Julia knew that Hugh’s room was the attic. She had never been up there but Connie had told her that it had been converted especially for her eldest son. It even had an en suite bathroom so that except for food he could be completely self-sufficient up there. The legal eagle’s eyrie!
As Jean clumped heavily up the stairs Julia got busy. First she put all the purchases aw
ay, whipping around opening cupboards to check that everything was where she remembered it. She unpacked the tools of her trade and stepped into the cool, walk-in stone pantry and took out four smooth, brown farm eggs. She fetched a loaf of bread from the bread-bin and a few ham slices from the kitchen refrigerator.
She put the eggs on to poach and quickly toasted four rounds of bread, buttering them and laying on the ham slices. Jean must have lit the black coal-burning range when she came in, but Julia decided to use the electric one this morning. Although she loved cooking over flame, it always took her a few days to reaccustom herself to the element of risk involved.
While the eggs stayed warm in the oven she used Buster to make a quick Hollandaise sauce, hoping the ghastly row wouldn’t annoy the man upstairs.
She had just placed the eggs on the rounds of toast and was pouring the sauce over the top when Jean reappeared to fetch the window-cleaner. Julia asked if she would mind taking Hugh’s breakfast in, on her way upstairs.
‘But I told you, he doesn’t eat breakfast,’ Jean regarded the beautifully set tray in dismay. ‘He told me he likes Eggs Benedict,’ fibbed Julia. ‘And it can’t hurt to offer. He won’t be able to start work until you’ve finished.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Jean dubiously. ‘Poached eggs is it?’
‘Poached eggs,’ agreed Julia with a grin. Good, plain cooking was Jean’s forte; garnish was a foreign language.
Half an hour later, having eaten her own eggs, Julia was washing the dishes when the tray was returned.
‘Good morning,’ she carolled cheerfully to the man filling the doorway.
‘Good morning,’ he returned quietly, setting the tray down on the kitchen table. He had eaten everything, Julia noticed.
‘Would you like some coffee now?’ she turned to ask.
‘No thank you.’ He watched her hands drip soap suds on to the linoleum floor.
‘I hope you didn’t say anything too indiscreet to Mrs B.’ Julia met his level stare.
‘I’m never indiscreet.’
‘How boring,’ said Julia, believing it. ‘I suppose you’re now satisfied that I’m not the notorious Janette. Did you grill Mrs B under the bedside lamp?’ What was it about him that urged her to tease. Perhaps because he reminded her of Phillip … so correct, so thick-skinned.
‘She sang your praises unasked. Thank you for the eggs, but they weren’t necessary. I never eat breakfast.’
‘Then you should.’ Julia was genuinely concerned. ‘Someone of your size especially. You need the fuel to last you through the morning, otherwise you’re burning stored energy.’
‘I have a slow metabolic rate,’ Hugh Walton replied, so meekly that Julia frowned as she returned to her washing up.
‘I mean it. Could you bring your tray over here so I can wash up your things?’ As she took his plate she said, with a trace of smugness. ‘You must admit now that I can cook.’
‘I admit you can poach eggs,’ he said in a neutral voice, and Julia laughed with delight.
‘I was beginning to think you didn’t have a sense of humour.’ She could just imagine Mrs B’s apologetic presentation, but he had known the eggs for what they were.
‘That would be a fatal defect in my family,’ he said gravely. ‘But what makes you think I was joking?’
Julia looked at him uncertainly. Had she imagined the undercurrents to his remark? Could he really be totally without humour? ‘Reserving judgment are you?’ she asked, rubbing her nose with a soapy finger.
‘Are you always afflicted with legalese, or is it especially for my benefit?’
‘I can’t help it,’ Julia admitted. ‘It just comes out. You’re so … so …’
‘Big?’ he reminded her gently.
‘Judge-like. I can see you in a wig and black-gown putting on the black cap.’
Something shivered behind the impassive wall of his eyes, a fleeting pain that darted straight to Julia’s tender heart. There were depths to the placid grey waters. No, not really like Phillip at all; she couldn’t treat him with the slick superficiality she accorded her employer. Impelled by a vague and totally unfounded desire to distract him from whatever it was that had shadowed her flippant words, Julia added: