Fourteen
Memory 6
I left Viggo’s house after about an hour. Viggo was in the middle of an epically comprehensive explanation of quantum physics when he looked at his watch and announced that, as it was nearly six-thirty, he had to go and cook dinner for his family.
“You cook dinner?” I asked. “What, every night?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Unless I have a meeting or event to appear at. I like it. I make a point of attending classes with the best international chefs when I travel overseas. Most of the world’s top chefs are male, you know. Not that I intend to become a chef, but it might impress at dinner parties, with foreign dignitaries or the like.”
“Wow. Just … wow,” I breathed. I felt as if I was having heart palpitations.
And I know—I know—I’d transformed in the space of a week from
