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.

in flower,” I say. “You’ll see the

“How dangerous are they?”

of green potatoes to do yourself any real damage. But…” I raise a finger. “Solanine can be dangerous in pregnant

open, then striding across the kitchen, he toes open the bin and drops the

*****

Michael

sign of James, but Scruffy and Bear sit in one corner, snouts lifted, noses twitching in the direction of the

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

the wine? Set it to warm… I’ll serve the meal in the dining 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

is a

it is. Back in

then transfers his gaze to the hob. Bear isn’t so subtle. He simply stares at the pan, long strands of drool swing

the thirty seconds I reckon I have before James’ return, I fork a sausage, bright orange, scented of chilli, out of the

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

Why just them?

door swings, James strolls in, a

Fuck!

frantically blowing air over my

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 Scruffy and Dogzilla there, you would like to lay the

drawer, I wrestle the cork out of the Rioja bottle... “Nice choice by the way.” … then set it on the hearth to bathe in the heat of the glowing

his spectacles mist over. “Choice? Yes, I thought Georgie would appreciate a Spanish meal. We visited my boyhood home several times when she was small,

But what I meant was, your email

swipes his lenses clear with a bit of kitchen roll. “What email? Damn!” and he makes