Page 54 of A Winter Kiss on Rochester Mews
‘I think I’m all right,’ Mattie said slowly. What with feeling so rotten, physically rotten rather than metaphysically rotten, and not having a moment to call her own since she’d entered the tearooms, she hadn’t had time to do an emotional stocktake. ‘It all seems like a bit of a bad dream, to be honest. I’m surprised you can remember much of last night. We were both quite tipsy.’
‘I wasn’t quite tipsy, I was quite drunk,’ Tom said. Then he blinked, his mouth twisting. ‘Although … well, I have a total recall of last night. One of the reasons why I feel so wretched today. This isn’t just a hangover, it’s mortification too.’
‘What have you got to be mortified about?’ Mattie asked and Tom went from grey to pink. Her own cheeks flamed in response: just as Mattie hadn’t had much time to perform a post-mortem on the ugly scene with Steven, she also hadn’t even begun to really analyse the long, long soul-bearing session with Tom afterwards.
She scrolled forward to the talking about kissing and Tom wondering whether they might sleep in the same bed. And how could she have forgotten the handholding-slash-caressing?
Her face went even redder.
‘I am so sorry,’ Tom said, but Mattie held up her hand to cut him off.
‘If you have total recall of what happened last night, then you remember our new house rule?’
‘What happens in the flat, stays in the flat,’ Tom said gravely.
‘What exactly does happen in the flat?’ Sophie wanted to know, relieving Mattie of the tongs so she could get some misshapen pastries for the table she was serving. She had her hair tied up in a scarf decorated with jaunty robins.
‘Nothing happens,’ Mattie said, the pink of her cheeks deepening a few shades.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ Tom confirmed. ‘The pair of us lead very boring lives.’
‘Well, I’m glad that we’ve sorted that out and we’re cool now—’
‘Totally cool,’ Tom assured her in a strained voice. ‘Anyway, I’ve also come to purchase one of your delicious pastries.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that!’
Tom leaned against the counter in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Look, the only reason that I get a panini from the Italian café is that I feel sorry for Chiro,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘His rent’s gone up, his rates have gone up and he does have quite an unfortunate manner.’
Chiro was indeed very temperamental. Mattie didn’t have occasion to go into the café but she walked past it often enough to see that some days Chiro would be all smiles, singing along to ‘That’s Amore’ and even dancing with his customers. But just as frequently, he’d have a scowl on his face and would shout at his customers for smothering his food in ketchup, lingering in the run-up to closing time, which was five on the dot, or asking for a glass of tap water.
As Nina had once said, ‘You don’t get to call yourself a proper Londoner until you’ve been shouted at by Chiro at least once.’
‘Well, that’s very public-spirited of you,’ Mattie said, thoughts of Chiro’s unreasonableness making her feel much better about her own occasional bouts of pettiness.
‘And he does make a damn good panini, but I fancy something a little different this morning,’ Tom insisted.
‘But Chiro has his rent increases to deal with and I don’t want to deprive you of your favourite breakfast,’ she said, because this morning was a do-over.
Tom was already running his eyes along her temptingly displayed croissants and pains au chocolat and pains aux raisins. This morning a lot of them were misshapen, victims to Mattie’s trembling hands and the headache that two Nurofen and a pot of tea couldn’t cure. Her croissants would have got her kicked out of every culinary institute in Europe and her pains aux raisins would not be adorning anyone’s Instagram grid. Mattie couldn’t help but feel that some of their unfortunate appearance was due to the bad energy that Steven had given off when he was helping her with her flaky pastry prep.
‘It’s so hard to decide,’ he said. ‘In my fragile state, I feel as if I need complex carbohydrates.’
‘Maybe you’d like something savoury?’ Mattie suggested. ‘I could knock you up a croque guvnor.’
‘Is that like a croque monsieur?’ Tom asked doubtfully.
‘A British take on a croque monsieur. Sourdough, butter, cheddar cheese, Old Spot ham, béchamel sauce with extra cheese and some mustard.’ Mattie leaned over the counter. ‘I add in a little nutmeg,’ she said in a whisper because she didn’t want all and sundry hearing about her secret ingredients.
‘Sounds great!’
Mattie would bet every penny she had that it would completely crush Chiro’s panini. But just to seal the deal …
‘Tell you what, I’ll turn your croque guvnor into a croque missus and put a fried egg on top,’ Mattie said graciously. ‘I’ll bring it through to the shop when it’s ready. Do you want coffee too?’
‘Ah yes, coffee,’ he rasped, holding up his mug with a not-very-steady hand. ‘Dear Lord, I need more coffee than the human body can normally withstand.’
‘That’ll be £4.95 for the croque and coffee’s on the house,’ Mattie said, as Tom got out his wallet.
