Chapter 14

The sound of voices greets her as she opens the front door. Leo’s, Sigrid’s, and someone else’s, a voice she doesn’t recognise. Then a smell reaches her. A deep, rich smell of something familiar she doesn’t have time to identify before she realises what’s going on and annoyance strikes.

What the fuck is he doing here? In my kitchen.

She grits her teeth and tells herself to act civil, takes off her jacket, unlaces her boots and places them next to a pair of dusty grey trainers she has never seen before. Trainers that shouldn’t be there. In her hallway.

They don’t notice her until she’s standing in the doorway. Three smiles turn towards her: Sigrid’s is accompanied by beaming eyes and slightly flushed cheeks, Leo’s quickly turns into something watchful, vigilant. And the third. Expectant, proud, and then a brief hint of a worried frown. As though he can instinctively sense this isn’t going to be easy.

So, that’s what he looks like, Karen thinks to herself, not returning their smiles. Slightly shorter than Leo, but the same gangly body type. Long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. No jewellery, thankfully – the nose rings, finger rings, and rattling bracelets Sigrid’s friends usually favour probably don’t work for a chef – but a few sizeable tattoos peek out of the sleeves of his T-shirt.

Twenty-seven. What the hell do you want with Sigrid?

‘Hi,’ he says, extending his hand. ‘I’m Keris. I’m sorry I’ve turned your kitchen upside down, but Sigrid said it was OK.’

Sigrid has sidled up next to him, as though she can sense that he needs protection.

‘Keris has made lamb roast,’ she says. ‘The way you like it, with coffee and garlic.’

Karen looks at her. Notes that her eyes are still glossy with joy, but also signalling something else now. Determination and a silent warning. A wordless power struggle in which concern and admonishments are pitted against the threat of loneliness. And of that rosy delight in Sigrid’s eyes being extinguished.

In the end, Karen is the one who backs down. But just for now, she assures herself.

‘Hi, Keris,’ she says and shakes his outstretched hand with something that could possibly be construed as half a smile. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she adds, with a sarcastic glance at Sigrid. ‘All right, let’s see if you’re as good at making coffee lamb as me.’

He is, she’s forced to admit a while later. Not better, but just as good. Maybe slightly too much salt, but a lot of chefs seem to develop a tolerance over time.