when they’re full of flavor.
Although, if you knew that you wouldn’t be alive next summer, you might have bought some.
You packed the fruit into two large canvas bags which you slung over your shoulders.
Your next stop was the wine shop and I wondered how you were going to manage to carry that as well.
You bought a bottle of white and two bottles of red—South African, a Pinotage, I think—and put it into another bag.
Then you moved on to the bakery, where you bought a large loaf of crusty bread.
Your last stop was the delicatessen. Although I hovered at the window, I couldn’t see what you bought as there were too many people inside.
But in view of the crusty bread, I imagine it was a paté of some kind. And maybe some olives. You like olives.
You carried everything home, a bag on each shoulder and one in each hand.
You were so laden I felt I should offer to carry the wine for you.
Instead, I walked behind and watched your dark hair swing back and forth across your shoulders, thinking about all the fruit you had bought, wondering if you were going to make fruit salad or a pear and apple crumble, a particular favorite of mine.
Not that it matters. We’ll hardly be exchanging our favorite recipes when I kill you.