‘I thought you were checking supplies, not cooking them.’
‘I figured if the power goes off we won’t be able to heat anything up, and whilst I know we can survive on tinned food I thought it would be a good idea to cook up some food we can eat cold. I’m doing marinated chicken wings, and a rice salad, and I’m cooking up some chickpeas and couscous as well. There’s also caviar and crackers, and some very exotic-looking tinned fruit.’ She paused. ‘How is our security?’
‘This place is thankfully pretty sturdy. I’m a little worried about the windows, but if it comes to it we can move into the larder—it’s contained, and I suspect was made with the idea of a storm shelter in mind. We’ll be all right.’
His air of calm authority gave her some much-needed reassurance.
He gestured to the stove. ‘Can I help? It really does smell amazing.’
‘No. I’m good.’ Cooking was providing her with a semblance of normality. Here in the windowless kitchen it was possible to pretend there was no storm out there. ‘Though, to be honest, it’s a while since I’ve cooked from scratch, so odds are the food may not be that good.’
A small frown creased his brow and she hurried on.
‘Do you cook?’ A deft basting of the chicken wings and she popped them in the oven. ‘I may as well interview you whilst I have the chance.’ Professionally. ‘In a typical day, what do you eat?’
‘Are you sure anyone will be interested in this?’
‘Of course they will. It makes you more human.’
‘OK. In the mornings I have a cup of coffee at home. I get to work and maybe have a brioche or a pastry at my desk. At lunch, it depends where I am—if I’m in the office I’ll make myself a sandwich or a salad; if I’m out I’ll grab something on the run. Then in the evening I have to admit it’s usually a takeaway or a ready meal or something pretty basic. Pasta or an omelette. I snack in between on fruit and nuts, and every year I make a resolution to learn how to cook.’
As if uncomfortable with sharing even that much information with the public, he leant back with a small shake of the head.
‘What about you? Where did you learn to cook like this?’
‘My parents both loved cooking and they made it a family thing. Right from when my sisters and I were little we cooked. The kitchen was the hub of the house and we all loved it.’
Memories came of Rosa, Lauren and herself, all giggling at her father’s daft jokes while her mother was stirring a sauce, of her parents’ amicable bickering over which herb would work best, the well-thumbed recipe books, the scent of garlic sauteing... Happy memories. Memories she’d once wanted to recreate with her own family and now never would.
Stop. Focus.
‘What about your parents? Did they like cooking with you and Elvira?’
‘Cooking was never their forte.’
His voice was casual enough, but she sensed a reserve, a careful vetting of his words.
‘So you didn’t bake with your mum or barbecue with your dad or vice versa?’
‘Nope.’
Ap
ril waited, but that appeared to be it.
‘So, give me a day in your life. You get up, go to work, come home?’
‘Yup. That may sound dull, but because my work is so diverse it really isn’t.’
‘So you don’t get lonely?’
‘Nope.’
‘And you’ve never been tempted to share your life with a partner?’
‘Nope.’
April narrowed her eyes, checked the chicken and regrouped. It had been a while since she’d interviewed someone who quite simply didn’t want to be interviewed. Truth be told she’d never interviewed anyone so reluctant. Perhaps she needed a more open-ended approach.