Page 89 of Pull Me Under

‘I’m cooking dinner.’

‘For who? Your dad? Isn’t he a cod and chips man?’

I grind out a grimace. ‘Not my dad. And it’s none of your business.’

‘Oh my God.’ Her whole face lights up. ‘You’re cooking for Brynn.’

Pretty sure Nina is a witch.

‘It’s none of⁠—’

‘This is the most exciting thing that’s happened all month.’

‘It’s the third of the month.’

‘And already you’re providing entertainment.’ She grabs my basket, rifles through it. ‘Let’s see what we’re working with. Pasta, good. Jar of—’ She stops. Looks at me. Looks at the jar. Back at me. ‘Jude. No.’

‘What?’

‘Jarred sauce? You’re trying to impress a woman with jarred sauce?’

‘I’m not trying to impress anyone.’

‘You’re a terrible liar.’ She pulls the jar out, examines it with open horror. ‘Does this even have real tomatoes in it? Or is it just red-coloured sadness?’

‘It says tomato on the label.’

‘Oh, lovey’ She puts it back on the shelf like it’s contaminated. ‘Come with me. We’re fixing this.’

I don’t argue.

She leads me through the aisles, plucking things from shelves with the confidence of someone who knows what she’s doing. Fresh tomatoes. Basil. Garlic. Olive oil. A lemon.

‘Peter used to make this for me,’ she says, and her voice only catches a little. ‘Date Night Pasta, he called it. Said the secret was the lemon – just a squeeze at the end, for brightness.’ She pauses, a tomato in her hand, her gaze somewhere far away. ‘He made it the night he proposed. Burned the garlic, set off the smoke alarm, and I said yes anyway.’

I don’t know what to say. Never do, when people hand you a piece of their broken heart and trust you not to drop it.

‘Sounds like him,’ I manage.

‘It was.’ She blinks, comes back, drops the tomato in my basket. ‘Fresh pasta, not dried – Dot keeps the good stuff behind the counter. And don’t overcook it. Peter always said—’ She stops. Swallows. ‘Well. You’ll figure it out.’

Twenty minutes later I’m at the counter, wallet lighter, watching Nina head for the door.

‘Thanks,’ I call after her. ‘For the help.’

She waves without turning. ‘Don’t mess it up, Harding. Peter’s recipe deserves better than that.’

The bell jingles. Through the shop window, I watch her pause on the pavement, pulling her cardigan tighter.

And I see Tom.

He’s across the street, just come out of the chandlery, and he’s stopped dead. Staring at Nina like she’s the only thing in the world worth looking at. Like he’s been looking at her for years and can’t figure out how to stop.

She doesn’t notice. Keeps walking, head down, arms wrapped around herself.

Tom watches her go. Then shakes himself, shoves his hands in his pockets, and heads the other way.

‘At least she’s talking about him now.’