Welcome to Rosie Hopkins' Sweet Shop of Dreams
Page 39
‘Your physiotherapy exercises?’ said Rosie tartly.
Stephen looked at her. ‘Are you the one who’s just turned up in the village, can’t ride a bike and is flirting with all the local men?’
‘I have no idea why they say the countryside is a hotbed of gossip,’ said Rosie, huffing. ‘And I am not flirting with all the local men.’
‘Maybe that’s why you’re in my kitchen,’ said Stephen wonderingly.
‘No, it is not. I’m in your kitchen because I have some antibiotics for you and I need to make sure you take them.’
‘How will that work then?’
Rosie took a look at the whisky bottle.
‘How often is that going on?’ she said softly.
Stephen gave her a challenging stare.
‘Why? Planning on what to haul me off for first – leg rehab or booze?’
‘I’m sure I can find somewhere that’ll do both,’ said Rosie. ‘You won’t like it.’
Stephen held her gaze for a long time. His eyes were very blue and direct, and the shadows underneath them contrasted with his too-pale complexion and black stubble. Rosie didn’t care. She looked around. Once again, the kitchen was tidy, with one plate in the sink and only the empty glass out.
‘Mrs Laird looks after you,’ she observed. ‘So obviously some help is OK.’
‘Why are you here again?’ said Stephen. ‘Is this some volunteer programme for nosy people who like to be annoying?’
‘What would you care?’ said Rosie. ‘Just drink another bottle of whisky, that will make it all go away.’
Stephen breathed a heavy sigh and glanced longingly at the kettle.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Are you going to make me make it?’
Rosie weighed up the options. Ideally, he ought to make it. Anything that got him moving around was a good thing. On the other hand, the chance to talk to him a little, find out what was going on might be better.
‘I’ll make it,’ she said finally.
In fact, Stephen had to get up to go to the loo. She pretended to be busying herself at the sink, but instead watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was very thin, even though his frame was big – she felt, suddenly, as if she should be feeding him up, like Lilian. His navy blue T-shirt was hanging off him, his flat stomach visible as it flapped up. But though his torso looked young and taut, his gait was an old man’s. It was pitiful to see.
Ten minutes later, with the tea brewing nice and strongly in a brown pot, Rosie had found fresh milk, an untouched box of eggs and an unopened packet of bacon in the fridge. She lit the range (which took a couple of goes; Rosie had never used an Aga before), located a frying pan and started to cook up what she decided to call brunch. Stephen came back to find the kitchen warm and smelling good; Rosie turned round to see him scrubbed and looking a lot better, in a clean T-shirt, with wet hair.
‘That’s more like it,’ she remarked.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I was hungry,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m eating your food. You are quite at liberty to attempt to perform a citizen’s arrest.’
Stephen sniffed. ‘And is that all for you? Is that how you keep your sweetshop-based figure?’
‘Can we keep the personal remarks to your health please?’
‘Sorry,’ said Stephen, looking a bit sheepish, as if he’d overstepped the mark and knew it. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your figure. In fact …’
‘Ahem,’ said Rosie.
There was a silence while Rosie dished up two platefuls. The bacon hadn’t been in a packet, but simply wrapped in wax paper. Rosie wondered if it was from a pig he had actually known. That would have made her feel a bit awkward, until she started cooking it. It smelled heavenly. She set down two huge earthenware mugs filled with strong tea. She’d added sugar to Stephen’s. In her experience, everyone liked sugar in their tea really. Anything other than milk and two was just a nod to convention. She saw Stephen look at it, weighing up his need to be ornery and difficult against his obvious hunger and a bit of a hangover.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell anyone that you lowered yourself to actually eating. I’ll tell them you wouldn’t talk to me and turned away and went boo-hoo in a corner.’
‘Is that meant to shock me out of my latent depression?’ said Stephen lazily. ‘Congratulations. You’re clearly an eminent psychiatrist. Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘No, it’s meant to get you to eat your breakfast,’ said Rosie, putting out some ketchup.
Sighing heavily, Stephen sat down, carefully favouring his injured leg. Once again, Rosie found herself desperate to take a look at it. He was being so stupid and bloody-minded, as if ignoring the problem would make it go away. And it was so pointless and attention-seeking. She wondered idly if this was what having children was like, as she put her hand on his fork.
‘But first,’ she said, handing over the antibiotic.
‘More pills?’ groaned Stephen. ‘You came all this way just to give me more pills?’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘I came for your wit, charm and conversation. Now, do I have to make my arm into an aeroplane?’
Stephen looked longingly at his breakfast.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ said Rosie. ‘Bbbbbrrrrmmmm … bbrrm …’
‘Stop it! Shut up!’
At first Rosie thought he was joking with her, then she realised, somehow, that he was genuinely distressed.
‘Could you stop that noise please?’ He pulled himself together, then, quickly and without comment, swallowed the pill and started to eat his breakfast, shovelling it in like a man who hadn’t eaten properly for a long time.
Rosie sat back, staring at him. There had been genuine anger – no, fear, of course. Anger was just fear made loud. About what, her pretending to be an aeroplane? That was daft. And serious too. He needed help.
They sat in silence, eating, Stephen’s ears a little pink as he cleared his plate at rapid speed, then sat back swallowing his tea. No words were spoken till Rosie finally said, ‘Thank you, Rosie, for the delicious breakfast.’
