Page 49 of Love in Tune

‘Roast pork.’

Honey huffed. ‘Not a chance. What else can we do?’

She opened the huge fridge and stood contemplating its contents. Ham. Lots of ham. Vegetables. Cheese. Boxes of mince beef. Steve came and stood beside her.

‘I bet chef was planning cottage pie. He’s defrosted mince beef.’

‘Do you know how to make it?’ Honey turned to him with hopeful eyes.

Skinny Steve pulled a look of intense concentration that really wasn’t very attractive at all. ‘There’s definitely mash in it,’ he said eventually. Honey sighed. She knew that much already. Opening the vegetable drawers, she saw onions. And garlic.

Onions, garlic, and minced beef. Maybe … just maybe …

‘Have you ever made bolognese, Steve?’ she asked.

He paused, then nodded. ‘There’s definitely minced beef in it.’

Honey wiped her clammy palms on her apron and reached for the beef, hoping like hell that she could remember what she was doing. She’d spotted tins of tomatoes and bags of pasta earlier in the store cupboards. With the right wind behind her, there was an outside chance that she might just be able to pull this off.

It was after eight in the evening by the time Honey pushed open the door at home and let herself into the lamplit lobby. She was exhausted, but still buzzing with elation that the residents had, on the whole, declared her spaghetti bolognese a roaring success. It might not have included pancetta and other fancy ingredients, but the basic taste had been there and this time she’d skipped the red wine and made sure to season it properly. The results had made for a more than passable dinner, enjoyable even, if the fact that Billy had eaten two and a half platefuls was anything to go by. Dessert had been even less designer; strawberry magic whip from the corner shop, but even that had seemed to charm the residents with its nod towards wartime austerity treats.

She glanced longingly towards Hal’s door. He’d as good as fed those residents today.

‘Hal?’ she said, her voice small in the cool lobby. ‘Hal?’

He didn’t reply, as ever, but she told him none the less. She told him of the fracas on the pavement yesterday, and of Patrick’s shock resignation from the kitchen. She told him of Skinny Steve’s burnt toast breakfast, and how she’d felt obliged to step into the breach. Even in the silence, Honey could practically hear Hal thinking that it was yet further evidence that her girl guide complex was alive and kicking. She told him of her forage through the cupboards for lunch, and then she told of her bolognese success, almost laughing with relief when she added on the bit about the magic whip.

‘God knows what I’ll do tomorrow though. Skinny Steve is taking care of breakfast while I open up, but he’s relying on me going over there again by ten o’clock. I don’t think they’ll be as pleased with bolognese two days on the run, will they? I definitely saw chicken breasts. What the hell can I make with a huge bag of chicken breasts, Hal?’

He didn’t answer. Honey had known he wouldn’t. She wasn’t even sure whether she’d told him about her day to impress him or annoy him. After a few minutes she trudged across the hallway to her own flat and microwaved herself a ready meal for one before she fell into bed, all in.

‘Bake them.’

Honey stopped dead in the lobby the next morning, halted by the sound of Hal’s voice through his door.

‘Hal?’

‘The chicken breasts. Lay them on trays over some tinned tomatoes and garlic, add herbs if you have any. Remember to season them. Cover with foil and cook low and slow during the afternoon. Did you get all that?’

Honey could feel her heart beating too fast.

‘Lay the chicken over tinned tomatoes. Add garlic and seasoning. Cover and cook,’ she repeated slowly.

‘Serve with boiled rice and vegetables,’ he said.

Honey walked towards his door and laid a hand on the cool wood. She turned her ear and concentrated; could just about hear him breathing.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

‘Just don’t kill any of them,’ he said. ‘It’ll badly fuck with your Mother Teresa complex if one of them chokes on a chicken bone.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Hal listened to her leave and slid down to sit on the floor in his hallway. He’d been relieved to hear her key in the lock last night, even though he’d never acknowledge that he’d noticed she was late home from work. And then she’d stopped by his door and told him about her day, another sequence of unlikely events that made him hold his head in his hands and wonder how she, and those around her, made it through each day alive. One day the heroine on the front of the local paper. The next day dating random men because they happened to play the piano. And then somehow cooking dinner for thirty OAPs even though she could barely cook for herself. Honey seemed to get up each morning and approach life like a beautiful, haphazard firework; the distinct possibility of disaster balanced against the high probability of brightening someone’s day. She’d brightened his day yesterday just by being in it, and he’d returned the favour by providing an idiot-proof way to cook the chicken. It seemed like a deal weighted heavily his way.

‘Skinny Steve forgot to re-cover the chicken again after he’d checked it so it all went a bit dry, but on the whole, it wasn’t too bad.’

‘I’d have fired Skinny Steve on the spot,’ Hal said that evening, listening once more to Honey regale him about her day. She’d come in around eight, late again, and this time when she’d come to his door he hadn’t ignored her. She sounded tired, and his curiosity had got the better of him. She was cooking, and he was a chef, after all.

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