Dead Heat

13

W e woke early and lay dozing side by side in the bed, just touching occasionally. I rolled over and cuddled her, but she didn’t respond, and I sensed that she was troubled.

“What’s the matter?” I asked her.

“Oh nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Nothing important,” she said. But it clearly was.

I started to explore her body with my hands, but she sat up. “Not now,” she said. “I want some tea.” And she proceeded to get up, put on her dressing gown and go down the corridor to the kitchen. I lay back on the pillow and wondered if I had said or done something wrong.

She returned with two steaming mugs of tea and got back into bed, but she did not remove the dressing gown.

“Was I that much of a disappointment?” I said, propping myself up on an elbow and sipping my tea.

“Oh no,” she said. “In fact, quite the reverse. That’s part of the problem.”

“So what is the problem?” I said. “Tell me.”

She leaned her head back against the wall with a sigh. “I can’t come and live in Newmarket,” she said. “I need to live in London for my job.”

I laughed with relief. “I’m not asking you to live in Newmarket,” I said.

“Oh,” she said rather gloomily. “I had thought you might.”

“Well, I might,” I said. “But I will probably be coming to live in London.”

“That’s all right, then,” she said with a big smile. “But when? What about your restaurant?”

“It’s not certain when,” I said, “and I don’t want my staff to know yet, but the plan is to open a new restaurant in London sometime later in the year.”

“Oh goodie,” she said with excitement.

“Am I right, therefore, in thinking that you are throwing yourself into my life on a permanent basis?” I asked.

“Maybe.” She shrugged off her dressing gown and snuggled down next to me in the bed.

“That is definitely all right, then,” I said.

AT LUNCHTIME, we caught the train to Virginia Water and took a taxi from there to Smith’s Lawn, the home of the Guards Polo Club. Neither of us had the faintest idea of what to expect, but we had chosen to dress for all eventualities. Caroline selected a black-and-white floral-print dress that seemed to me to touch her in all the right places, show off her considerable natural attributes and turn many an eye on the train. Over the dress, she wore a fitted tweed coat, with brown fur around the collar and the cuffs. If she had brought a deerstalker and magnifying glass with her, I couldn’t see where she’d hidden them. Meanwhile, I had decided on a blue blazer, gray flannel trousers, with a white shirt and a striped tie. Uniform, I reckoned, for any self-respecting off-duty Guards officer.

We both opted not to wear green wellies, not least because we would have had to buy them first. The weather forecast for the day had improved as the weekend had progressed and the promised rain was not now due to arrive from the west until the following day, so I wore my usual slip-on black brogues while Caroline picked a pair of sensible knee-length black patent leather boots with low heels.

Having been brought up in the world of horse racing, where any physical contact between the competitors was frowned upon and where even the slightest bump between participants could result in the loss of a race in the stewards’ room, I was unprepared for the roughness, almost violence, perpetrated on the polo field.

Players were permitted to “ride off” an opponent even when he was not in possession of the ball. Riding off involved crashing one’s pony into the flank of an opponent’s mount and pushing with the knee and the elbow to change the direction of travel. The players all wore big thick kneepads for that very purpose, along with spurs, which, I was reliably informed, were not actually permitted to be dug into an opponent’s leg, although, it appeared to me, that they were.

I knew that the aim of the game was to hit the little white ball with the mallet between the goalposts to score. But that is to simplify what seemed to me to be a hybrid cross between hockey, croquet and American football, all played at high speed on horseback.

It was clearly hugely exhilarating both for the players and for the spectators. There was lots of shouting between the team members, and appeals to the umpire for some penalty or other to be awarded. I knew from my brush with the fifty-page rule book that the game would be more complicated than just riding down the field and slotting the ball between the goalposts. However, in play, it had a simplicity I had not expected, and both Caroline and I were soon caught up in the excitement on the members’ grandstand.

We had arrived at the grounds, as they were referred to, to find that there was a members’ area for those who are, and the remaining space for those who aren’t. The “members” was where I wanted to be. There was no point in being there at all unless I was able to ask my questions of those in the know.

We had hung around a bit in the members’ parking lot until a group of five others had arrived in a Range Rover. Caroline and I had simply attached ourselves to the rear of the party as they were waved through past the gateman. I decided not to push my luck by trying to bluff my way into the holy of holies, the two-story Royal Box, with its colonial-style verandas and red tile roof, together with neatly tended window boxes and a white-picket-fenced lawn in front.

