Chapter 12


    Richard handles the veg knife like a kid with his first wax crayon, not so much peeling the potatoes as


    hacking chunks from the outside.


    Trying not to be obvious about it, I watch the performance for a few seconds…


    He’s going to slice his thumb if he keeps that up…


    …. then taking a peeler from the cutlery drawer, I pluck the knife from his hand and rece it with the


    peeler. “Try that instead.”


    He fumbles at the potato, drawing off a sliver of peel. “Ah, yes. That’s much easier.”


    Still, I keep half an eye on what he’s doing. “Not that one,” I say, pointing to the potato in his hand. “It’s


    green.”


    “Oh…” Richard stares at the tuber. “There were a few green ones at the top of the sack. Is something


    wrong with them?”


    “You can poison yourself with green potatoes. That’s why you store them in the dark. So they don’t go


    green.”


    “Seriously?” Richard stares at the spud in his hand as though he’s never seen one before. “Poisonous?


    Potatoes? But I eat them every day.”


    “Yes, seriously. They’re from the same family of nts as Bedonna, the Snaceae. The green parts


    contain a toxin called snine.”


    Richard regards the tuber in his hand with a sceptical eye.


    “Bedonna? Prettydy?”


    “Medieval women used it cosmetically to erge their pupils. The alkaloids that achieve the effect are


    some of the more effective toxins out there.”


    Still, he looks dubious.


    “Take a look at a potato nt when it’s in flower,” I say. “You’ll see the resemnce then. In any case,


    don’t add green potatoes to the meal.”


    “How dangerous are they?”


    “In truth, for you and me, not very. You’d have to eat a lot of green potatoes to do yourself any real


    damage. But…” I raise a finger. “Snine can be dangerous in pregnant women. It’s been linked to


    spina bifida.”


    Richard’s mouth drops open, then striding across the kitchen, he toes open the bin and drops the green


    potato inside.


    *****


    Michael


    In the kitchen, there’s no sign of James, but Scruffy and Bear sit in one corner, snouts lifted, noses


    twitching in the direction of the hob.


    A pan tters its lid against the steam, and I lift the lid to some dark red sauce simmering at the


    bottom,rge bubbles glopping and redissolving into the surface. Chunks of sausage and something-


    or-other-else surface then vanish, nudging aside some kind of beans. The smell of fresh bread


    competes with garlic. It smells divine.


    Jameses in, carrying a bottle. “Ah, Michael. Good timing. You want to open the wine? Set it to


    warm… I’ll serve the meal in the dining room, but we can sit in here while the food’s cooking.” He offers


    me the bottle, then hovers, sucking at his teeth. “That’s Rioja, to go with the casserole. But perhaps a


    bottle of cava too? What do you think?”


    “Good idea. This is a celebration after all, isn’t it.”


    He beams. “Course it is. Back in a mo.” And he vanishes out again.


    Scruffy stares fixedly at me, then transfers his gaze to the hob. Bear isn’t so subtle. He simply stares at


    the pan, long strands of drool swing from his chops.


    I peek a look out of the door and then with the thirty seconds I reckon I have before James’ return, I


    fork a sausage, bright orange, scented of chilli, out of the pot.


    Blowing on it, I break it in two and toss half to each of the dogs. The two halves vanish mid-air with


    twinned Chops! leaving on a scent of fragrant steam.


    Why just them?


    Quickly, I fish out another sausage. Just as I’m blowing on it, the door swings, James strolls in, a bottle


    of cava in each hand, and I jam the whole thing into my mouth…


    Fuck!


    … frantically blowing air over my scalded tongue.


    James doesn’t look at me as he puts the bottles into the fridge. Then, stacking tes and cutlery onto a


    tray, “Perhaps when you’ve finished donating our dinner to Scruffy and Dogzi there, you would like to


    lay the table?”


    “Um… yes… sure.” I swallow down against my blistered mouth. Fishing a corkscrew from the drawer, I


    wrestle the cork out of the Rioja bottle... “Nice choice by the way.” … then set it on the hearth to bathe


    in the heat of the glowing ashes.


    James stirs his pot, pping a palm as his spectacles mist over. “Choice? Yes, I thought Georgie would


    appreciate a Spanish meal. We visited my boyhood home several times when she was small, but I’m


    not sure she’s been there since.”


    “Yes, of course. But what I meant was, your email to Charlotte.”


    “Email?” James swipes his lenses clear with a bit of kitchen roll. “What email? Damn!” and he makes a


    dash for the oven where smoke is spilling from the back.


    N?velDrama.Org content rights.


    mming the door down he reaches in, then curses, standing back to suck his fingers before running


    them under the cold tap.


    Snatching up a towel I pull out a tray of steaming and slightly singed baguettes. “They’re fine. They’ve


    only just caught.” Butter pools onto the tray. “Is there anything on the menu for this evening that’s not


    cooked with garlic?”


    “Yes, Crema Catna.” James inspects the baguettes with a critical eye. “They’ll do. I’ll slice them up


    and give anything that’s too ck to the dogs.


    “What’s Crema Catna?”


    “Crème br?lée to you. What were you saying about an email?”


    “That corset she’s bought… Great choice.”


    “Oh, yes…” He scrapes charcoal from crust… “Yes, she did send me an email… Something-or-other


    she’d bought…”


    “But she told me…”


    Richard pops his head around the door, a phone pressed to his ear. “James, I have Olivia on from


    Purchasing. She''s asking about the paperwork for the permissions for the trench drains on D site. Is


    she good to ce the orders?”


    James holds out his hand for the phone, snapping his fingers. “Olivia? I spoke with Josh at the city hall


    last week. He gave me the verbal permissions at the time. The paperwork should havee through


    by now... No? Hold on a mo. Let me check my messages.” Then a hand over the mouthpiece… “Back


    in five. Can you keep an eye on the casserole, please. Make sure that doesn’t burn too.”


    “Sure.” James leaves the room, still talking into the phone. Richard follows. Wooden spoon in hand, I


    lift the lid and give the stew a stir.


    From off-the-field, a groan, then a whimper.


    As I look their way, Scruffy shifts his bottom, wagging his stumpy tail. Bear, towering over his, pricks his


    ears and gives me another groan.


    Leaning back to check no-one’s by the door, I spoon out another sausage.


    *****