‘And this one! Look at your hair! How old are you here?’
‘Ten. June 3rd, 1975, Woodford Under 11s Junior Chess Champion.’
‘Such a nerd!’ I say. ‘Do you still play?’
‘Not really. But I’ll give you a game if you don’t mind losing,’ he says.
‘I love losing. So, why can’t we cook?’ I say, as we head downstairs to his kitchen.
‘You’ll see.’ And I do. His kitchen is like a student dig. He has a double electric hob, a microwave and a tiny, none-too-clean oven. I open one cupboard and see three Pot Noodles and two tins of tuna. In the next cupboard is some Tesco own brand pasta. ‘I need a wife,’ he says. ‘A wife who can cook!’
‘What’s in here?’ I say, spying a waist-high fridge in the corner.
‘Don’t look!’ he says, but it’s too late. I open the door and see that his fridge has no shelves at all. The few things in it are all stacked on top of each other at the bottom.
‘What’s that all about?’
‘I broke the shelves a while back, I keep meaning to replace them, but I never get round to it …’ he says.
‘How do you even break a fridge shelf?’
‘Ask Jack Daniels,’ he says.
‘I have never seen anything like that,’ I say. ‘How come the rest of your house is so lovely and your kitchen’s so shit?’
He laughs. ‘I’ve been travelling so much in the last year, it’s not been a priority. I’ll get round to it soon.’
‘Takeaway it is,’ I say.
‘There’s a great Japanese on Parkway, I’ll pop out and get some,’ he says, ‘No, it’s Sunday … pizza?’
‘Pizza’s good,’ I say. ‘Or I see you’re harbouring a lovely selection of Pot Noodles in your cupboard.’
‘Don’t say you like Pot Noodle or I’ll think I’ve dreamt you,’ he says.
‘I don’t mind it, if I’m drunk,’ I say. ‘Let’s get pizza. A bit more sociable, isn’t it?’
We lie on his sofa and eat a spicy meat pizza from his local takeaway. I’d never normally eat meatballs from a delivery place – I work at Fletchers, I know how bad a bad meatball can be. But James fancies meatballs, and I fancy James, and they taste delicious.
‘My friend in New York’s just had a baby and called him “Domino”,’ I say.
‘That’s a terrible name,’ he says.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘If I had a boy I’d call him Genghis,’ he says.
‘Gengis Stephens, nice ring. What about girls’ names?’
‘What do you think’s nice?
‘Don’t know. Lauren’s pretty. Olivia, maybe too posh. Martha?’
‘Martha’s a fat girl’s name,’ he says.
‘No, it’s not!’
‘How about Yasmine Jayde, and Anoushka Rose.’
‘You’re not calling our daughters after Bratz dolls and air fresheners.’
‘I’m the husband, you will obey,’ he says, beating his chest.
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I say. ‘– By the way, do you normally date women a lot younger than you?’ I know Celine is now forty-two, but presumably if he wants children, he’ll want a wife under forty.
‘You’re a few years older than what I’d normally go for,’ he says.
‘Outrageous! You’re pushing fifty!’ I say.
‘Shhhh,’ he puts his finger to my lips.
Truth is we both know his age doesn’t matter. You can knock a year off his real age for every million in his bank account: Forty-five, thirty-five, thirty-three … now he’s my age. Knock another year off for each inch over five foot seven. Twenty-six. A full head of hair buys at least five. Excellent personal hygiene, another couple. Good in bed, another five. He’s officially fourteen.
Yep, I am dating a teenage boy.
He has two very different faces. When he frowns, concentrates or looks anxious – 40% of the time – he looks Sicilian and cruel and sexy; when he smiles he looks like a warm, happy, child. His face glazes with delight. Later, when we are together, I take photos of him, and when people ask to see them, they think they’re looking at two different people. He is a chameleon. There is something about him that makes me want to hold on to him forever.
‘He is really, really rich,’ I say to Laura the following day.
‘Good for him.’
‘I wish he didn’t have that much money.’
‘What would you prefer, three million?’
‘I could even go to four …’
‘Whatever, Soph. It’s a number, isn’t it? Doesn’t make anyone truly happy.’
Insert the cliché of your choice, but she is, I promise you, correct.
It is almost April and I have finally pinned Devron down and made him taste the trifles and fools he should’ve eaten weeks ago. I hate waiting for anything and anyone, but I particularly hate waiting for product sign-off from a man who won’t go to a restaurant that doesn’t serve a well-done steak and wedges.
‘What’s the life like on this one?’ he says, sliding his finger along the top of a chocolate trifle I was planning on taking round to Laura and Dave’s at the weekend.
‘Seven. This is life minus three,’ I say – we’re three days off the ‘eat by’ date, so four days into the pudding’s life.
‘And how does the consistency of that hold up on minus one?’ He points to a raspberry trifle. Devron will always ask one question that makes him sound knowledgeable, but blindfold him and he doesn’t know the difference between a blackberry and a blackcurrant.
‘Flavour’s good, texture and mouthfeel maintained till end of life.’
He nods. ‘Custard’s good on that lot,’ he says. ‘Approved.’
I feel like the proud mother of twenty kids, all of whom have just won the egg-and-spoon race.
‘Appletree are great with custard,’ I say. ‘Brûlées, tarts, crème anglaise …’
‘Brûlées … can you look at a microwaveable brûlée for autumn?’
‘The custard part?’
‘Whole lot.’
‘You won’t get crispy, browned sugar from a microwave, you need direct overhead heat for caramelisation.’
‘Orangy custards? Mands loves tangerines.’
‘Not ideal – citric acid interferes with the protein network, the fat globules separate at heat.’
‘Huh … what’s our margin on those trifles?’
‘38%’
‘And the cost of custard as percentage of total?’
‘Low. Bulk of cost is fruit and labour.’
‘Right, work up a dozen or so new custard-based puddings for launch next summer, margin of 40% plus. Yeah?’
I do like a challenge when there’s custard involved.
James has gone to Paris. When I left his house on Monday morning, he’d