Honey(49)

“We built a garden and kitchen in a local school. We grow vegetables, teach kids about growing vegetables. Yesterday we made butternut squash ravioli with Year Four.” He laughs. “It’s kind of cute.”

“That’s, really cute.” She reckons he must be lying.

He winks. “But not quite a PhD.”

If he winks again she thinks she’ll have a hernia. “I’ve always believed that kids should eat more vegetables.”

“Yrsa doesn’t believe that.” Blake leans in to tap away her ash. “She’s just saying that because she finds you attractive.”

“No, I care about the children.”

Blake laughs, coughs, and needs to be poured a glass of water. “Yrsa is not a maternal person.”

Isiah acts like he hasn’t heard, and says, “If you care about children eating vegetables you should come and visit the school.”

“That would be nice.”

“Christ.” Blake rolls her eyes.

“Do you—” An alarm goes off on his phone. “Sorry, sorry.” He struggles to get it out of his pocket to stop it. “That’ll be the chicken.”

As he makes his way up the steps, Blake gives Yrsa a side smile. Yrsa leans across the table, “Why didn’t you tell me your grandson was so good-looking?”

“Is he?” Blake exhales smoke.

“Is he single?”

“How should I know?”

“Why did you tell him I wasn’t maternal?”

Blake raises her eyebrows.

“Does he always cook dinner like this?”

“Oh yes, don’t think you’re special. My grandson is a chef.”

“I just can’t believe you wouldn’t introduce us sooner. Where’s your sense of civic duty?”

“If you have sex with my grandson you’re not allowed back into my house.”

“Who said I even fancy—”

Isiah reappears with a large dish that he places in the center of the table.

“Let me just get the rice.” He dashes back off.

His bum looks amazing when he runs.

Blake peers at the chicken. “Don’t think you’re special.”

And he’s back with a plate of yellow rice. “So, it’s chicken thighs with prunes, lemons, and almonds.”

“It looks great, thanks so much.” Yrsa smiles up at him.

“Glad you think so.” He still has the tea towel over his shoulder. “Thanks for bringing the wine.”

“Don’t thank me, it’s disgusting.”

Blake takes a sip and immediately throws it onto the grass. “I’m too old to drink such shite. You can get another bottle from the cupboard.”

Isiah gets back up and runs off again. Yrsa starts serving the food, telling herself to absolutely play it cool.

“Okay.” He’s back with a new wine, taking a bottle opener from his back pocket he screws metal into cork. “Can I?”

“Thank you.”

“Cheers.” Blake raises her glass.

They take a drink and start on the food.

“Fuck, this is good,” Yrsa says without thinking.

He blushes. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up in London, my family are from the Caribbean—mainly Jamaica,” she replies.

“And did your parents grow up here, or…?”

“Yep, it was their parents who came over.”

He nods. He is eating in a slow and considered way. “I’d love to go to Jamaica.”

“Yeah I’ve never been,” Yrsa says.

“Really?”

“My dad always says we’ll go but we’ve never got round to it.”

Over the fence, in the garden of Yrsa’s house, students start playing music. She can hear the table tennis going.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“My mum’s Iranian—that’s Rue’s side of the family.” He smiles at his grandmother. “And my dad’s Nigerian Ghanaian.”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t give him any of the Scots,” Blake says.

“And have you been to any of those places?” Yrsa asks.

“I’ve been to all of those places.”

Yrsa eats a large spoonful of rice so she doesn’t say anything embarrassing like “wow.”

“Did you do your undergrad here too?” he asks.

“I did, sociology.”

“I’d have loved to do that. I was listening to Afua Hirsch on Woman’s Hour the other day talking about identity. Must be super interesting to learn why we do what we do.”

He knows about Afua Hirsch and Woman’s Hour.

“This really is delicious,” Yrsa says again. She reckons she is special, and that he doesn’t cook like this for just anyone.

“It’s the least I could do. I always eat the cakes you bring round,” he says.

“Ahh.” Yrsa gives Blake a smile.

“That pineapple one the other day was so good.”

“You come up and visit a lot then?” Yrsa asks.

“I try to. Do you—” He’s cut off again by another timer on his phone. “Speaking of pudding.”