He didn't cook dinner; she did.
Harold had gotten to the point where he considered it impossible to get even a half-decent meal out of cans, but Nadine managed nicely. Suddenly aware of and appalled by what he had spent his day doing, he asked if she could entertain herself for twenty minutes (and she was probably here on some very mundane piece of business, he cautioned himself desperately) while he cleaned up.
When he came back - having splurged and taken a two-bucket shower - she was bustling around in the kitchen. Water was boiling merrily away on the bottled gas stove. As he came into the kitchen, she dumped half a cup of elbow macaroni into the pot. Something mellow was being simmered in a skillet on the other burner; he got a combined aroma of French onion soup, red wine, and mushrooms. His stomach rumbled. The day's grisly work had suddenly lost its power over his appetite.
"It smells fantastic," he said. "You shouldn't have, but I'm not complaining."
"It's a Stroganoff casserole," she said, turning to smile at him. "Strictly makeshift, I'm afraid. Tinned beef is not one of the recommended ingredients when they make this dish in the world's finer restaurants, but - " She shrugged to indicate the limitations they all labored under.
"It's nice of you to do it."
"Not at all." She gave him that speculative glance again, and turned halfway toward him, the silky material of her blouse pulled taut against her left breast, molding it sweetly. He felt a hot flush creeping up his neck and willed himself not to have an erection. He suspected that his willpower would not be equal to the task. He suspected, in fact, that it wouldn't even be close. "We're going to be very good friends," she said.
"We... are?"
"Yes." She turned back to the stove, seeming to close the subject, leaving Harold in a thicket of possibilities.
After that, their conversation consisted strictly of trivialities... Free Zone gossip, for the most part. Of this there was already a rich supply. Once, halfway through the meal, he tried again to ask her what had brought her here, but she only smiled and shook her head. "I like to see a man eat."
For a moment Harold thought she must be talking about someone else and then realized she meant him. And he did eat; he had three helpings of the Stroganoff, and the tinned meat did not detract from the recipe at all, in Harold's opinion. The conversation seemed to make itself, leaving him free to quiet the lion in his belly, and to look at her.
Striking, had he thought? She was beautiful. Ripe and beautiful. Her hair, which she had pulled back into a casual horsetail in order to cook more easily, was twisted with strands of pure white, not gray as he had first thought. Her eyes were grave and dark, and when they focused unhesitatingly on his, Harold felt giddy. Her voice was low and confidential. The sound of it began to affect him in a way that was both uncomfortable and almost excruciatingly pleasant.
When the meal was done, he started to get up but she beat him to it. "Coffee or tea?"
"Really, I could - "
"You could, but you won't. Coffee, tea... or me?" She smiled then, not the smile of someone who has offered a remark of minor risquéness ("risky talk," as his dear old mum would have said, her mouth set in a disapproving line), but a slow little smile, rich as the dollop of cream on top of a gooey dessert. And again the speculative look.
His brain spinning, Harold replied with insane casualness: "The latter two," and was only able to contain a burst of adolescent giggles with a mighty effort.
"Well, we'll start with tea for two," Nadine said, and went to the stove.
Hot blood crashed into Harold's head the instant her back was turned, undoubtedly turning his face as purple as a turnip. Some Mr. Suave you are! he hectored himself feverishly. You misinterpreted a perfectly innocent remark like the goddam fool that you are, and you've probably spoiled a very nice occasion. And it serves you right! It serves you damned well right!
By the time she brought the steaming mugs of tea back to the table, Harold's violent flush had faded somewhat and he had himself under control. Giddiness had turned just as abruptly to despair, and he felt (not for the first time) that his body and mind had been stuffed willy-nilly into the car of a huge roller-coaster made of pure emotion. He hated it but was powerless to get off the ride.
If she was interested in me at all, he thought (and God knows why she would be, he added gloomily to himself), I have undoubtedly put paid to that by exposing the full range of my sophomoric wit.
Well, he had done things like that before, and he supposed he could live with the knowledge that he had done it again.