The Piano Man Project Page 0,30

know.’

‘Nobby name.’

Honey laughed under her breath, despite herself. ‘Maybe. He’ll probably still be fabulous though.’

‘Probably? You’ve never met him, have you?’ Hal said. ‘Don’t tell me. He’s another fucking pianist, isn’t he?’

‘He’s another fucking pianist,’ Honey said agreeably, enjoying the fact that she could wind him up. ‘And he’s coming here, so you better not disrupt things by yelling for whisky like someone’s grandad, you hear me?’

‘You’re having some random bloke you don’t know from Adam in your flat? Are you completely stupid?’

‘And I’m cooking for him too,’ Honey said. ‘Dinner.’ Hal’s answering bark of laughter annoyed her to hell. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, making no attempt to hide his clear amusement.

‘I can cook,’ she said, even though it was a blatant lie.

‘No you can’t … But I can,’ he said, and the change in his voice pulled Honey up short. He wasn’t kidding around anymore, that was for sure, although she couldn’t put her finger on where the conversation had turned serious.

‘I might make him spaghetti hoops à la toast,’ she said.

‘You could. Or I could teach you how to make bolognese properly,’ Hal said softly. ‘If you like.’

Honey swallowed. ‘I’d like …’ she said, eventually, ‘I’d like that a lot.’

‘Go get a pen and paper, Strawberry Girl. You’re going shopping.’

CHAPTER TEN

An hour later, Honey found herself wandering around the supermarket armed with a long list, at the bottom of which she’d grudgingly written, whisky. If Hal was going to teach her to make bolognese from scratch he was going to need a drink by the end of it. She was only glad he was allowing her off making the pasta by hand too, a reluctant concession to the fact that she didn’t own a pasta machine. Eyeing the box of ready-made bolognese in the fridge, she resolutely approached the butcher’s counter to buy minced beef and pancetta.

Just heading for that counter at all was a bit of a first; meat generally came pre-packed into Honey’s shopping basket, most often already prepared or cooked. And carrots? Who put carrots into bolognese? Not the man from Dolmio, surely. She’d never spotted carrots in her bolognese, but then she’d never eaten bolognese that wasn’t produced in a mass-market kitchen by people in white hairnets. Throwing carrots into her basket, she added celery and bay leaves, smiling benignly at another woman as if this was just her regular weekend shop.

Wine was next on the list. Thank God, something she understood. Hal had insisted she was to buy something decent, which frankly seemed a waste on cooking, but all the same she added a mid-price rioja, and after a moment’s hesitation she went back and added a second bottle. If she didn’t drink it beforehand, she’d need more wine to recreate the bolognese for Robin on Friday anyway, so it wasn’t an extravagance.

Queuing at the checkout, Honey basked in a small glow of pride as she eyed her items. A wedge of parmesan, a bunch of bay leaves, fresh pasta. She felt practically cosmopolitan, which made a refreshing change from the mild embarrassment she experienced with her usual ruck of ready meals and tins. Maybe she should do this cooking lark more often. She dismissed the thought as fleetingly as it had surfaced; baby steps. She needed to make this bolognese first without burning the house down or being killed by her irritable neighbour if she failed to follow instructions.

‘Do you have an apron you can wear?’ Hal perched on a stool at her breakfast bar.

‘I don’t need an apron to warm soup up,’ Honey said. ‘But I’ve washed my hands, if that’s any consolation.’

‘Is your hair tied back?’

‘What is this, a military operation?’ she huffed. ‘Yes. It’s in two plaits.’

Hal raised one eyebrow over the top of his sunnies. ‘Like a milk maid?’

The off-hand, suggestive tone of his throwaway comment warmed her cheeks.

He’d been in her flat for a few minutes, and he was turning over the ingredients she’d bought in his hands. He brought the garlic close to his face and inhaled deeply.

‘Will it do?’ she asked, made nervous by his overwhelming presence in her small sanctuary. He looked like an exotic bird who’d landed in a common-or-garden budgie’s cage, out of place and temporary.

He nodded curtly. ‘Frying pan. Olive oil. Chop the onions.’

She bit her lip and grabbed the frying pan out from the drawer beneath the oven.

‘I’m no good at chopping things,’ she murmured, halving the onion and hacking it with inexperienced fingers into thick slices. Hal reached