Rory couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but somehow he got the impression Barry and David hadn’t exactly hit it off. For a start, David had sat there all funny, sort of upright and pressed together, not taking up half the space Barry had made for him. And Barry had been banging on about everything under the sun until David had come down, from the footie to the state of the country to his missus’s latest diet, and then he’d clammed right up. He hadn’t stayed long, neither, before muttering something about hitting the chippie on his way home and heading off.
Rory had been going to suggest they all go, cos with Barry there he hadn’t been able to make a start on the cooking, and in any case, it was like Evie said when he’d called her to let her know he had a lodger: he didn’t want to poison the bloke before he’d paid his first month’s rent.
But maybe it was for the best. David didn’t look like he ate a lot of fish and chips. Or much else, come to that. Not that he was, like, skin and bones or nothing. Just, well, long and lean, with cheekbones you could cut yourself on if you weren’t careful. He managed to look elegant in jeans and a T-shirt. Refined. God knew what he was doing renting Rory’s spare room.
And there Jenni had said he wouldn’t know elegant if it jumped up and bit him on the bum.
If he’d said that to Barry, he’d have gone on about not letting David bite him on the bum. Rory laughed at the thought.
“Something funny? Do share.” David even sounded a bit off.
“Nah, ’s nothing. I was just thinking about Barry. Oi, you wanna eat together? I thought we could get a takeaway, if you want. The Chinese in the village ain’t bad.”
David smiled and finally stopped looking so uptight. “Or I could cook for you? A little thank-you for literally taking me in off the streets?”
Rory felt a bit awkward. “You ain’t gotta do that. I mean, if anyone cooks it oughtta be me.”
“Don’t be silly. I love exercising my culinary muscles.” David jumped up off the sofa. He looked about six miles tall now from where Rory was sitting. “Mind if I have a poke in your pantry?”
“Don’t think I’ve got one of them. Feel free to fossick in the fridge, though.” Rory grinned. Yeah, what was up with Barry anyway? This was going to work fine, him and David.
David raised an eyebrow. It was so him Rory had to stop himself laughing. “Or comb through the cupboards?”
“You can even delve in me drawers, mate.” Rory was proud of himself for that one, especially when David laughed.
“Promises, promises. What would Barry say?”
“Barry? He don’t do cooking. Not unless it’s a barbecue.” Rory frowned. “Listen, mate, don’t mind him. Dunno what crawled up his arse today.”
David opened his mouth like he was about to say something, then pressed his lips together, did a twirl like a ballet dancer, and headed for the kitchen.
“Gimme a shout when you know what’s what and I’ll come and help, yeah?” Rory called after him, then he leaned back in the sofa and flicked through the channels with the remote.
Cool. Red Dwarf was on. Rory put his feet up and settled down to watch. It was an old episode, one he’d seen at least half a dozen times before, and his eyelids were feeling heavy, so he let them have a bit of a rest. He could just listen for a while. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what was going to happen.
“A-hem!”
A throat was cleared loudly and theatrically right by Rory’s earhole. He sat up straight, his eyes flying open.
“I wasn’t asleep,” he said reflexively, blinking at the sight of David standing over him with a couple of plates. “Oh—you done it all, then? I was gonna give you a hand.”
“No problem,” David said, putting the plates on the coffee table with a smile. “I prefer to work alone. It gives free rein to my creative genius. Now, in my defence, you didn’t leave me a lot to work with. Still, barring one or two teensy glitches, I coped admirably.”
Rory stared at the food. “It’s, uh . . .”
“It’s scromblet,” David said firmly, handing him a knife and fork. “Ham and cheese scromblet, to be precise. On toast.”
“Scromblet?”
“It was supposed to be omelette. It just somehow, through no fault of my own, turned out to have more than a passing resemblance to scrambled eggs. Hence the toast. For preservation of structural integrity, which I’m sure you’ll agree was a rather brilliant piece of improvisation under pressure.”
Rory had to laugh. “Blimey, mate, you’re as bad as I am in the kitchen. Still, the toast ain’t burned, so that’s a plus.”
David looked so shifty that Rory picked up a corner of one slice of toast to peer at the other side.
Yep. Charcoal.
“It depends on your views about the distinction between burnt and, say—”
“And just really well done?” Rory shook his head as he cut himself a bite of scromblet. “No worries, mate. Been there, done that, got a bit of a taste for it these days. Least you didn’t set the smoke alarm off.”
“Ah. Remind me to put the batteries back in later.”
“Heh, how come I never think of taking ’em out? This ain’t bad, by the way. Congrats, mate. You got the job.”
“Chief cook and bottle washer?”
