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 replace 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 plants as Belladonna, the Solanaceae. The green parts
contain a toxin called solanine.”

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

“Belladonna? Pretty lady?”



“Medieval women used it cosmetically to enlarge 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 plant when it’s in flower,” I say. “You’ll see the resemblance 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. “Solanine 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 clatters its lid against the steam, and I lift the lid to some dark red sauce simmering at the
bottom, large 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.



James comes 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 plates and cutlery onto a
tray, “Perhaps when you’ve finished donating our dinner to Scruffy and Dogzilla 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, flapping 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.

Slamming 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 Catalana.” James inspects the baguettes with a critical eye. “They’ll do. I’ll slice them up
and give anything that’s too black to the dogs.

“What’s Crema Catalana?”

“Crème brûlée 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 place 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 have come 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.

*****


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