‘But you have Cathy.’
‘In England I have Cathy to feed me, which is a good job as my wife doesn’t.’ He’s serious now. ‘In Spain I have my wife. And she’s going to make me something to eat. You did a good job with the chicken.’
He’s right, I did, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it, although I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy watching him eat it. I was looking after him for a change, and with that thought I’m oddly keen to prepare a meal for him. ‘Okay,’ I stand up. ‘I’ll fulfil my obligation.’
‘Oh good. It’s about time you did what you’re told.’ he says candidly, no smile, no humour. ‘Get to it, then.’
‘Don’t push it, Ward.’ I warn, leaving him at the table and making my way to the fridge. It doesn’t take me long to decide what to cook. I grab some peppers, chorizo sausage, rice and mushrooms, along with some lamb cutlets, and transport them to the worktop before locating a chopping board and a knife.
I set to work, halving the peppers and deseeding them, and then chopping the mushrooms and sausage finely and frying it all off. I boil the rice, chop some fresh bread and pan fry the lamb. And the whole time he sits and watches me busy myself, with no offer of help and no attempt to make conversation. He just quietly observes me fulfilling my obligation to feed him.
I’m halfway through stuffing the peppers, when he appears in front of me, leaning across the counter from the other side. ‘You’re doing a great job, lady.’
I pick my knife up and wield it at him. ‘Don’t patronise me.’ I’m shocked when his relaxed face flashes black and the knife is snatched from my hand.
‘Don’t f**king wave knives around, Ava!’
‘Sorry!’ I blurt, glancing at it in his hand and quickly appreciating my stupidity. It’s a nasty looking blade, and I’m brandishing it about like it’s a rhythmic gymnast’s ribbon. ‘I’m sorry.’ I repeat.
He places it down carefully and seems to gather himself. ‘It’s okay. Forget about it.’
I gesture towards the table for anything to do, other than apologise again. He doesn’t seem happy at all. ‘Do you want to lay the table?’
‘Sure,’ he says quietly, maybe thinking that he’s gone a bit over-the-top, I don’t know, but his withdrawn mood and my scorned state have formed a clear tension.
Jesse leaves me and quietly lays the table for two, while I finish preparing dinner.
‘Here,’ I slide his plate in front of him, but before I can pull my hand away, he grabs it and looks up at me with sorry eyes.
‘I over-reacted.’
I feel better already. ‘No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t be so careless.’
He smiles. ‘Sit,’ He pulls my chair out, but as soon as I’ve lowered myself, he stands. ‘We’re missing something.’ he informs me, striding off and leaving me wondering where he’s gone. It’s not long before he’s back, holding a candle in one hand and a remote control in the other. He finds some matches, lights the candle and places it in the centre of the table, then pushes a few buttons on the remote control, filling the villa with a distinct male voice. I recognise it immediately.
‘Mick Hucknell?’ I ask, a little surprised.
‘Or God. Either will do.’ He smiles as he takes his seat.
‘You’re willing to share your title?’ I ask, picking up my blunt knife and safe fork.
‘He’s worthy,’ he replies casually. ‘This looks good. Eat up.’
I acknowledge his nod at my plate with a small smile and carve my way through a piece of lamb, resisting the urge to brandish my knife again when Jesse leans over, looking at my meat. He’s checking how well it’s cooked. I help him out, turning my plate so he can see the centre of my lamb cutlet. He should be happy. I like my steak medium, but I love my lamb cooked thoroughly.
I stab a piece with my fork and bring it up to my lips. ‘May I?’ I ask, completely serious and with no hint of a smile on my face, which is good because I’m matching Jesse.
‘You may.’ he says, slicing through his own lamb and taking his first bite. He chews, nods and swallows. ‘You can cook, wife.’
‘I’ve never said I can’t. I just don’t like doing it.’
‘Not even for me?’
I flick him a look to gage his expression, and it’s as I feared. There is no humour and he’s not pouting at me playfully. I know where this is heading and whilst I do actually like cooking for him, I wouldn’t want to do it every day. ‘I don’t mind.’ I answer coolly.
‘I like you cooking for me,’ he muses. ‘It’s kind of normal.’
I pause and place my knife down. ‘Normal?’