He brought out an elegant glass bottle marked VINAIGRE , picked up a fine muslin, and grabbed an egg.

“Okay, begin!” he said.

“What, me?” said Fintan.

“Pourquoi pas? Kerry, make space.”

The woman obediently did so, and Fintan, unsure how to get out of it, washed his hands and stood in line.

“Crack the egg! Now, put it in the muslin cloth!”

Fintan cracked an egg and made a horrid mess of it all over the bowl. Gaspard sighed heavily. Everyone else in the kitchen came over to watch, as the deep pan on the stove bubbled.

“You are almost as bad as Konstantin.”

“Nobody is as bad as Konstantin,” said Konstantin.

Gaspard handed over another egg; Isla retrieved an apron to protect Fintan’s lovely cashmere jumper.

This time he managed to crack the whole thing without getting it full of shell; he then strained it through the muslin and popped it into a ramekin.

“Okay, what now?”

“Stir the pot!” said Gaspard excitedly, handing him the big wooden spoon. Fintan looked suspiciously at everyone watching him, wondering if this was a joke.

“Faster!” said Konstantin, watching him as it went.

“Oh yes, you’re the expert.” Isla laughed and he laughed back.

Fintan stirred.

“Faster! Make a vortex! Make a hole in the water,” said Gaspard, finally, in frustration, grabbing Fintan’s arm and making the water whizz round the deep pan.

Fintan breathed deeply and wondered if anybody noticed. Last night had been so strange, such a shock.

He had expected to be full of guilt at sleeping with another man, full of remorse. But it was the oddest thing. Instead he’d felt better. Just . . . alive. He told Gaspard he hadn’t known he was gay, and Gaspard had snorted and said, “How ees these people make a choice comme ça, huh? I never understand. Boy, girl, pfuh —I like, I like, you see?”

And Fintan did see and tried to say “pfuh” with the same amount of emphasis, which didn’t come out quite right and had started them laughing, and yes, it was quite something to be having sex again.

But it was really something to be laughing again.

BACK IN THE kitchen, the feel of a pair of strong tattooed arms around him was like an electric shock once more, another physical defibrillation to a system that had all but shut down. He froze, deliciously, could barely move his hand at all, even as Gaspard clasped his arm, moved it round and round until there was indeed a hole, or vortex, in the water.

Gaspard appeared happily oblivious to the tumult he was causing in Fintan—or at least cheerfully unconcerned, lifting up one hand to drop a tiny tear of vinegar into the pan and the smallest hint of salt. Then, as Fintan started to stir furiously, he gently plopped the egg in and they all watched, fascinated, as the white knitted itself strongly around the yolk.

“That is not fair,” said Konstantin, whose first six attempts had gone horribly wispy with bits of unpleasantly snotty white albumen everywhere. “Gaspard is helping him too much.”