Yeah, right. He could just see the next front page of the Financial Review. There were guys back home who’d kill to see this, and he was well known enough to hit the social pages of the tabloids.
He eyed Susie in suspicion. Mobile phones could also be cameras. If you wore an apron like this, you trusted no one.
‘You have a washing machine?’ he demanded, trying not to sound desperate.
‘I have a washing machine.’
‘Then I’ll make do without the apron.’ Some things were no-brainers. ‘Just this once.’
‘That’s big of you,’ she told him, laying the frills aside with regret. ‘Why are you tipping out the dripping?’
‘That was half an inch of fat, and if you thing I’m spoiling my first Australian steak, you have another think coming.’
‘Ooh,’ she said in mock admiration. ‘Bossy as well as a good cook.’
‘Watch your fries,’ he told her, disconcerted.
‘Hey, we’ll get on fine,’ she said happily. ‘You can cook. I can’t. A marriage made in heaven.’
Then she realised what she’d said and she blushed. The blush started from her eyes and moved out, and he thought, She’s lovely. She’s just gorgeous.
Rose chortled from her high chair and Hamish allowed himself to be distracted. He needed to be distracted. Whew!
Rose was a chubby toddler, dressed only in a nappy and a grubby T-shirt reading MY AUNTY WENT TO NEW YORK AND ALL SHE BROUGHT ME WAS ONE LOUSY T-SHIRT. She had flame-coloured curls, just like her mother, and huge green eyes that gazed at him as if expecting to be vastly entertained.
It was very disconcerting to be gazed at like that. He’d never been gazed at like that.
In truth, Hamish had never met a toddler.
This situation was getting out of hand.
Rosie chortled again, raised her hand and lifted her rusk. It fell. On the floor beneath, on his back, Boris did a fast, curving slide so his mouth was right where it needed to be. The rusk disappeared without a trace.
Rose and her mother—and Hamish—all gazed at Boris. Boris gazed back up at Rose in adoration, and then opened his mouth wide again.
Hamish laughed.
Susie stared.
‘What?’ he said, disconcerted, and she flushed and turned away.
‘N-nothing.’
‘Something.’
‘It’s just… For a minute…’ She took a deep breath. ‘The Douglas men,’ she said. ‘Angus and Rory had the same laugh. Low and rumbly and nice. And it’s here again. In this kitchen. Where it belongs.’
For a moment neither of them spoke. Did she know what power she had to move him? he wondered.
He’d never known his father. Oh, he had a vague memory of someone being there, a grey, silent, ghost-like presence, but that was all. He’d seen faded photographs of a man who didn’t look like him. He had no connection at all.
And suddenly he did.
He didn’t do emotion.
‘I’m hardly a Douglas,’ he said, more sharply than he’d intended. ‘My father died when I was three, and I’ve had no contact with anyone but my mother’s family.’
‘But you are a Douglas.’
‘In name only.’
‘You don’t want to be a Douglas?’
Not if it means all this emotion, he thought, but he didn’t say it.
‘Move over,’ he told her instead. ‘It’s time to put the steak on. Four minutes either side, which gives me time to whip up a salad. But there’s no time for idle chat.’
‘You don’t do idle chat?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll concentrate on my chips, then,’ she told him, and proceeded to sit on the floor, flick on the oven light and watch. Which was distracting all on its own. ‘I know when to butt out where I’m not wanted.’
‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘Neither did I,’ she told him. ‘But maybe that’s the way we have to be. You don’t want to be a Douglas. I can’t bear to be near one. So let’s get tonight over with and then we can both move on in the direction we intend to go.’
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