She didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t turn from the stove. Par for the course. And when he planted his lips on her long, damp neck, she wriggled her slim shoulders. It meant either Knock it off or Maybe later. It didn’t mean Do it again. ‘Ya hear? The Lions are in the grand final.’ Leah ignored him. She was cooking, something she rarely did, and badly. Bolognese sauce by the look of it. Minced steak, onions, garlic, tinned tomatoes and tomato paste. No herbs, no dash of red wine, no salt or pepper or stock cube or pinch of sugar to take the edge off all that tomato. But she’d said they had to talk where there were no ears to listen, so they’d be eating in. Trask bent his large frame into the fridge, peered around without hope, but there was one beer can, Cascade Light. Letting go of the door, watching it swing closed, the magnetised seals kissing quietly, he pulled the ring on the can. Leah was drinking gin and tonic, her glass on the window ledge above the sink. That one glass would last her the whole evening.
