LIVING DANGEROUSLY by Katie Fforde

Author:Katie Fforde
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-11-09T04:02:18+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

The kitchen was, as she had predicted, as different from hers as possible, given the two rooms performed more or less the same function.

His was huge, of the operating-theatre school of interior design, aggressively hygienic and totally intimidating. The floor was pure white quarry tiles, a surface so hard that anything you dropped would break into a million pieces. And only a Mrs Danvers would tolerate standing on such an unyielding surface all day, or be prepared to keep it clean.

Nothing was on display: not so much as a jar of spaghetti, copper pan or pot of parsley growing on the window sill.

Polly spotted at least two built-in ovens, though more may have lurked behind those snow-white doors. She'd have bet money on everything gliding out at you on runners whenever you opened a drawer or cupboard.

Two combination hobs winked at her under down-lighters so bright they'd probably give you quite a good tan. A trio of stainless-steel sinks gleamed likewise, daring you to rinse a coffee mug and spoil their pristine surface. There was enough naked work surface to land a small plane on, and you could easily cook a banquet without being pushed for space.

But would you want to? Either David was very brave when he elected to cook anything as messy as scrambled eggs, or he had Mrs Danvers under his thumb.

David had his sleeves pushed up and' was beating eggs in a bowl. The light shone directly on to his head, making his hair shine and the angles of his face very steep. For a moment Polly watched him before she glided silently towards him on her bare feet, clutching the skirts of the dressing gown so she wouldn't trip.

He couldn't have heard her come in because his expression when he first saw her was one of extreme shock.

‘Ah, Polly! Here you are. I was about to put the eggs on. Two or three?'

‘Two, please. I put my clothes in the airing cupboard, if that's all right.' She hadn't known whether to file them under 'S' for soaked or 'M' for muddy. 'Can I do anything to help?'

‘Would you like to cut some bread?'

‘Not really. I can't do it straight.' She'd better admit it. Her wedge-shaped slices would drive him mad and she'd get crumbs on the floor.

‘Oh. Then perhaps you wouldn't mind finishing this and I'll do it.' A built-in breadboard slid out of somewhere with a built-in breadknife to match. 'I've cleaned the worst of the mud off your boots, put newspaper in them and put them in the bottom oven of the Aga to dry. With a good dose of polish tomorrow, they may well survive.’

Trust David to know how to handle muddy boots. He'd probably learned it in the Army Cadet Corps at school. She took over the whisk.

‘It's awfully kind of you to go to so much trouble.' She smiled gratefully, but privately she found such excessive politeness as intimidating as his kitchen. On balance she preferred him rude and overbearing.

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