The Piano Man Project Page 0,88

burning,’ he called out, thankfully not slurring anymore.

She smiled and opened the door. ‘Liar. I’ve got everything totally under control in here.’

A different man stood in front of her from earlier in the day. A scrubbed-up, freshly scented one in a shirt and tie, and most significantly, a man who’d chosen to come over without the shield of his dark glasses.

He followed her down the hallway into the kitchen, sniffing as he went.

‘Garlic with a hint of pine disinfectant. Unusual, even by your standards,’ he said, and she hurriedly blew out the Christmas candle and steered him towards the dining table.

He examined her efforts as she worked behind the kitchen counter. She glanced at him as he turned her best cutlery over in his hands and rubbed the edge of the oilcloth between his fingers. No doubt it wouldn’t pass his restaurant standards, but at least he didn’t know it was covered in a kitsch Christmas print. It had been the only thing she could find that remotely resembled a tablecloth, a gift from Lucille several years ago.

Honey checked the tray of small crispy potatoes and roasted vegetables and then closed the oven.

‘If you were cooking fillet steak, how long would you cook it for?’ she asked, eyeing the lumps of raw meat on her chopping board as if they were her own kidneys.

‘Not very long. Depends how thick they are and who I’m cooking them for,’ he said, pushing his chair back and making his way over to the breakfast bar. ‘Let me feel them.’

Hal tested the meat’s thickness between his thumb and forefingers, and Honey tried not to admire his hands.

‘Do I grill them?’ she asked.

‘Jesus, no.’ He looked aghast. ‘Get the frying pan. And some butter.’

‘Am I about to have my second cooking lesson?’

‘I can’t let you ruin good steak,’ he said. ‘Now melt some butter until it foams.’

She did as he’d instructed.

‘That sounds about right,’ he said after a minute. ‘Season the steaks well and then lay them in the sizzling butter.’

Honey grinned at the satisfying sizzle as she placed one of the steaks in the pan.

‘Both together?’ she said.

He nodded, and then fell silent.

After a minute or more, she pushed a fork into one to check the underside.

‘Leave it,’ Hal said; an order, not a suggestion. Honey eased the fork out of the meat with raised eyebrows and stepped away from the pan.

A minute or so later, he finally spoke again. ‘Now baste them in the butter and turn them over.’

Honey followed his advice to the letter and then stepped away.

‘Don’t touch them until I tell you they’re ready.’

‘You haven’t asked me how I like my steak.’

‘It’s fillet. You’re having it the only way it should ever be cooked.’

‘Rude,’ she murmured, and saw him smirk into the glass of buck’s fizz she’d just pushed his way.

‘Eurgh. What the fuck is this?’ he said, frowning.

‘Buck’s fizz. It’s for your birthday.’

‘Am I fourteen again?’

‘No, but seeing as you were half cut a few hours ago I thought we’d go in easy,’ she chided.

Hal placed the glass down. ‘Take them out, they’ll be ready.’

Honey frowned. She’d have left the steaks in for far longer.

‘Already? They’ve only just gone in …’

He sighed pointedly. ‘Do I try to tell you how to sell dead people’s clothes and cast-offs?’

Honey huffed. ‘Pre-loved and upcycled, actually.’

‘Take the steaks out. Now.’

He waited enough time for Honey to obey his instructions. ‘We can’t eat them straight away, they need to stand for five.’

Honey stared at them. ‘But they’re ready. You just said so yourself. They’ll go cold.’

Hal rubbed a hand over his mouth as if holding in a string of swear words. ‘You can do everything else while you wait. Warm the plates. Pour some actual wine. Put some music on. Sing “Happy Birthday”. Do anything you like, just don’t touch those goddamn steaks.’

Honey stuck her tongue out at him, and immediately regretted it because it seemed mean.

‘It’s rude to stick your tongue out at a blind person,’ he said.

She didn’t even ask him how he knew.

‘So how old are you today?’ she asked, turning the oven down and sliding a couple of plates in with the potatoes and roasted vegetables. She loosened the plastic lid on a tub of ready-made chilled red wine sauce and stuck it in the microwave, waiting for him to reply.

‘Thirty-four,’ he said. ‘Thirty-four years old and going nowhere fast.’

Honey opened the bottle of cabernet sauvignon that the supermarket advice tab had reliably informed was great with steak.

‘Don’t say that,’