Boris was-apparently-a nondescript, brownish dog of the Heinz variety who was currently lying under a high chair. A toddler-a little girl about a year old-was waving a rusk above the dog’s head, and the dog had immolated himself, upside down, all legs in the air, waiting with eternal patience for the rusk to drop.
The dog hadn’t so much as looked up as Hamish had entered. Every fibre of his being was tuned to the rusk. Some guard dog!
‘What will Boris do if I turn nasty?’ he asked, and Susie grinned.
‘He’ll think of something. He’s a very resourceful dog.’ She produced a frying-pan and then looked doubtfully at the steaks.
The steaks lay in all their glory on a plate by the stove. They looked magnificent.
‘How are you planning on cooking them?’ Hamish asked.
‘I’ll fry them,’ she said with a vague attempt at confidence. ‘That doesn’t sound too difficult.’
‘You’re cooking chips?’
‘They’re oven fries,’ she confessed. ‘Kirsty brought them as well. You put them in the oven, you set the timer for twenty minutes and you take them out again. Even I can’t mess that up. Probably.’
She was making a huge effort to be cheerful, he thought, and he’d try to join her.
‘Tell me you’re not responsible for Queen Victoria,’ he said and she grinned. She had a great grin, he thought. He was reminded suddenly of Jodie.
Jodie would love Loganaich Castle.
‘Aunty Deirdre is responsible for Queen Vic,’ Susie told him. ‘Angus gave her carte blanche to decorate the castle as she saw fit-but he also gave her a very small budget. I think she did great.’
‘She surely did,’ he said faintly. Susie brushed past him on her way to the fridge and he started feeling even more disoriented. She’d showered since he’d last seen her. Or since he’d last smelt her. She was wearing clean jeans and a soft pink T-shirt, tucked in. Her hair was still in a ponytail but it was almost controlled now. And she smelt like citrus. Fresh and lemony. Nice.
‘Mama,’ the little girl said. ‘Mama.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Susie said, and that was enough to slam reality home. His mother always called him ‘sweetheart’ when she was trying to manipulate him.
He stopped thinking how nice she smelt, and thought instead how great it was that he had his Marcia and his whole life controlled, and he’d never have to cope with this sort of messy tearful existence.
Susie was carrying a tub of dripping to the stove. She scooped out a tablespoon or more into the frying pan. Then looked at it. Dubiously.
‘What are you doing?’ he said faintly, and she raised her eyebrows as if he’d said something stupid.
‘Cooking.’
‘Deep frying or shallow frying?’
‘Is there a difference?
He sighed. ‘Yes. But with that amount of fat in the pan you’re doing neither. The chips are already in the oven?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have they been in?’
‘Five minutes.’
‘How do you have your steak?’
‘Any way I can get it.’
‘Then you’ll have it medium rare as well, and I have five minutes before I start cooking. Can you find me an apron?’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No.’
‘Gee,’ she said, stunned, but willing not only to hand over cooking but to be admiring while she was at it. ‘You really can cook?’
‘I can cook steak.’
‘Would you like to make a salad, too?’ Her voice said she knew she was pushing her luck. It was almost teasing. ‘I can mix up chopped lettuce and tomato but anything else is problematic.’
He sighed. ‘I can make a salad. But I do need an apron.’
‘An apron,’ she said, as if she’d never heard of such a thing.
‘Something to cover-’
‘I know what an apron is,’ she said with dignity. She looked down at her faded, work-worn clothes. ‘I just never use one. But I’ll bet that Deirdre was an apron lady.’
She turned and searched a capacious drawer by the door. ‘Hey!’ She held up something that took Hamish’s breath away. Bright pink with purple roses, bib and skirt, the garment had flounces all round the edge and a huge pink ribbon at the back. ‘Good old Deirdre,’ Susie said in satisfaction. ‘I knew she wouldn’t let me down. You’ll look great in this.’
Yeah, right. He could just see the next front page of the
He eyed Susie in suspicion. Mobile phones could also be cameras. If you wore an apron like this, you trusted no one.
‘You have a washing machine?’ he demanded, trying not to sound desperate.
‘I have a washing machine.’
‘Then I’ll make do without the apron.’ Some things were no-brainers. ‘Just this once.’
‘That’s big of you,’ she told him, laying the frills aside with regret. ‘Why are you tipping out the dripping?’
‘That was half an inch of fat, and if you thing I’m spoiling my first Australian steak, you have another think coming.’
‘Ooh,’ she said in mock admiration. ‘Bossy as well as a good cook.’
‘Watch your fries,’ he told her, disconcerted.
‘Hey, we’ll get on fine,’ she said happily. ‘You can cook. I can’t. A marriage made in heaven.’
Then she realised what she’d said and she blushed. The blush started from her eyes and moved out, and he thought, She’s lovely. She’s just gorgeous.
Rose chortled from her high chair and Hamish allowed himself to be distracted. He needed to be distracted. Whew!
Rose was a chubby toddler, dressed only in a nappy and a grubby T-shirt reading MY AUNTY WENT TO NEW YORK AND ALL SHE BROUGHT ME WAS ONE LOUSY T-SHIRT. She had flame-coloured curls, just like her mother, and huge green eyes that gazed at him as if expecting to be vastly entertained.
It was very disconcerting to be gazed at like that. He’d never been gazed at like that.
In truth, Hamish had never met a toddler.
This situation was getting out of hand.
Rosie chortled again, raised her hand and lifted her rusk. It fell. On the floor beneath, on his back, Boris did a fast, curving slide so his mouth was right where it needed to be. The rusk disappeared without a trace.
Rose and her mother-and Hamish-all gazed at Boris. Boris gazed back up at Rose in adoration, and then opened his mouth wide again.
Hamish laughed.
Susie stared.
‘What?’ he said, disconcerted, and she flushed and turned away.
‘N-nothing.’
‘Something.’
‘It’s just… For a minute…’ She took a deep breath. ‘The Douglas men,’ she said. ‘Angus and Rory had the same laugh. Low and rumbly and nice. And it’s here again. In this kitchen. Where it belongs.’
For a moment neither of them spoke. Did she know what power she had to move him? he wondered.
He’d never known his father. Oh, he had a vague memory of someone being there, a grey, silent, ghost-like presence, but that was all. He’d seen faded photographs of a man who didn’t look like him. He had no connection at all.
