Lucien ducked out back. Miles took the opportunity to play shopkeeper. He ran his hands along the varnished countertop and patted the pile of tissue paper used for wrapping bottles. He walked his fingers along the counter edge and followed it round the corner. Looking around the walls and ceiling, he asked himself where the security cameras were located. There didn’t appear to be any. He peered down at the hidden shelves built into the counter, containing corkscrews, bottle openers, paperwork, a Stanley blade. He took in the cash register and then his eyes went down to the safe built into the alcove below.
‘You’re in luck,’ Lucien shouted from the back room. Miles moved around to the customer side of the counter.
‘Fantastic,’ he called back, slyly helping himself to a packet of Polos from a display rack in front of the counter. ‘I knew I’d come to the right place.’ He ambled over to the window and gazed out onto the quiet suburban street.
23
Sinead carefully placed the lasagne dish onto the middle shelf and closed the oven door. She noted the time was 12.15 and calculated it would be ready in forty-five minutes. Lasagne was one of her standards, something impossible to fuck up. She didn’t know if Elliot would be back in time, but that was the beauty of lasagne; even if he didn’t come back for lunch, she’d put it in the fridge and he could heat it up for dinner. It would taste even better when reheated: a genuine fail-safe meal. She was making a concerted effort to get back into Elliot’s good books. Throwing up on the man’s carpet like some tragic teenager who can’t hold their drink. Classy, Sinead – real classy.
The stain had come out, though, thank God. Imagine having to look at that every time you went in the room – a permanent reminder of how you can’t handle your drink. To be fair, it was the pills that had tipped her over the edge. Just like Elliot had said they would. Normally she’d have handled the vodka, no problem. Okay, maybe in her state she should have kept to a single shot, not the quadruple or sextuple, whatever the hell it was – how much had she knocked back last night? It felt like half a bottle. There was no denying it, she was acting crazy.
As Sinead got started on the washing-up, she remembered more embarrassing details about the previous evening. Telling Elliot that story about getting even with Kirsty Hefferman? Nice one, Sinead. He must think he’s rented a room to some psycho-bitch. Why had she revealed that? No one needed to know about her adolescent anger-management issues. She’d had counselling and it was all in the past. The counsellor had said that Sinead had repressed the anger she felt about her parents’ divorce and the feelings of abandonment caused by her father leaving. The counsellor didn’t know about her mother’s hidden alcoholism. Because she’d repressed the rage, she wasn’t in control, and it had exploded that day at school. The episode was out of character, and one she’d worked hard to put behind her.
The only person she’d ever told was Heidi. It was right before Christmas, their first term at Reading. Heidi had just been dumped by some idiot, and they’d stayed up all night in their hall of residence kitchen with a bottle of Campari that Sinead had won in a raffle. Everyone else had already gone home for the holidays. They told each other all kinds of secrets that night; it had been a real bonding experience, the kind you only have when you’re eighteen or nineteen and away from home for the first significant time in your life.
Somehow they’d gotten onto the subject of things they were most ashamed of. Heidi confessed that on a family holiday she had stolen cash from her dad’s wallet to buy some weed from a boy she’d been trying to impress, and her dad had called the French police and caused a big scene at the campsite, but Heidi never told anyone it was she who had taken the money. Sinead then made her own confession and felt so bad that she swore Heidi to secrecy. She particularly didn’t want Imogen and Magz to hear about it. But Elliot hadn’t been fazed; in fact, he seemed to genuinely understand why she’d done it – after all, Hefferman was a real piece of shit. And maybe it wasn’t such a big deal; lots of people get into fights at school. She wasn’t proud of it, though. It was a long time ago and the story gave a distorted representation of who she really was.
Sinead was rinsing the frying pan in the sink when the doorbell rang. She grabbed the crutches, fumbled her wet hands into the wrist clips, and hobbled across the kitchen. She went to open the door to the living room, but was hasty and dropped a crutch. It clattered onto the floor. She steadied herself by gripping the back of a chair and tried reaching for the stick. It was impossible, so she sat on the chair and leant over to grab it from the floor. Her fracture ached badly.
‘Hang on!’ she called out.
Another minute elapsed before she was back on her feet and traversing the living room. Finally, she got through to the porch, but whoever it was had already gone. She turned the latch on the porch door and was about to curse in exasperation when her eyes flicked down. There on the step was a beautiful bouquet of white roses. A small card was attached to the wrapping.
***
She was leaning on the counter by the oven when Elliot walked in. The lasagne smelt damn good, even if she said so herself – she reckoned it could just do with a couple more minutes to brown on top. She watched closely for his reaction. He saw the plate of buttered bread on the table, place mats and knives and forks, and in the centre of the table was the bouquet in a vase. His face gave nothing away.
‘You’ve made lunch. How thoughtful.’
‘Lasagne. I hope you like it.’
‘You can’t beat a home-cooked lasagne.’
‘Should be ready about now.’ Sinead finished tossing a green salad. ‘Oh, and the carpet cleaner worked a treat. So… yeah.’ She smiled sheepishly.
‘Good. Good.’ Elliot seemed pleased. That was a relief.
‘Where d’you get to, then? Somewhere exciting?’ asked Sinead.
‘I’ve been arranging a surprise.’
Sinead grated Parmesan cheese into the salad bowl. ‘Oh yeah? Who for?’ She looked up from the cheese grater. Elliot was handling the white roses.
‘That would be telling.’ He leant forward to sniff the petals. ‘Did you buy these at the garage?’
She shook her head. ‘They’re from Dylan.’ Elliot stared at her blankly. ‘You remember Dylan? He helped me move in.’ Elliot nodded vaguely. ‘No one’s ever sent me flowers before.’ She was trying to act cool about it, but the truth was the flowers had made her day – made her month, in fact.
‘I think we can find a better place for them to live.’ He moved the vase to a high shelf, squashing down the taller stalks. Sinead was disappointed not to have them on display, but decided to put them in her room later. She turned off the heat and slipped on an oven glove.
Elliot ambled over. ‘D’you need a hand?’
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ She lowered the oven door with one hand, keeping her balance on a single crutch, and skilfully removed the dish. There was no chance of her dropping this bad boy. She set it down on the counter and silently complimented herself for its perfectly brown, crispy top. Elliot took the salad bowl to the table while Sinead cut into the steaming lasagne. It needed to cool for a minute or two. She removed the spatula and glanced over her shoulder at him; he was staring up at the roses.
‘Elliot?’ He turned towards her. ‘You must think I’m a crazy person, the way I was ranting last night. And then getting sick.’ She poked the lasagne again with the utensil. ‘It can’t be easy for you, putting up with me hanging around your house all the time.’