I meant to mention that.’ He’s smiling, very pleased with himself.
‘Yeah. When did you do all this?’ I’m feeling slightly exasperated.
‘About 6 a.m. I couldn’t sleep, and you were dead to the world. I came in here to make myself a cup of tea and decided to try and make sense of it all. Everything was everywhere, and the cupboards hadn’t been dusted for a while.’
‘It’s very kind of you, and it might make sense to you – but I can’t find anything,’ I say. I was going to be cool about this, but I’m now a bit pissed off at his comment about the cupboards being dusty. ‘I knew where everything was before.’ I can hear the snap in my voice as I now scramble around the cupboard looking for the filter coffee – which has definitely disappeared.
‘If you’re looking for the filter coffee, I put it in an airtight container,’ Alex says, reading my mind. ‘Coffee loses its aroma and taste very quickly once you open it, it’s due to the roasting process. For every twenty-four hours you leave coffee exposed to air at room temperature, it loses ten percent of its shelf life.’
‘Thanks for the Ted Talk,’ I murmur, taking down the container that Tom used to keep his maggots in for fishing. ‘God, I should have thrown this out.’
‘Yeah, it’s not exactly Conran, but if you keep it in the cupboard, no one will see it,’ Alex says.
‘I don’t care if anyone sees it.’ I dig into the brown arabica sand aggressively. ‘I just would rather not have my coffee in this container, because it was Tom’s and he used it for live bait.’
‘Ugh, gross.’ Alex pulls a face and then rummages in his carrier bag and places a large paper bag on the kitchen counter.
I pour boiling water into the cafetière and push the plunger down with some force.
‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he says, sounding wounded. ‘You were saying last night how chaotic you are, and when I looked everything was in the wrong cupboards. I didn’t throw anything away… well, only stuff that was obviously rubbish.’
This makes me cross. I feel like I’ve been invaded. ‘You might have thrown something that was obviously rubbish to you – but to me it might be precious.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think. I was just organising the kitchen for you.’
‘Yeah, I know – you were just being kind, but’ – I turn to him – ‘this is my space, you know?’
He nods slowly, as he begins to take items out of the paper bag: fresh baguettes, French cheese, a jar of fancy jam. ‘I bought butter… you haven’t got any,’ he says, holding a packet of Normandy butter in his palm, like a peace offering. And it’s probably me being oversensitive, but it feels like a reprimand, a judgement.
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I stay at yours most of the time, so there’s no point in buying perishable stuff that’ll go off – that’s why there’s no butter in the fridge.’ I realise that sounded a bit snippy, and in light of the fact he’s emptying a bag of delicatessen loveliness onto my kitchen counter, I’m being quite mean. ‘I’ll get the plates and cutlery,’ I add, opening the cupboard door that used to be home to the plates and cups. ‘Aah,’ I say, slamming the door.
‘Sorry, I moved the plates, thought they’d be more convenient near the cooker.’
‘Convenient for whom?’ I can’t help asking.
He looks up from slicing a French loaf. ‘I only did it to make life easier for you. Can’t I do anything right, Hannah?’
I sigh, and plonk the plates down on the table.
‘Perhaps you’d rather Tom… or Harry was here instead of me?’ he says peevishly.
‘You’re being stupid now,’ I say, not wanting to even engage in this conversation.
‘Stupid? You come over to mine all the time and yet I stay one night here and you start talking about it being your space, and feeling invaded. Harry’s texting every five minutes and I’ve dared to use Tom’s precious container for bloody coffee and—’
‘Harry texted once about a work matter and the container isn’t a sodding keepsake, I just don’t want my coffee stored where live maggots once lived.’ I open my arms in despair. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Tom… or Harry, or anyone else for that matter.’ I look up into the air. ‘I can’t even believe I’m having this conversation.’
‘What am I expected to think? You don’t seem to want me here,