Page 18 of The Redemption of Alex Cade
“As long as it’s cold and wet, I’ll have it.” I was a spirits drinker mainly, with a taste for whisky. I didn’t know one wine from another, and had let the young woman in the very posh shop make the selection for me.
“Make yourself at home,” Kit called across from the kitchen, “I just need to check on dinner. I’ll be over in a tick.” He opened the oven door to check on whatever it was he was cooking, releasing the rich aroma of garlic, basil and cheese, making my mouth water and my stomach rumble, reminding me that I’d survived the day on a couple of slices of toast, and endless coffees.
“Okay,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat and made to move towards the sofa, but I didn’t get further than a couple of steps when a very fluffy, very ginger cat slunk out from beneath it and wound itself around my legs. “Hello, you.” I bent down and offered the cat my hand to sniff but instead it rubbed its head against my palm, purring as it did so. On impulse I picked it up, letting it nestle against my chest, its purrs growing louder. “Didn’t know you had a cat,” I called out. Kit answered with a load groan.
“I don’t,” he said, coming across. “This is Buster. Or at least that’s what I call him. He turns up a couple of times a week and demands food and cuddles, before he slinks off again. But he’s out of luck tonight because I’m out of cat food.”
“You don’t just give him scraps? You actually buy food for a cat you don’t own?”
Kit shrugged as he tried, and failed, to keep a straight face. “It’s only a couple of cans a week, and the basic stuff. I don’t shell out on prime salmon or lobster varieties for him.”
From the shifty look in Kit’s eyes, I wasn’t sure I believed him.
“I didn’t even know the little sod had got inside. Here, let me put him in the garden.” As soon as Kit opened his arms to take him, Buster jumped across. “He transfers his affections very easily.”
“He looks too well looked after to be a stray.” Buster was too well groomed, too well fed, and too well behaved, with none of the skinny, feral hissing I’d seen in the strays sneaking around the bins around the back of Euphoria in the early hours.
“I don’t think he is, although he’s not microchipped. I keep telling myself not to feed him, that he’ll stop turning up if I do, but…” Kit shrugged, and a faint flush coloured his cheeks.
“He’s cute, so why would’t you want to make a fuss of him?”
Kit was whispering sweet nothings to Buster as he opened the French windows leading into the garden, kissing him on the head before setting him outside. The cat wasn’t the only thing that was cute.
Kit went back to the kitchen. Instead of sitting, I hovered near the edge of the coffee table, picking up a book from the top of the small pile teetering on the edge.
It was dog-eared and worn, the kind of thing that had been read and reread. I skimmed the blurb on the back. Mobsters, terrorising London’s dark, gritty criminal underworld. I put it back, and turned my intention instead to the bookcase. Book after book on Thailand. Birds of Thailand. Thailand’s natural wonders. Thai cookery. Thai history. Thai for beginners. Thailand, Kit’s very, very happy place.
Along with the books, there was a large picture frame filled with photographs. There didn’t seem to be any order tothem, with photos of Kit as a little kid next to others that were more recent. There were lots in an exotic location which I assumed was Thailand, but more than anything else there was photo after photo of Kit with a woman who couldn’t be anybody other than his mum.
I leant in closer and peered at one that stood out from the rest. It was a large colour photo, but it was like looking at a negative of Kit. The woman had long, wild, curly hair so dark it was almost black; it would have been easy to think it’d come from a bottle, except that the dark eyes and olive skin disputed that. For all that the colouring was so different, it was easy to see they were mother and son.
“Daniella. My mum.”
I swung around. Kit was holding two glasses of white and he handed one to me. His fingers brushed mine, and I told myself I didn’t notice. He nodded towards the photo.
“That was taken in a pub garden where we’d gone to celebrate her birthday. We even had birthday cake and when it was brought out the other customers all sang Happy Birthday and cheered. She was so happy and vibrant that day, so full of life.” His face tightened, and I knew in my gut that the happiness that shone from the photo wasn’t set to last.
“People always thought she was my older sister and were surprised when they found we were mother and son. She had me when she was young—well, under age to be honest. God knows how she managed to keep me, but she did.” He stared at the photo, was lost in it, and I knew he’d momentarily forgotten my presence. “I never knew my father.” He said the words quietly, it felt like he was talking more to himself than to me. My stomach tightened. That was one thing, at least, that we had in common. “He did a bunk when Mum got pregnant with me. I guess I owe my colouring to whoever the sperm donor was.”
“Is she…?” But I already knew the answer.
Kit shook his head. “I had her in my life and that’s what’s important. Anyway, to the here and now.” He raised his glass. “And to surviving my cooking.”
I huffed, relieved the moment of melancholy had passed, and took a sip. The wine was surprisingly good, not that I was much of a judge, and I let the taste settle on my tongue, aromatic and rich, before glancing back at Kit.
“You’re not off the hook yet,” I said. “Let’s see if the food’s as good as the wine.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, making my skin tingle. “Fair enough. Come on, let’s sit down because you’re making me nervous just standing there.”
I lowered myself onto the sofa. It was as comfortable as it looked and I let myself sink into it.
“Do you realise you just sighed? It does that to you, this sofa. It’s kind of like a big, cushioned hug. If you’ve had a bad day, the sofa will see you right. God, I’m a crap host. Hold on.” He jumped up and rushed to the kitchen, returning with a bowl of olives. “It’s what grown ups do when they invite somebody over for dinner. Olives and drinks beforehand,” he said, placing them on the coffee table.
“And how often do you invite somebody for dinner?” How many men do you invite… The thought felt wrong and I pushed it away before it could take root.
“I don’t. You’re the first.”
He said it plainly, a simple matter of fact, and before I could even begin to think about those words, he was gone again, back to the kitchen, from where the faint clatter of plates and utensils came, and the soft scrape of a drawer opening. The domesticity of it all was unnerving. I wasn’t used to the homeliness, the normality of it. It was something others did, but not me. Never me. Or not until then.
