“A choice of starters,” he announces. “Melon, soup or smoked salmon.”
He exhibits a cantaloupe with its greeny-grey mosaic’d rind, places it on the table, then returns to the fridge, producing a paper-wrapped parcel
“No one's tied to their choice now, but if I have an idea of numbers...” He unwraps the parcel; smoked salmon lying in thin pinky-orange slivers.
Mitch shudders. “Melon for me.”
There’s something visceral about her reaction. James’ brow crinkles. “You don't like smoked salmon?”
“Can't bear anything like that. It's raw isn’t it.”
He rocks his hand. “Well, not raw exactly. It’s smoked. In effect, it’s pickled by the smoke.”
She grimaces, shaking her head. “Melon.”
*****
Cara, quiet in her carrycot, begins to fuss. James casts an eye across. “I’ll take over those carrots,
