Which made her feel really mean for what she had been thinking. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured.
He just offered a shrug as he turned to put the plate of toast down on the table, followed by a big old-fashioned coffee pot. ‘The two of you never met,’ he told her, and turned away again.
‘Your father?’ She felt compelled to ask next.
Two serviceable white coffee mugs and a couple of white side plates arrived on the table along with milk, sugar and butter dish. ‘He died when I was ten years old.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said again, then clamped her mouth shut. And because they were both aware that it was a natural progression for her to go on and ask if there were any other members of his family, a very loud silence fell.
But she couldn’t ask—though she didn’t understand why she couldn’t.
In an attempt to fill the gap, she reached for the coffee mugs, carefully lining them up in front of her while she racked her brains for something else to say. ‘I would have expected a house the size of this to have a small army of servants to keep it so nice,’ she remarked.
‘They come in on a daily basis during week days,’ he explained, pulling out the chair opposite hers and sitting down. ‘Today is Saturday,’ he added, for no reason that Samantha could see other than to keep the conversation moving.
‘Should I know any of them?’ she asked, picking up the coffee pot.
‘Mrs Saunders, who keeps the house, you knew. As to the rest, I have no idea.’
‘Oh,’ was all she could find to say to that. So she turned her attention to pouring coffee into both of the mugs, adding sugar to one and milk to the other, then she slid the sugared black one across the table towards him.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured a trifle thickly.
She nodded in acknowledgement, took a sip at her coffee, selected a slice of toast, placed it on one of the white side plates, then just sat there blan
kly staring at it.
‘What?’ he said gruffly. ‘Something wrong? Something I—’
‘Knife,’ she explained.
It was his turn to look blank as he stared at the table for a few seconds before he got up and went to a drawer, coming back with several knives which he placed down on the table.
‘You’ve hurt your finger,’ she observed, noticing the heavy plaster wrapping encasing the index finger on his right hand.
‘I dropped a glass,’ he lied, ‘and cut myself when I was picking up the broken pieces. While I’m up, do you want marmalade or jam?’
Samantha shook her head and he sat down again. Picking up her coffee, she sipped at it for a while. He did the same. When she buttered her slice of toast so did he. It was awful, she decided glumly. Neither of them had a single thing worth saying. Strangers did not even cover what they were to each other any more.
‘Did you—?’
‘Have you—?’
Both began speaking at once, and both stopped at once.
‘You go first,’ he invited.
Great, Samantha thought! She’d forgotten what she had been going to say.
Story of my life, she mocked. ‘I think I’ll have that jam.’ She plucked the words out of thin air.
He got up. Her temper began to fray under the stress. ‘I didn’t expect you to get it for me,’ she snapped. ‘All you needed to do was point me in the right direction and I would have managed to find it myself!’
The jam pot landed with a thud on the table. ‘No problem,’ he clipped.
Lying swine, she thought, and came to her feet. He was still standing. ‘Where are you going now?’ He sighed the words out impatiently.
‘It’s you who’s been jumping up and down,’ she threw back.