Page 19 of The Pieces of Us

Because Mam takes her stress out on pastry, stretching and folding and rolling and flattening, there are always a few pies on the go.

‘Take that last piece of steak and potato over to Mr Dunlop when you go to work,’ she says.

‘His wife is staying with her sister this week, helping her to recover from surgery. And I need to make room for my lemon meringue.’

It’s my favourite. Mam always adds extra lemon filling and her meringue is light and fluffy. But it won’t be melting in my mouth this time; she’s baking for the church ladies’ monthly visit. I take the steak and potato pie out of the fridge. ‘I’ll see you later then.’

‘See you, love.’ She’s turned away from me already, to fill the bucket with water at the sink. The floor must be spotless for the church ladies’ shiny square-toed shoes.

I feel ridiculous walking to Mr Dunlop’s house holding a large piece of pie wrapped in cling film.

Maybe I should just eat it and stuff the cling film into my pocket.

But I don’t like the thought of Mr Dunlop going hungry when his wife’s away.

Mam is always commenting on poor Jimmy from round the corner, who’s lost so much weight since his wife died that his clothes are hanging off him.

‘He’s aged ten years in a month,’ she said to my father, who’s not particularly interested in such things but always signals his agreement from behind his newspaper with a nod.

I should give the pie to poor Jimmy , I think.

Mr Dunlop always looks well fed; his clothes fit him just right.

He takes a while to answer the door, as I stand on his step with my savoury offering. I’m surprised to see him looking more casual than normal. He’s not wearing a tie and his shirt is open at the neck. I stare at his feet. He’s wearing slippers.

‘Beth … forgive me. I completely lost track of time. I’ve had a terrible migraine all day, so I’m not quite firing on all cylinders, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t know if this will help, but –’ I look down at the pie.

‘Ah, well now. Thank you so much, Beth. I’ll look forward to that for my supper tonight. Please come in.’ He holds open the door. Despite being somewhat dishevelled himself, the inside of his house is as immaculate as ever.

Today one of the always-closed doors off the hallway is open. ‘Go ahead,’ he says, taking the pie out of my hand. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll pop this in the kitchen. In fact, let me sort myself out a little, then I’ll join you. Feel free to help yourself to a drink.’

The room is small but every inch of it is beautifully decorated – a thick dark brown carpet, green wallpaper with a swirling pattern that looks like it would be soft to touch, more books on mahogany shelves, behind glass this time.

In the centre of the room are two dark green-velvet tub chairs and a copper drinks trolley.

The glass decanters don’t have labels – no Smirnoff or Grant’s or Gordon’s here – and look more like oversized perfume bottles.

Each one has a shape of its own, like siblings who look alike but not the same.

I hover at the drinks trolley, wondering if any of the bottles are filled with water. Father sometimes drinks whisky with water; there’s a bottle with amber liquid next to one with clear liquid. I remove the stopper carefully. It’s a round ball that fits snuggly in the palm of my hand.

‘That’s a magnificent vodka, Beth, but I’d go for something sweeter.’ His voice is low, behind me.

‘I thought it might be water,’ I say, flustered. I carefully return the glass ball, now smudged with my fingerprints, to its pedestal.

‘Can I fix you something? What do you like to drink?’

I can’t think of an answer that’s both sophisticated and believable, so I tell the truth. ‘Lemonade.’

He smiles. ‘Perfect. Let me fix you a lemonade. With a twist.’ He opens a cabinet to reveal more bottles and an array of glasses.

‘This is a popular Christmas drink, so we’re a few months ahead of ourselves.

’ He laughs. ‘But it’s really quite delicious.

Ah, ice is a crucial component. Excuse me.

Sit down, make yourself comfortable.’ He raises a hand towards a shelf of books. ‘Have a browse if you like!’

I’ve never seen him so relaxed. I wonder if he’s spent the day in this cocoon. It’s only 4 p.m., but I know adults don’t always wait until evening to drink. Father swears by a hot toddy when he’s got a cold.

I look at the books, but don’t open any of the glass doors. I look older in my reflection, I think.

‘I think you’ll enjoy this.’ Mr Dunlop hands me a tall glass that’s colder than I expected. There’s a cherry bobbing on the frothy surface, the sort Mam uses for her pie filling.

‘A milkshake?’

He laughs and sits down, gestures for me to join him. ‘Of sorts.’ He watches me take a sip of the pale custard liquid. It’s sweet and creamy and – he’s right – delicious.

‘Thank you,’ I tell him. ‘It’s lovely.’ And it is – although it doesn’t taste anything like the lemonade I’ve had before. I take a bigger mouthful. ‘What’s the twist?’

He smiles, pouring his own drink from the amber bottle. A generous measure. ‘The cherry on the top, of course.’ He raises his glass. ‘Cheers!’

I mimic his action. ‘Cheers.’

‘It’s nice to have company. You know what? I don’t want to dictate any letters today. Shall we just sit and chat for a while? I’ll still pay you for your time, of course. Unless … you’d rather be somewhere else?’

I shake my head. ‘I like it here. You have so many books.’

‘Ah yes. Our budding librarian. Tell me … how are you finding Tropic of Cancer ?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I admit. I’m not going to tell him that the book he gave me makes me feel stupid, because I don’t know the meaning of aural amplifiers or acromegaly or the cold corpse of a whore .

I’m definitely not going to tell him that it makes me wonder, at times, if the author was a little bit stupid, because he wrote some parts of the book in a way that makes it impossible to follow.

I don’t understand why he didn’t have to use punctuation the way my English teacher Mr McIntosh insists we do in our essays.

How does someone get an actual book published when my English teacher would give it a C?

So I just say, ‘It’s … different.’

He smiles. ‘That it is. The magic of books is that they make us feel certain things. Things we’ve never felt before, perhaps.’

I nod and take a drink. I’m not sure I’ll be able to finish Tropic of Cancer . I’d much rather read Forever. I don’t understand some of that either but Katherine and Michael’s relationship makes me feel much happier.

Mr Dunlop smiles, then suddenly leans forward. His finger feels warm and soft on my skin; time stands still as he caresses my top lip. ‘You had froth,’ he says smoothly as he withdraws and sits back in his chair.

I hold his gaze. My lip feels naked where his skin has met mine, but not for long, because then he kisses me.