Michael
In the kitchen, there’s no sign of James, but Scruffy and Bear sit in one corner, snouts lifted, noses twitching in the direction of the hob.
A pan clatters its lid against the steam, and I lift the lid to some dark red sauce simmering at the bottom, large bubbles glopping and redissolving into the surface. Chunks of sausage and something-or-other-else surface then vanish, nudging aside some kind of beans. The smell of fresh bread competes with garlic. It smells divine.
James comes in, carrying a bottle. “Ah, Michael. Good timing. You want to open the wine? Set it to warm… I’ll serve the meal in the dining room, but we can sit in here while the food’s cooking.” He offers me the bottle, then hovers, sucking at his teeth. “That’s Rioja, to go with the casserole. But perhaps a bott
