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‘What…?’
But at that moment the kettle boiled, the whistle sounding loud and shrill into the stunned silence that followed her shaken question. She had been so intent on the argument, on the man in front of her, that it brought her whirling round, snatching it up to silence the appalling sound before she quite realised what was happening.
‘You were making coffee,’ Angelos said pointedly when she simply stood, frozen to the spot.
The truth was that she no longer felt she could drink anything. So many feelings and emotions were knotted up in her throat that she felt sure she would choke. But even as she stood, her mind clouded with memories, her whirling thoughts refusing to be pushed into any coherent order, he stepped forward, eased the kettle from her clutching fingers and took it over to the scrubbed wooden worktop.
‘Very little milk, no sugar,’ he said, the totally matter of fact way of speaking making her mind spin again.
‘What?’
‘The way you like your coffee.’ He had replaced the kettle on the stove, but off the heat this time, taken down a cafetière from a shelf and was opening cupboards, obviously in search of coffee. ‘That is right isn’t it?’
‘You remember?’
‘Of course I remember.’
He had his back to her as he was spooning ground coffee into the glass pot, so she couldn’t see the expression on his face or have any guess at what was going through his mind. His tone was no help. It was flat and emotionless, giving nothing at all away.
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