She follows him into the kitchen. Two steaks sit on paper on the counter, a bottle of wine sits in a silver wine bucket. He’s listening to Ed Sheeran on the Sonos sound system and seems to be in very high spirits.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ he says. ‘What would you like? G & T? Bloody Mary? Wine? Beer?’
‘I’ll have a beer,’ she says, ‘thank you.’
He passes her a Peroni and she takes a sip. She should have had a big breakfast, she realises, feeling the first mouthful already heading straight to her head.
‘Cheers,’ he says, holding his bottle to hers.
‘Cheers,’ she echoes. There is a bowl of his favourite ridged crisps on the counter and she takes a large handful. She needs to be sober enough to stay in control but drunk enough to go through with what she came here to do.
‘So,’ she says, finding a chopping board in one of the drawers and a knife in another, taking the tomatoes out of the shopping bag. ‘How’s the writing going?’
‘God, do not ask,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘It has not been a productive week, let’s put it that way.’
‘I guess that’s how it goes, isn’t it? It’s a psychological thing.’
‘Hm,’ he says, passing her a serving dish. ‘On the one hand. On the other hand, all the best writers just get on with it. It’s like deciding not to go for a jog because it’s raining. It’s just an excuse. So, I must try harder.’ He smiles at her and for a moment he seems almost humble, almost real, and for a moment she thinks maybe today won’t pan out how she thought it would pan out, that maybe they will simply have lunch and talk and then he will give her the passports and let her go with nothing more than a hug on his doorstep.
‘Fair enough,’ she says, feeling Michael’s hyper-sharpened knife sliding through the soft tomatoes like they are butter. ‘I suppose it’s just a job, like any other. You have to show up and get it done.’
‘Exactly,’ he says, ‘exactly.’ He downs the second half of his beer and drops the empty bottle in the recycling bin. He pulls another from the fridge and then holds one out to Lucy. She shakes her head and shows him her bottle, still nearly full.
‘Drink up,’ he says. ‘I have a beautiful Sancerre chilling here for you, your favourite.’
‘Sorry,’ she says, bringing the bottle back to her lips. ‘I’ve been on the wagon for quite a long time.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Not deliberately,’ she replies. ‘Just haven’t had the money.’
‘Well, let’s call this Operation Get Lucy off the Wagon, shall we? Come on. Drink up.’
And there it is, that edge, so close to friendly, yet just a degree towards aggression. Not a light-hearted request, but a command. She smiles and downs half the bottle.
He watches her intently. ‘Good girl,’ he says, ‘good girl. And the rest.’
She smiles grimly and necks the rest, almost choking on it as it goes down too fast.
He beams at her, shark-like, and says, ‘Oh, good girl. Good girl.’
He takes the empty bottle from her and then turns to pull two wine glasses from a cupboard. ‘Shall we?’ he says, gesturing towards the door into the garden.
‘Let me just finish this.’ She indicates the tomatoes still only half chopped.
‘Finish that later,’ he instructs. ‘Let’s have a drink first.’
She follows him out to the patio, holding the bowl of crisps and her handbag.
He pours two large glasses of wine and pushes one across the table towards her. They toast each other again and then he pinions her with his eyes. ‘So, Lucy Lou, tell me, tell me everything. What have you been doing for the past ten years?’
‘Ha!’ she says shrilly. ‘Where on earth do you want me to start?’
‘How about you start with the man who gave you your daughter?’
Lucy’s stomach flips. She’d known from the moment Michael set his eyes upon Stella that he would have been thinking about her having sex with another man.
‘Oh, really,’ she says, ‘not much to tell. It was a disaster. But I got Stella out of it. So, you know.’