onions. Whatever you do with onions they’ll make you cry. Chewing bread, or cutting them underwater, it’s a load of nonsense. I tried to pull myself together, really, what was wrong with me? Of course I missed my parents, and yes, now and again I was lonely, but I’d just had a night of moonlight passion, the dolphins were back and I was being paid a great deal of money to do the job I loved in a place that I loved.
I smiled ruefully at Harry.
“Oh forget it… I’m suffering from the effects of the picnic,” I said, slicing another onion.
“So, what’s the weather like today Fin?” Harry asked in a gentle teasing tone.
My mind flitted to the absence of Baxter and Nelson, the irritation of Oliver Dean, my morbid thoughts on my parents, and sighed.
“Oh, that’s easy. Tinned tomato. Watered down tinned tomato with sliced white bread that’s slightly stale and a scraping of marge.”
I caught Harry’s eye and we burst out laughing.
Chapter Nine
Oliver and I spent the afternoon in the kitchen being very, very polite to each other.
“May I use this chopping board?”
“Oh, please do.”
“Too much sage, do you think?”
“Not sure, what do you think?”
And so on.
The day was mercifully punctuated with various callers who on the pretext of returning various bits of flotsam and jetsam from the picnic (amongst them my jeans – oh god) came to have a good gawp at Oliver Dean. It seemed most of them knew him from TV, or magazines, the kilt wearing went down a treat with a lot of elbow nudges going on. Even Breadpudding arrived clutching a copy of his book for him to sign, much to Nancy’s amusement. “Wouldn’t you know she’d be a star fucker,” Nancy whispered outrageously to me, making me splutter with laughter. Nancy gave me a huge wink, and I winked back, glad that any imagined tension between us was gone.
At one point in the kitchen we had Richard, Will, Mrs Trevellyon (who had been driven up by Will) and Pritti, all sitting around the table drinking tea and commenting on the onions. Oliver seemed a little taken aback by this swarm of people. Harry was in his element, making tea and flirting like mad with everyone.
Everyone but Jace, I realised with a stab of remorse. I was just going to ask Pritti, in a horribly convoluted roundabout way where he was when Harry did the job for me.
“And where is that ravishing son of yours, Mrs Rampersaud? I hope he behaved himself at the picnic yesterday?”
Pritti covered her mouth with her hand, and simpered at Harry. (He had that effect on most of the women in Port Charles, although it was fairly obvious even to the most unsophisticated among us that they were barking up the wrong tree.)
She gave that wonderful side to side nod, waggling her head and said, “I think my son was touched by the sun and the moon yesterday, Mr Harry, he was still lying in bed this morning, smiling at the ceiling. But, I must let him lay there, he is my son and I although I wish with all my heart for him to marry, I know it will not happen if I nag him. So, I took him in his tea, and let him sleep, then he ran off to Newquay with his surfing board thing later on, but I think he will spend all day lying on the beach like a, like a beach bum.”
“He must be very tired,” Harry said gravely, “Perhaps he overdid it yesterday?”
Oliver glanced sharply at me, and I turned away, busying myself at the sink. Damn Harry and his bloody barbed comments. Oliver guessed that Jace was the cause of my drunken appearance in the library, I could tell by his face.
The phone rang, giving me the opportunity to escape. I missed Nelson and his supernatural early warning system. It was my friend Martha calling from London, I excused myself and took the call in my office.
Martha was a food historian and a great pal. We’d met through Harry about five years ago, and had got on famously.
“I hear you have the great Oliver Dean with you, you lucky thing,” her husky
I smiled ruefully at Harry.
“Oh forget it… I’m suffering from the effects of the picnic,” I said, slicing another onion.
“So, what’s the weather like today Fin?” Harry asked in a gentle teasing tone.
My mind flitted to the absence of Baxter and Nelson, the irritation of Oliver Dean, my morbid thoughts on my parents, and sighed.
“Oh, that’s easy. Tinned tomato. Watered down tinned tomato with sliced white bread that’s slightly stale and a scraping of marge.”
I caught Harry’s eye and we burst out laughing.
Chapter Nine
Oliver and I spent the afternoon in the kitchen being very, very polite to each other.
“May I use this chopping board?”
“Oh, please do.”
“Too much sage, do you think?”
“Not sure, what do you think?”
And so on.
The day was mercifully punctuated with various callers who on the pretext of returning various bits of flotsam and jetsam from the picnic (amongst them my jeans – oh god) came to have a good gawp at Oliver Dean. It seemed most of them knew him from TV, or magazines, the kilt wearing went down a treat with a lot of elbow nudges going on. Even Breadpudding arrived clutching a copy of his book for him to sign, much to Nancy’s amusement. “Wouldn’t you know she’d be a star fucker,” Nancy whispered outrageously to me, making me splutter with laughter. Nancy gave me a huge wink, and I winked back, glad that any imagined tension between us was gone.
At one point in the kitchen we had Richard, Will, Mrs Trevellyon (who had been driven up by Will) and Pritti, all sitting around the table drinking tea and commenting on the onions. Oliver seemed a little taken aback by this swarm of people. Harry was in his element, making tea and flirting like mad with everyone.
Everyone but Jace, I realised with a stab of remorse. I was just going to ask Pritti, in a horribly convoluted roundabout way where he was when Harry did the job for me.
“And where is that ravishing son of yours, Mrs Rampersaud? I hope he behaved himself at the picnic yesterday?”
Pritti covered her mouth with her hand, and simpered at Harry. (He had that effect on most of the women in Port Charles, although it was fairly obvious even to the most unsophisticated among us that they were barking up the wrong tree.)
She gave that wonderful side to side nod, waggling her head and said, “I think my son was touched by the sun and the moon yesterday, Mr Harry, he was still lying in bed this morning, smiling at the ceiling. But, I must let him lay there, he is my son and I although I wish with all my heart for him to marry, I know it will not happen if I nag him. So, I took him in his tea, and let him sleep, then he ran off to Newquay with his surfing board thing later on, but I think he will spend all day lying on the beach like a, like a beach bum.”
“He must be very tired,” Harry said gravely, “Perhaps he overdid it yesterday?”
Oliver glanced sharply at me, and I turned away, busying myself at the sink. Damn Harry and his bloody barbed comments. Oliver guessed that Jace was the cause of my drunken appearance in the library, I could tell by his face.
The phone rang, giving me the opportunity to escape. I missed Nelson and his supernatural early warning system. It was my friend Martha calling from London, I excused myself and took the call in my office.
Martha was a food historian and a great pal. We’d met through Harry about five years ago, and had got on famously.
“I hear you have the great Oliver Dean with you, you lucky thing,” her husky
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