Page 38 of Musical Games
He stiffened. ‘I have to go out for a few hours.’
‘Oh. Where?’
His cheeks reddened and he shrugged. ‘Just out. I’ve got stuff to do.’
Like a glutton for punishment, she pressed on. ‘Can I come?’
He stood and stretched.
She repressed a whimper at the sight of his abs as his T-shirt rode up.
‘You should stay here. Keep an eye on Mum.’
‘Why? Does she start sniffing glue without adult supervision? Does she steal the pension money from the old folk of Kinloch to spend on fancy men?’
Jamie sighed. ‘She likes you.’
Yeah, and you don’t. ‘Okay, so we’ll forgo the glue this afternoon and just focus on the fancy men. I’m sure she won’t mind sharing.’
He shook his head and left. As he jogged down the stairs, she touched the duvet where he’d been sitting.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he called up the stairs.
She jumped.
‘I’ll be back by half four.’
‘Okay,’ she yelled back. ‘But if the house is a smoking ruin when you return, it’s all your fault.’
There was silence, then the back door shut.
Downstairs, everything was quiet. Opening the fridge, Sam pulled out the package that had arrived the previous day, then emptied the contents onto the table: a plastic container holding a small vial, a pipette and a large rectangular plaster. She checked the temperature gauge on the outside of the container, then took out the vial, sucking the contents into the pipette and dropping the fluid evenly over the surface of the plaster. She rolled up her sleeves, inspecting the inside of her arms. The faint scars from previous treatments were still visible. She chose a patch of skin she hadn’t used and pressed the plaster onto it. After a few minutes, the telltale itching started. She pursed her lips and exhaled a long, slow breath. It was done. Now she just had to ride it out for a few days. It wasn’t easy, but it was far better than the alternative.
Morag came through from the post office. ‘I’ve got an hour. Fancy soup for lunch?’
‘Yes, thanks, that would be lovely.’
‘Where’s our Jamie?
‘He had to go out for a bit.’
Morag shrugged and turned the stove on. ‘All the more for us then. It’s oxtail. My mother’s recipe, though I’ve refined it. Now it only takes two days instead of four.’
She pottered around the kitchen, chattering away happily in a way that required zero response or input from Sam. It was very relaxing to be around someone who had no expectations of her other than being physically present.
‘What do you think?’
Sam’s focus snapped back. ‘Spiced shortbread?’
‘Yes, love. I wondered if you wanted to make a gluten-free version, seeing you can’t eat the normal stuff?'
‘Thank you, Morag, that would be lovely. Do we have time?’
‘Aye, we do. You might have to take them out of the oven by yourself, but I’ll set you up with a cooling rack. I’ve seen enough of your cooking to trust you to turn the oven off at the end.’
Sam grinned. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘It’s lovely having you here. I hope you don’t forget us when you’re richer and famouser.’
