Free Second Thyme Around by Katie Fforde Page A

‘Unplug the microwave.’
    Lucas swept up the large quantity of post, junk mail and important letters, which sat on top of the microwave and put it in a pile on a chair.
    ‘Don’t put it there! It’ll get lost!’
    ‘It’s only junk mail anyway,’ said Lucas disdainfully.
    ‘It’s not, and anyway, I like junk mail.’
    Lucas paused. ‘You are mad. How can anyone like junk mail?’
    Perdita shrugged. ‘It gives me something to read over breakfast, and I don’t have to do anything about it. And the polythene bags it comes in are useful,’ she added, slightly shamefaced about her anti-social preferences.
    Lucas tutted explosively. ‘For God’s sake, woman, get a grip!’
    Perdita took a breath in order to tell him, in no uncertain terms, exactly how hard a grip she had on life, and no thanks to him, when she observed that he was getting stuck into the washing-up with a speed and efficiency her kitchen had not previously witnessed. She watched for a moment and then decided that it was her washing-up and not for him to do. ‘You’re slopping water on the floor. Let me do it.’ She elbowed him out of the way and sank to her knees. ‘Put the kettle on, if you want to be useful. This water’s gone cold.’
    With a growl of irritation, Lucas filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘I need to talk to you about the cooker. It won’t do for the programme, you know. Nor will the lighting.’
    ‘The television people will bring lighting. Even I know that much.’ She scrubbed at a dish she would normally have left to soak for a few days. ‘And as for the cooker, I told everyone, from the very moment they had the idea of making the programme here, that the whole kitchen was totally unsuitable.’ She shifted uncomfortably on her knees, regretting that her bucket idea, though excellent in many ways, involved kneeling on a wet kitchen floor in her best jeans. Lucas sneering at her from on high didn’t help matters.
    ‘The kitchen is fine, or it would be if it wasn’t such a goddamn pigsty, but the light and the cooker are a disaster.’
    ‘Well, I’m sorry about the cooker, it’s the only one I’ve got, and even if I could afford to, I wouldn’t dream of replacing it just to please you and your television company.’ She sank the last plate into the bucket of rinsing water and decided to put the many roasting tins out in the garden for the foxes to clean out.
    ‘No. I want to replace it.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ She retrieved the plate, got up and rubbed her back.
    ‘I mean, I will buy you a new cooker, so I don’t have to use that one.’
    ‘Don’t be silly. You may be a prima-donna-type chef these days, but surely even you can’t be so prissy you can’t use a perfectly ordinary electric cooker.’
    ‘That cooker is not ordinary! It should be in a museum. I’m sure it’s not safe.’
    ‘Of course it’s safe! What’s wrong with it?’
    He stepped round her in order to inspect it and made aggressive stabs in its direction, switching knobs, pulling out plates and generally attacking it. ‘It’s only got three tiny burners, the grill doesn’t seem to work, it wobbles, and I doubt you can get the oven very hot.’
    ‘It was hot enough to cook the lamb!’ she said, not sure what temperature it had got to.
    ‘But not hot enough to roast the potatoes.’
    Perdita toyed with the idea of pretending they weren’t meant to be roast potatoes but rejected it. She scooped several wooden spoons, a wet tea towel and a colander out of the sink. ‘I thought television cooks did things mostly on top. And it’s all cheating, anyway, isn’t it? I’m sure they just paint things with varnish to make them look brown.’
    She was sorry she had her back to him and so missed seeing his eruption of fury. She had to make do with wraparound sound, which was several decibels louder than the recommended maximum. It was odd how, when she had been married to him, his fury had terrified her. Now it just made her want to