‘Thanks, but no,’ I say firmly.
He opens the rice cooker and spoons the rice onto an enormous, white, square plate. He takes the lobster halves and lays them on the rice. Carefully, he spoons the melted butter mixture over his meal.
He looks up at me. ‘So, you’re just going to watch me eat?’
‘Yes. If you don’t mind.’
‘Hmm … Want a double chocolate chip cookie instead? They’re very good.’
I hesitate. ‘Um.’
‘Her majesty, Lady Margarite Hum Loo baked them.’
I smile. ‘She did?’
‘She’s an awesome baker,’ he says persuasively.
‘In that case, OK.’
He opens a tin and brings it to me. They are in the shapes of animals.
I take a cat. ‘Thank you.’ I bite into it. ‘It’s actually delicious,’ I say, surprised.
‘Bring the whole tin with you,’ he says, and leads the way to his dining table, which has been set for one.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘How about a glass of Pinot Blanc?’
I shake my head, fascinated by the care he has taken to cook his own meal. Only a true gourmet would go to such great pains to prepare a feast for one, but he seems unaware of how unusual his behavior is.
He fishes a bottle of wine from a bucket of ice, and pours himself a glass of wheat-colored liquid. Then he sits down and lifts his knife and fork. I watch him cut out a piece of lobster and, in a sensual act of pure pleasure, slip it into his mouth, and suddenly I’m salivating like Pavlov’s dog. My cookie seems to be a childish indulgence when I watch him savor every mouthful. As if each mouthful was a unique work of art that he has been given the privilege of experiencing.
I watch him eat, and it is a joy to do so. We talk and we laugh. He is easy and funny. There are only two or three bites left on his plate when there is a shrill scream from somewhere in the apartment.
‘Good timing, kids,’ Shane says good-naturedly, and stands up.
‘Shall I wait for you here?’ I ask.
‘No, you don’t want to miss this,’ he says with a laugh.
I follow him to the entrance of a room painted in bright colors with two cot
s and lots of toys.
‘It was not an accident!’ a beautiful, blue-eyed little girl with her hands on her hips screams furiously at a boy who has his arms crossed.
‘What’s going on here?’ Shane asks calmly.
‘He,’ she fumes, throwing a fierce glance toward her cousin before bringing it back again to Shane, ‘banged me on the head with his train while I was sleeping.’
Shane moves into the room. ‘Let me see that head,’ he says.
She touches the top of her head gingerly and cries pitifully, ‘I’ve been treating him happy and he just wants to kill me.’ She takes a shuddering breath, and, opening out one palm beseechingly toward him, demands. ‘Why? Why?’
Shane gets to his haunches in front of her. ‘Of course, he doesn’t want to kill you, sweetie. He’s your cousin.’
‘Yes, he does. Yes, he does,’ she insists, striking the sides of her little body violently. She points at Tommy dramatically. ‘He just wants me to die out here.’
Shane busies himself with gently feeling the top of her head. ‘Now, why on earth would Tommy want to kill you?’