Page 96 of Rookie Recovery

“Where are we going?” I asked, climbing into the driver’s side of his enormous pickup. Even now, after four years in this country, I still went to sit on the wrong side. I scooted over to the passenger seat.

“Not saying. It’s a surprise.” Jamie threw on his signature aviators, letting me know that if I thought there was no possible way for him to be any hotter, he would find that way, and he would prove me wrong.

“Give me a clue.”

“Well,” he said, turning the ignition and pulling out of his building’s underground carpark. “It’s in the next town, about an hour and thirty drive. Aaand”—he drew out the word—“you have an unlimited spending budget.”

My heart flip-flopped in my chest. “Oh, my God, Kitty, are you taking me to the Le Creuset factory to buy some new pans?”

“Uh, pretty sure that’s in France. And you can buy those dishes in That Kitchen Place on Main.” He beamed at me and I melted onto the leather upholstery. “Anyway, talking about pans, what British taste sensation are you cooking for me tonight?”

I laughed. Nobody, absolutely nobody, would describe British food as a taste sensation. I loved it all the same. And sharing it with Jamie had become one of those things that helped me feel a little less homesick. A little less isolated. And a lot more like I belonged.

“We’ve had all the roasts. Well, the main ones anyway. I could do cottage pie, or shepherd’s pie? It’s like … one’s mince lamb and the other’s beef, and they come with potatoes and gravy—”

“Which one’s which?” he asked.

I frowned at him. I ought to know that. “You’re a doctor. You should be able to work it out.”

He paused. “So, lamb is shepherds because … sheep?”

That sounded about right. “Yes, very well deduced. You are correct.”

“Cottage pies are called cottage pies because … cows live in cottages?” His laughter rumbled through the seats.

“Either that, or they hang around public bathrooms looking for hookups,” I said. Jamie frowned. “Ooh, I could make you toad in the hole?”

This time, Jamie lifted his glasses to frown at me. “Toad in the hole? Why do all your foods have such weird names? What is it? Not actual frogs?”

“You’ll have to wait and see. It’s a surprise,” I teased. “On a completely unrelated note, you wouldn’t happen to know any local supermarkets that sell live toads and holes, would you?”

After another hour on the road with no bathroom stops, because I was a big boy and remembered to go before I left, Jamie pulled up into a nondescript industrial area.

“I’m going to blindfold you now. Is that okay?” he said, sucking his lower lip into his mouth with obvious worry.

“Does the pope wank in the woods? Of course it’s okay to blindfold me. Have you got the cuffs, too?”

“I just want there to be this big reveal. I want it to be special for you.”

While I was busy trying to stop my heart from popping from sheer happiness, I let Jamie pull his ‘blindfold’ on me. It was, in fact, a super-soft, bamboo-cotton, blackout sleep mask that smelled of him and his laundry, and for unknown reasons, made me feel like weeping a little. Then he started the truck’s engine, drove another two or three blocks going by my estimation, and cut it off again.

The car door opened, the smell of the Maine autumn rushed in, and firm hands and gentle words guided me out of the truck and across the asphalt. I heard an automatic door slide open, a distant radio din … was it BBC Radio 2? The light around the edges of the mask mutated from early October afternoon sun, to a darker, softer internal glow. It smelt, at once, like every store in America—over air-conditioned and synthetic lemon scented cleaning products—but also familiar, and homely and …

“Can I take it off yet?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Jamie, from directly in front of me.

I pulled the blindfold over my head and the first thing I saw was Jamie’s bright, happy, expectant face, staring straight into mine. Then I let my eyes travel across the rest of the place. They instantly clouded with tears. I bit back a sob and wiped my cheeks with my hand.

“Kitty, it’s …”

But I didn’t quite have the words to describe all the emotions coursing through me, because everywhere I looked was row upon row of British branded products. PG tips, and Ribena, and Jaffa Cakes, and Marmite, and Bassetts Liquorice Allsorts, and Hobnobs. I fucking loved Hobnobs. And M&S Percy Pigs. Like, how? And Tunnock’s! And Lilt! And Monster Munch! And Twiglets!

There was a whole aisle for tea, and one just for biscuits, and one for crisps, and three entire aisles for chocolate and sweeties, and a huge refrigerator where I suspected I’d find back-bacon and black pudding, amongst other things.

It wasn’t only food stuffs either, but mugs and T-shirts and little figurines of beefeaters and London buses and other touristy trinkets.

And Jamie was in front of me, holding my hand, cool as a cucumber, like he hadn’t just made all my dreams come true.

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