‘Thanks,’ mumbled Stephen, who had gone completely into himself again. Rosie picked up the pills.
Stephen looked at her. ‘Are you the one who’s just turned up in the village, can’t ride a bike and is flirting with all the local men?’
‘I have no idea why they say the countryside is a hotbed of gossip,’ said Rosie, huffing. ‘And I am not flirting with all the local men.’
‘Maybe that’s why you’re in my kitchen,’ said Stephen wonderingly.
‘No, it is not. I’m in your kitchen because I have some antibiotics for you and I need to make sure you take them.’
‘How will that work then?’
Rosie took a look at the whisky bottle.
‘How often is that going on?’ she said softly.
Stephen gave her a challenging stare.
‘Why? Planning on what to haul me off for first – leg rehab or booze?’
‘I’m sure I can find somewhere that’ll do both,’ said Rosie. ‘You won’t like it.’
Stephen held her gaze for a long time. His eyes were very blue and direct, and the shadows underneath them contrasted with his too-pale complexion and black stubble. Rosie didn’t care. She looked around. Once again, the kitchen was tidy, with one plate in the sink and only the empty glass out.
‘Mrs Laird looks after you,’ she observed. ‘So obviously some help is OK.’
‘Why are you here again?’ said Stephen. ‘Is this some volunteer programme for nosy people who like to be annoying?’
‘What would you care?’ said Rosie. ‘Just drink another bottle of whisky, that will make it all go away.’
Stephen breathed a heavy sigh and glanced longingly at the kettle.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Are you going to make me make it?’
Rosie weighed up the options. Ideally, he ought to make it. Anything that got him moving around was a good thing. On the other hand, the chance to talk to him a little, find out what was going on might be better.
‘I’ll make it,’ she said finally.
In fact, Stephen had to get up to go to the loo. She pretended to be busying herself at the sink, but instead watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was very thin, even though his frame was big – she felt, suddenly, as if she should be feeding him up, like Lilian. His navy blue T-shirt was hanging off him, his flat stomach visible as it flapped up. But though his torso looked young and taut, his gait was an old man’s. It was pitiful to see.
Ten minutes later, with the tea brewing nice and strongly in a brown pot, Rosie had found fresh milk, an untouched box of eggs and an unopened packet of bacon in the fridge. She lit the range (which took a couple of goes; Rosie had never used an Aga before), located a frying pan and started to cook up what she decided to call brunch. Stephen came back to find the kitchen warm and smelling good; Rosie turned round to see him scrubbed and looking a lot better, in a clean T-shirt, with wet hair.
‘That’s more like it,’ she remarked.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I was hungry,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m eating your food. You are quite at liberty to attempt to perform a citizen’s arrest.’
Stephen sniffed. ‘And is that all for you? Is that how you keep your sweetshop-based figure?’
‘Can we keep the personal remarks to your health please?’
‘Sorry,’ said Stephen, looking a bit sheepish, as if he’d overstepped the mark and knew it. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your figure. In fact …’
‘Ahem,’ said Rosie.
There was a silence while Rosie dished up two platefuls. The bacon hadn’t been in a packet, but simply wrapped in wax paper. Rosie wondered if it was from a pig he had actually known. That would have made her feel a bit awkward, until she started cooking it. It smelled heavenly. She set down two huge earthenware mugs filled with strong tea. She’d added sugar to Stephen’s. In her experience, everyone liked sugar in their tea really. Anything other than milk and two was just a nod to convention. She saw Stephen look at it, weighing up his need to be ornery and difficult against his obvious hunger and a bit of a hangover.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell anyone that you lowered yourself to actually eating. I’ll tell them you wouldn’t talk to me and turned away and went boo-hoo in a corner.’
‘Is that meant to shock me out of my latent depression?’ said Stephen lazily. ‘Congratulations. You’re clearly an eminent psychiatrist. Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘No, it’s meant to get you to eat your breakfast,’ said Rosie, putting out some ketchup.
Sighing heavily, Stephen sat down, carefully favouring his injured leg. Once again, Rosie found herself desperate to take a look at it. He was being so stupid and bloody-minded, as if ignoring the problem would make it go away. And it was so pointless and attention-seeking. She wondered idly if this was what having children was like, as she put her hand on his fork.
‘But first,’ she said, handing over the antibiotic.
‘More pills?’ groaned Stephen. ‘You came all this way just to give me more pills?’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘I came for your wit, charm and conversation. Now, do I have to make my arm into an aeroplane?’
Stephen looked longingly at his breakfast.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ said Rosie. ‘Bbbbbrrrrmmmm … bbrrm …’
‘Stop it! Shut up!’
At first Rosie thought he was joking with her, then she realised, somehow, that he was genuinely distressed.
‘Could you stop that noise please?’ He pulled himself together, then, quickly and without comment, swallowed the pill and started to eat his breakfast, shovelling it in like a man who hadn’t eaten properly for a long time.
Rosie sat back, staring at him. There had been genuine anger – no, fear, of course. Anger was just fear made loud. About what, her pretending to be an aeroplane? That was daft. And serious too. He needed help.
They sat in silence, eating, Stephen’s ears a little pink as he cleared his plate at rapid speed, then sat back swallowing his tea. No words were spoken till Rosie finally said, ‘Thank you, Rosie, for the delicious breakfast.’
‘Thanks,’ mumbled Stephen, who had gone completely into himself again. Rosie picked up the pills.
