Page 49 of You Are Mine

Maybe, she thought, he was putting notes in cars. And putting them in bags last night.

‘You just randomly came to the high school?’ she said, her tone high and strained.

‘I’ve not been since I came back to Barrow. I thought I’d come and see my alma mater.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Everything OK, Mary?’

What the fuck was she doing, interrogating him? He had nothing to do with this. Him showing up at that moment was just a coincidence.

But she found that all of a sudden she did not much like coincidences.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Bit of a sleepless night. I have to go. Good to see you, Carl.’

A Watched Pot Does Boil

Ryan was in the kitchen; she didn’t need to get past the front door to know that. The house was permeated by an aromatic, heady odour, filled with spice and sweetness, yet balanced and delicate. He had always cooked and cooked well, but in the last few years he had really leaned in and revealed a genuine talent. It had started during the pandemic when there was little else to do; they had built their days around an evening meal together, and Ryan had made curries, soups, smoked meats, sushi, home-made pasta and crusty, mouthwatering sourdough bread.

Since then he had got better and better; he seemed to know which flavours to put together, and how to balance them out. Mary could cook quite well herself, but she followed recipes, eventually, sometimes, producing something that looked like what she expected. Ryan seemed to understand what he was doing in a totally different way. Sometimes when she was making something he would glance at it, and sniff the air, then tell her to add some paprika or cumin or sugar, or lower the heat and cook it slowly. Chicken thighs with the bone-in are better cooked low and slow. Let all the flavour come out.

He was at the stove, sprinkling something into a pot. Sally was next to him, holding a box of pasta in her hand.

‘So you’re going to make pasta,’ Ryan said to her. ‘When you could have this tagine with my famous spiced couscous?’

‘I just feel like it.’

He laughed. ‘Have it your way. But you’ll change your mind when you see the finished article.’ He gave her a playful shove. ‘And get out of the way. This is my kitchen.’

‘I’m waiting for my water to boil.’

‘It won’t if you stand there.’

‘What do you mean?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you know the saying? A watched pot never boils. So stop staring at it.’

‘It does.’

‘Does what?’

‘Boil,’ Sally said. ‘A watched pot does boil. It boils in exactly the same way as an unwatched pot.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. If it did why would there be a saying?’

‘It’s just physics. The laws of physics don’t change because someone’s looking at something.’

‘Really? Then I guess I’ve been wrong all these years. I could have been watching boiling pots! What a waste.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic.’

‘I think the reason the saying exists isn’t to make a scientific point,’ he said. ‘It’s to get you not to waste time staring at pots when you could be doing something more useful.’ He turned and pointed to the mud room. ‘Like tidying up your stuff.’

He was so good with her, so natural.

Mary stepped into the kitchen. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Smells great.’

‘Sally’s having plain pasta.’ He shrugged, as if to say Wonders never cease. ‘After she tidies the mud room.’

Sally rolled her eyes. ‘Put my pasta in when the water boils,’ she said. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

‘To tidy up?’ Ryan said.