Page 67 of Love and Loathing

“What are you making?” he asked.

“This noodley soupy sort of thing. I always make it when it’s cold and grey outside.”

“Can I have it, too?”

She looked at him, eyebrow quirked. “Not your chicken thing?”

“Yours sounds nice. Though I suppose I shouldn’t waste this chicken.”

“Leave it in the fridge for Romona.”

“She’s not…?”

“Vegan? Vegetarian? Not even remotely.”

“Well, in that case…” said Aubrey, putting the meat in the fridge, “I might steal some of her milk and make a coffee.”

“Make yourself at home. And make one for me. There’s—”

“Oat milk. Yes, I’ve got it.”

She started peeling the garlic, watching him with a small smile as he filled the kettle. “Is this all a ruse so that I have to do all the cooking, while you just sit at the table with your newspaper and your pipe?”

“Yes, woman. Exactly.” He got out another chopping board as the kettle boiled and started to chop some ginger root. “Stop yapping and make my dinner.”

“That’s how it’d be, wouldn’t it?” Evie said, laughing to herself. “You coming home all grumpy from the office, and expecting me in the kitchen, in my apron, cooking your steak and potatoes.”

“Fetching my slippers. Lining the children up for inspection.”

“Wiping their faces so they look all clean and cherubic, though they’ve spent the day being absolute devils.”

“Driving mummy to the gin.”

“Yes, mummy’s drunk,” Evie agreed, laughing. “The steak’s all dried and burnt and Aubrey Junior is wearing your best tie as a bandanna and using your umbrella as a sword.”

“And the girls are crying. Baby Evelyn’s just thrown up on the kitten.”

“She’d be devastated,” Evie said, laughing even harder. “Poor little kitten.”

Aubrey grinned, ginger forgotten, watching the mirth in Evie’s eyes. She went to wipe away a tear of laughter, then stopped. “Garlic on my hands!”

“And I’ve got ginger on mine.” So he got a corner of his sleeve and dried the corner of her eye, the fingers of his other hand cupping her cheek for the barest moment, slipping into her hair, the fire of the spice in the cool damp stands.

She looked up at him, eyes crystal clear and serious now. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? The children? And the wife?”

He let go, stepped back, returned to the task on his chopping board.

“Is it something we should talk about?” Evie asked.

“On our first date? If that’s even what this is.”

She touched his arm, but only for a moment, as though unsure where the contact would lead.

“I want children,” she said quietly. “One day. In a few years. Before I’m thirty, is what I always thought, though I admit I haven’t thought about it much. But I do know I want them. I always have.”

When she was thirty, he would be forty. It wasn’t impossible… It might work… It was ridiculous to think about it at all.

“Evie… Let’s not…”

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