Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,6
and our contact fizzled out. I’m not sure why.
Terry had gone to Italy on holiday once the case was resolved, then I started my new training at Guy’s and things just didn’t seem to get off the ground between us. We exchanged a few texts and phone calls, but they were polite and stilted. Various phrases were batted back and forth: ‘hectic at work’, ‘no time off’, ‘when I get a moment’. Neither of us was prepared to make the next move. Were we both scared? Not ready for a full-on relationship?
‘I’ve made too much chicken korma, so you’d better be staying,’ he said, throwing his comment over his shoulder as he stirred the contents of a pan.
I made a point of looking at my watch as if weighing up his offer. Then I realised he wasn’t even looking my way.
‘Mmm, I think that would be okay,’ I said, taking a sip of wine, tasting citrus and a flinty flavour, but not too chalky – exactly how I wanted it. I had the feeling his choice wasn’t an accident.
Since our near miss over summer, there’d been no one else for me, but I wasn’t sure if Terry was still single. As he poured boiling water on the rice, I glanced around the flat, looking for signs. Had he met someone by now? Was it all too late?
6
Terry beckoned me over to the shiny pebble-dash dining table and presented me with a plate so pungent with cumin, ginger and coriander, I was virtually drooling.
‘I’ve not had anything like this for weeks.’
‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ he said, offering me a bowl of dukkah for sprinkling. ‘These are Moroccan, I’m afraid, not Indian,’ he admitted, as if it were a crime.
The flavours burst open on my tongue the instant I tucked in. I sat back in admiration. ‘When did you learn to cook like this?’
‘Been on a course myself,’ he said, holding his knife and fork on end, either side of his plate, like a child.
‘The only courses I ever do are for work,’ I told him. ‘Memory loss, trauma, delusional behaviour – you name it, I’ve got the T-shirt.’
‘But nothing just for fun? Just for you?’
‘I used to do meditation and spinning at the gym, but…’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘I don’t know. Things fall by the wayside.’
His hair looked freshly washed. Soft dark hair that hung in sculpted curves. Too long to be on trend, too short to make him look vain. He’d always had something old-school and erudite about him. Perhaps it was the battered brogues he was wearing even indoors, the colour of treacle. Or the turned-up collar on his ribbed M&S sweater.
He offered me a naan bread drizzled in rosemary oil. I tugged off a huge chunk, then put half of it back. ‘Sorry, I need to lose weight and get some regular exercise again,’ I admitted, pulling a guilty face.
‘You look fine to me.’ Again, deliberately not looking at me as he spoke.
I shook my head. ‘Seriously, I’m so unfit.’
‘You don’t have to become a copper on the beat for this new project at the Met, you know. You won’t be expected to chase suspects down the street.’
I laughed, but having just filled my mouth with garlic pickle, I spluttered like a choking parrot. I could feel my face turning crimson. Terry leapt from his seat and gave me three sharp whacks between my shoulder blades. I took a gulp of water, feeling stupid and self-conscious. If I was hoping to show him my elegant sophisticated side, I was failing abysmally.
‘When will you get started?’ he asked, sitting down again.
‘Tomorrow, maybe.’
‘Saturday?’
‘I might as well. I’ve only got two weeks. It’s hardly time to do anything.’
‘Hey, don’t forget, you don’t have to solve the case in that time, just give the SIO some new lines of inquiry, some fresh pointers, if you can.’
I studied the tuft of coriander on my fork. ‘It’s a tough ask to search through hundreds of murder files and tease out any that are connected in some way.’
I might have known we’d end up talking about work. It was the glue that held us together. But it wasn’t the only thing. We needed to remind ourselves of that.
Once we’d finished the meal, he insisted on shunting me away from the dirty dishes.
‘Put your feet up,’ he instructed, sending me back to the sofa with a refill of wine. ‘Chopin, Whitney Houston or Glenn Miller?’