Page 18 of Her Kensington
“No. I had it gutted before I moved in. But there was a lot of stuff in here that holds a lot of memories so I couldn’t get rid of it all. Hence—”
“The storage rooms.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Sure. What time is it?” I ask as we walk back into the giant kitchen. Almost every wall and surface in this house is white, and this room is no exception. It’s not quite the style I was expecting. Knowing Harrison’s love of antiques, I had a feeling I was about to walk into a time warp, but it seems he’s more of a minimalist when it comes to his home.
“Just gone eight. I have wine,” he says, pulling open what I presume is the refrigerator.
I jump up on one of his bar stools and watch as he bends over to see what’s inside. It’s only then I realize what he’s opened isn’t a refrigerator like I expected. “Is that full of wine?”
“Uh…yeah. It’s a wine cooler. Why?”
Laughing to myself, I wave him off. “Nothing. This place is just a bit of a culture shock. I’m used to a refrigerator with just a moldy bit of cheese at the back.”
“You’ll soon get used to it. The actual fridge is over there if you want to check it out.”
Getting up, I walk over to the cupboard door he pointed at before pulling it open. He’s been away for over a week yet it’s fully stocked, and when I check the packaging it’s all in date.
“I organized for it to all be here for when we got back.” He must see the confusion on my face.
“Of course you did.”
“Here,” he says, placing a glass down on the counter, but I walk past in favor of the photographs I see at the other side of the room.
Running my eyes over each frame, I take in his family while trying to keep my panic buried at the thought of meeting them.
“What happened to Zach?” I ask when I see him in one of the photos.
“Your guess is as good as mine. He’s a bit of a nomad. He just turns up when he wants to.”
“So he doesn’t work with you then?”
The laugh he lets out answers that question for me. “So what does he do?”
“No idea. He’s probably a porn star or something.”
I nod as I continue looking at the younger versions of my husband in front of me before turning back when I hear him banging about.
“You hungry?”
“A little.” Sitting back up on a stool I watch as he effortlessly works in his kitchen and puts us together a simple salad.
“Who taught you to cook?” I ask, desperate to learn more about my husband and his life here.
“My gran.”
“Is she still…” I trail off, not wanting to voice the question.
“No, both her and my grandad passed away a few years ago.
“I’m sorry. What about you? Any of your grandparents still going?”
“Just my dad’s, but they haven’t spoken for years. I’ve only met them a couple of times. What about the basement?” I ask, changing the subject.
“There isn’t one.”
“But there are windows,” I say, remembering looking down at them as I waited for Harrison to unlock the front door.
