His cooking skills were good enough that he could cater for twelve and what he didn’t know he’d learn. The one issue the rest of the crew would grapple with was precisely the reason Osaki had agreed to go. Not coming into close contact with a female for the next four months was no hardship at all.

The trawler left in three days. He could take one large bag of clothes and personal effects, so whatever was left after he’d packed, he was planning to take to a charity shop. Then he had to empty what little was left in his bank account and close that down. His final task was to spend some time reading recipes and figuring out what sort of things he should be cooking. It all seemed fairly obvious: pies, casseroles and pasta looked to be the easiest way to feed a dozen ravenous men. Keep them full of protein and carbs.

He had a library card from his days attending workshops to get his CV up to scratch and had contemplated taking out a selection of cookery books, then his overactive conscience had kicked in and he’d been unable to proceed, knowing he’d never return them. Certainly not in a fit state for anyone else to read after months surrounded by stinking fish and stinking men who wouldn’t think twice about using the books as coasters for wet-bottomed mugs.

Osaki hung his head. Some day, good manners would do more than just lose him a wife and make him a laughing stock. On a fishing trawler with a bunch of claustrophobic, testosterone-laden men, they might actually get him killed.

First, he took out the new spanner and washer he’d bought from the hardware store. He’d promised to mend the leaking kitchen tap and such maintenance was required under the lease. It only took a few minutes and he was pleased with the job he did. Making good was satisfying. He couldn’t mend his marriage, or be less disappointing as a son, but he could leave the flat in the state it was when they’d moved in. What his wife did with it once he’d gone was a matter for her.

After that, he decided which clothes he’d take and which would go to charity, not that there was a vast amount to be given away. He’d arrived in Scotland with three suitcases, so one full bin liner was all that was needed to be delivered to the hospice shop around the corner. Its contents were clean and neatly folded, and he’d attached a small label providing collar, waist and leg sizes to make life easier for the people who’d have to sort and rack the items. He was depositing the bin bag next to his front door, when a knock came from the outside. Osaki opened up.