Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Richard handles the veg knife like a kid with his first wax crayon, not so much peeling the potatoes as hacking chunks from the outside.

Trying not to be obvious about it, I watch the performance for a few seconds…

He’s going to slice his thumb if he keeps that up…

…. then taking a peeler from the cutlery drawer, I pluck the knife from his hand and replace it with the peeler. “Try that instead.”

He fumbles at the potato, drawing off a sliver of peel. “Ah, yes. That’s much easier.”

Still, I keep half an eye on what he’s doing. “Not that one,” I say, pointing to the potato in his hand. “It’s green.”

“Oh…” Richard stares at the tuber. “There were a few green ones at the top of the sack. Is something wrong with them?”

“You can poison yourself with green potatoes. That’s why you store them in the dark. So they don’t go green.”

“Seriously?” Richard stares at the spud in his hand as though he’s never seen one before. “Poisonous? Potatoes? But I eat them every day.”

“Yes, seriously. They’re from the same family of plants as Belladonna, the Solanaceae. The green parts contain a toxin called solanine.”

Richard regards the tuber in his hand with a sceptical eye.

“Belladonna? Pretty lady?”

“Medieval women used it cosmetically to enlarge their pupils. The alkaloids that achieve the effect are some of the more effective toxins out there.”

Still, he looks dubious.

it’s in flower,” I say. “You’ll see the

“How dangerous are they?”

You’d have to eat a lot of green potatoes to do yourself any real damage. But…” I raise a finger. “Solanine can be dangerous in pregnant women.

the kitchen, he toes open the

*****

Michael

and Bear sit in one corner, snouts lifted, noses twitching in

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

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 bottle of cava too? What do you

a celebration after

beams. “Course it is. Back in a mo.” And he

at me, then transfers his gaze to the hob. Bear isn’t so subtle. He simply stares at the pan,

a look out of the door and then with the thirty seconds I reckon I

toss half to each of the dogs. The two halves vanish mid-air with twinned Chops! leaving on

Why just them?

as I’m blowing on it, the door swings, James strolls in, a bottle of cava in each

Fuck!

air over my scalded

at me as he puts the bottles into the fridge. Then, stacking plates and cutlery onto a tray, “Perhaps when you’ve finished donating our dinner to

from the drawer, I wrestle the cork out of the

Georgie would appreciate a Spanish meal. We visited my boyhood home several times when she was small,

course. But what I meant

swipes his lenses clear with a bit of kitchen roll. “What email? Damn!” and he makes a dash for the oven where smoke is spilling from the