“Patience,” she murmurs, reaching out and slowing down his hand, which is starting to whisk the curd a little too frantically. A froth of fine, glossy bubbles is gathering on the surface. “Rule number three: Take your time. Rushed pastry is sloppy pastry and wasted ingredients. You’ve done it right; it just takes time for the eggs to cook enough to thicken the liquid. It always takes much longer than I expect it to,” she adds, with a bright smile. “Ah, there, you see?” She points at the sunny, viscous liquid in the pot, which has, in the space of a moment, gone from a runny juice to a thick spread that holds back for just a moment when she drags a spoon through it. Susan holds the spoon up, marveling at the alchemy one can produce in kitchens. “See how it’s coating the back of this spoon? That’s ready now. Through the sieve and into the bowl it goes, and now you’ve got your lemon curd.”
A grin—the first smile of the day—breaks out across Rab’s face. “I never done it before!” he says, dumping the curd into a fine-mesh sieve set over a bowl. “It always clumped up and I got lemon scrambled eggs.”
“Yeah, that happens sometimes,” she reassures him. “Low and slow is what you want. You try and rush something like curd or custard, and the eggs cook too quickly instead of thickening up.” He nods intently as he uses a spatula to shove the last of the curd through the sieve. “Right,” says Susan. “While that cools, let’s bake off those tart shells.”
Twenty-five minutes later, with the baked tart crusts cooling on a rack, Chris calls out, “Lunchtime!,” holding up a pair of bowls filled with pasta.
“You’re a legend,” Susan says, realizing—belatedly—that she’s starving. She and Rab slide onto stools at the chef’s table, and Chris sets the bowls in front of them.
Spaghetti aglio, olio, e peperoncino: spaghetti with olive oil, loads of garlic, and chili flakes. She stares down into the bowl, at the tangle of slick spaghetti and the bright red and orange pops of fresh, minutely chopped chili peppers. Breathes it in, that sharp, grassy-sweet smell of the garlic and the rich, fruity, green scent of the olive oil, and just like that she’s back in his tiny kitchen in London, sitting on the countertop, giggling as he twirls the pasta around the fork and feeds it to her.
“You’re not shy with the garlic,” she gasped the first time she tried it. “Or the chili!”
“Too much?” he asked, withdrawing the next forkful.
“No, I love it!” She grabbed the hand holding the fork and directed it toward her mouth, inelegantly slurping up the pasta. It was addictive, that. Rich and comforting.
He grinned and kissed her, licking a tiny drip of oil off her bottom lip. “It’s a sort of insurance policy,” he whispered. “No one else’ll want to kiss you after all that garlic.”
She laughed, swatted him playfully, and finished the whole bowl.
He made it for her almost every time she stayed the night. It was their dish.
Was, she reminds herself sternly, swallowing hard, now. But she looks up at him, through her lashes, wondering if he’s done this deliberately. Is this just his go-to dish? Something fast and easy to prepare, which he can throw together in a hurry, without thinking? Or did he make it because he knows the sort of memories it’ll evoke? And if that’s the case, why? Does he want to taunt her with everything she’s stupidly given up, or remind her of how good it was, for a time? Or is it … something else entirely?
He’s looking at her expectantly, facing her across the countertop. “Not hungry?” he asks, once her hesitation has become painfully obvious.
“No, just …” Unsure what to say, she dips her fork into the pasta, swirls it around, and takes a bite. Just as good as ever. He’s added something—lemon zest, and perhaps some chopped anchovies, but it’s still mostly about the heat of the garlic and the chilies, the decadent richness of the olive oil, and the silky handmade pasta.
“Almost exactly as I remember it,” she says with a smile.
He cocks his head just a little. “Exactly?”
“Almost. You’ve made some changes,” she allows, her smile widening. And then, before she can stop it, “Guess you’ve had some feedback over the years.”
“No. Never made it for anyone else.”
“Oh,” she whispers.
The mist begins to rise again, until he clears his throat and turns his attention to some lamb chops he’s trimming. “Most of the women I’ve known don’t like that much garlic.”
“No? But they were all right with the heat, I guess?”
He glances back up and smirks, then turns away and begins frying the chops in a pan.
Rab has inhaled his pasta, oblivious to their conversation. Now finished, he slides off the stool. “The missus is here, Chris,” he says, jerking his head toward the front door.
Susan’s heart seems to cram itself into her throat. The missus? She cranes her neck toward the glass door, confused. Surely she would have heard if Chris was married? Is this some secret wife he’s had stashed away? Will there be some blonde glamazon at the door, waiting for her garlic-free lunch?
No, most assuredly not. Instead, there’s a tiny, elderly lady with hair an improbable yellow-blonde color, pulled back into a bun. She’s dressed in a purple cardigan with pearl buttons, black trousers, and sensible flat shoes. She’s probably all of about five feet tall and roughly rectangular in shape. She has one hand cupped against the glass as she peers into the dark restaurant, looking for signs of life, no doubt.
Chris’s head whips round. “Ah, she’s early! Go let her in, Rab,” he says, leaving the lamb chop to cook while he delicately arranges some fondant potatoes, glossy with butter, on a plate alongside roasted carrots and a mound of mushy peas.
Rab unlocks the door and lets the woman in.
“Thankee lad, that’s a good lad,” the lady says, reaching up to pat Rab on the arm. “How’s yer ma?”
“She’s awright,” he answers, locking the door behind her.
“Comin’ along, then? She must be gettin’ big ’n ’ all, now!”
“She is. Gran reckons it’ll be another girl.”
“Just so long’s it’s healthy.”
Chris puts the chops on the plate with the veg and skitters out of the kitchen with it, bending to greet the woman with a one-armed hug. “Ya’ve caught me out, Missus Mollie!” he apologizes.
“Aye, well, I can see ye’ve got guests; a bit o’ distraction’s to be expected,” Mollie replies, with a twinkling glance Susan’s way.
“She’s teachin’ me tae bake,” Rab announces.
Susan can’t help but notice that his and Chris’s accents are thickening considerably in this woman’s presence, a phenomenon she’s witnessed between staff members in her own kitchen. She once came across Gloria talking to the fish supplier in slang and accents so impenetrable she’d actually thought for a moment they were speaking Gaelic.
“Good on you, dearie,” Mollie says in both Susan’s and Rab’s general direction.
“Lunch?” Chris brandishes the plate.
“Oh, aye, I think I will.”
Chris leads Mollie to a seat near a window, about as far from the kitchen as the pair can get. He places the plate in front of one seat, then pulls out the chair for her and unfurls the linen napkin, as if he’s a waiter and she the most highly prized guest.