Patience had left, taking that smell with her. In a minute it came to him: roast chicken. And the reason he struggled to associate aroma with foodstuff had nothing to do with anything the earnest young man with the clipboard might have suggested. The fact was that for what seemed like weeks, AJ had returned to the big house on the bluff to find it suffused with that therapeutic, soulful odour. But eventually it dawned on him that very few chickens, none in fact, were passing his lips. Instead they were being stockpiled for P’s extended family ahead of the festive season. One day she loaded them into a bus at the Shell Ultra and was gone.
A Grand Prix whined in the background, round and round. He pulled himself pints from the home-built sports pub and wandered onto the deck, thinking about why it had gone wrong between them.Read More