“Nah, you cook, I’ll wash bottles. Or we can take turns. I do a great risotto surprise.”
“Which is? Or would that spoil the surprise?”
Rory laughed. “Rice and whatever’s going out of date in the fridge. With soy sauce, cos otherwise it just tastes like, well, rice.”
“Ooh, remind me to give you my mushroom soup pasta recipe.” David paused, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “Although actually, that’s it. Mushroom soup and pasta.”
“You know what?” Rory said, tickled. “You and me, we’re gonna get along fine.”
David looked so chuffed Rory was glad he’d said it.
Not long after they’d finished eating, the doorbell rang.
Rory ambled over to answer it, expecting to see Mrs. Willis from next door—she tended to pop round any time she needed a light bulb changing or a cupboard door fixing, or just a chat, cos the old dear got lonely, bless her. Not that she’d ever admit it.
He was a bit surprised to instead see a teenage Goth girl standing there, wearing all black clothes, with black hair and a silver stud in her nose. Not to mention a look on her face like something had curled up and died on the doormat.
Come to think of it, she looked more like she wished Rory would curl up and die on the doormat.
“Fen?” He knew her, of course, although they’d never spoken all that much so he had no clue why she was here or why she had the hump with him all of a sudden. Rory wasn’t sure how to talk to teenagers. He hoped he’d manage to work it out by the time Lucy turned thirteen. Funny, though. Fen was Mark’s daughter. If Rory and Jen had got married, and Mark and Patrick had too, she’d have been his . . . step-granddaughter? Grand-stepdaughter? Granddaughter twice removed?
Rory scratched his head, and realised he’d missed her answer. “Sorry?”
“I said, ‘Is David in?’ I brought him something.” She held up a large biscuit tin, and hugged it protectively when he reached to take it.
“Oh. Right. Come on in. He’s in the living room.”
Fen wiped her feet on the doormat and stomped in, the zips, chains, and other bits on her seriously metal boots jingling. Rory would’ve liked to ask her to take them off, but wasn’t sure she’d be too happy about it.
Anyway, they were probably safer on her feet than out here unsupervised, terrorising Rory’s work boots and taking a bite out of David’s Gucci loafers. Rory grinned to himself at the picture.
David jumped up when Rory led her into the living room.
“Fen! Darling. How lovely to see you. Oh my. Look at you. I swear you’ve grown another inch since I last saw you.”
She giggled. “David, you saw me like four hours ago.”
Huh. Rory hadn’t known they knew each other that well. He could remember Fen mentioning a David, now he came to think about it, but he’d assumed that was just some boy in her class. “So you’re Fen’s David?” he blurted out.
They broke apart from a three-way hug—Fen, David, and the biscuit tin—to turn back to Rory.
Fen’s lip curled. She might as well have come out and said, God, what are you even like?
At least David was still smiling at him. “Mais bien sûr. Insofar as I could ever be said to belong to a woman, my dear petite crevette is she.”
Rory frowned. Why he was he calling her one of them posh ties blokes wore for their weddings?
David was still speaking. “After my mother, naturally. And Cher. And Una Stubbs, bless her. And Joanna Lumley . . .”
“Shut up.” Fen was giggling again. “Here, I made you a housewarming cake.”
“Darling, you shouldn’t have. Okay, that’s a lie: you totally should have. Mwah. You’re an angel. In unfeasibly devilish footwear, and I see Lex has been giving you shopping tips. Can I open it now?”
“Yeah.” Fen turned to glare in Rory’s direction. “But don’t give him any. He broke up with Granny O.”
“Uh . . .” She meant Jenni. Jenni Owen. Rory started to say she’d broken up with him, but Jenni had said to tell everyone it was a mutual decision, hadn’t she? “We broke up with each other.”
“Yeah, right.”
“And does she know you’re calling her Granny O? She might not be too keen, seeing as she’s only forty-four.”
Fen folded her arms. “I don’t think, actually, you’ve got any right to have an opinion on how she feels about anything anymore.”
She turned her back on Rory with a combo teenage flounce and Goth jangle.
David made brief, awkward faces over the top of Fen’s head, then took her arm. “Tell you what, let’s take the cake into the kitchen, shall we?”
“Fine. Long as he’s not coming.”
“Don’t worry. There wouldn’t be room for all three of us in there. Now, do tell—if Patrick’s mum is Granny O, does that make Patrick your Daddio?”
Fen giggled. “No. He’s Patrick. Duh.”
“Paddio?”
“Oh my God, I dare you to call him that!”
The giggles faded as she closed the door behind them.
Rory tried not to feel too left out.
The sinking feeling in his stomach told him he’d failed.