Since I had no idea of what to expect, I didn’t know whether the “crowd” of just two or three hundred was considered a good turnout or not. Many of the spectators had parked their vehicles on the far side of the field and simply sat on the roofs to watch the action. A chorus of car horns rather than applause tended to greet each goal.

Fortunately, the day was fine, with even some watery sunshine helping to warm us as Caroline and I sat in the open, on green plastic seats, along with about a hundred or so others, most of whom appeared to either know or be related to the players, exchanging waves and shouts, as the teams milled around in front of us before the start.

Polo matches are divided into periods known as chukkas, each chukka lasting about seven minutes. Matches can be four, five or six chukkas long, with gaps in between. In this particular event, each match was four chukkas, with approximately a five-minute gap between each, and a little longer at halftime.

Caroline asked a middle-aged man who was sitting close to her what the score was. Now, this was not as stupid as it may have sounded, since the game can be very confusing. For a start, it was not always clear if a goal had been scored because, unlike soccer, there was no net for the ball to end up in. Second, the teams changed the direction of play after each goal, and, for a beginner’s eye, it was not always easy to decide which team was playing in which direction.

“That depends,” said the man. “Do you mean with or without handicap goals?”

“What are ‘handicap goals’?” Caroline asked him.

The man resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, not least because they were firmly fixed on the alluring crossover at the front of Caroline’s dress. “Each player is assigned a handicap at the beginning of the season,” he said. “In matches, you have to add the handicaps of each player in the team, and subtract one team’s handicap from the other’s. That gives you how many goals’ start the lower-handicapped team gets.” He smiled, but he wasn’t finished. “But, of course, in this match, which is only four chukkas, you only get two-thirds of those goals.”

“So what is the score?” asked Caroline again rather desperately.

“The Mad Dogs are beating Ocho Rios by three and a half goals to two.” He pointed to the scoreboard at the left-hand end of the field, where the score was clearly displayed in large white numbers on a blue background for all to see.

We wished we had never asked. We didn’t even know which team were the Mad Dogs and which weren’t, but it didn’t matter. We were having fun, and we giggled to prove it.

At halftime, many of those in the stands went forward to meet the players as they dismounted from and changed their ponies. There were about thirty animals tied to the pony lines alongside the field, and some players had all their spare mounts saddled and bridled, ready for quick changes during a chukka if a pony tired, the game not being stopped for such a substitution. They each appeared to have a groom or two to look after their mounts and to assist with the quick transfer of rider and equipment from one pony to another. Playing polo was clearly not a poor man’s sport.

During the halftime break, I asked our friend on the stands if he had ever come across Rolf Schumann or Gus Witney from a polo club in Wisconsin, in the United States. He thought for a bit but shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s unlikely. U.S. polo is somewhat different than this. They mostly play arena polo.” I must have looked somewhat quizzical as he went on. “It’s played indoors or on small board-bounded areas, like a ménage. You know, like they use for dressage.” I nodded. “They play just three players to a team, and…” He tailed off. “Well, let’s just say it’s different to what we enjoy.” He didn’t actually say that he thought it was inferior, but he meant it.

“How about someone called Pyotr Komarov?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Everyone’s heard of Peter Komarov.”

“Peter?” I said.

“Peter, Pyotr, it’s the same thing. Pyotr is Peter in Russian.”

“How come everyone knows him?” I asked.

“I didn’t say everyone knows him. I said everyone’s heard of him,” he corrected. “He is the biggest importer of polo ponies in Britain. Probably in the world.”

“Where does he import them from?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Anywhere,” he said. “But mostly from South America. Flies them in by the jumbo jet full. I should think at least half the ponies here were bought from Peter Komarov.”

“Is he based in England?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I know he spends quite a lot of time here, but I think he lives in Russia. He runs a polo club over there, and apparently he’s done wonderful things for Russian polo. He’s often brought teams over to play here.”

“How do you know how much time he spends here?” I asked him.

“My son knows him,” he replied. “That’s my son over there. He’s number three for the Mad Dogs.” He pointed at some players, but I wasn’t sure which one he meant. “He buys his ponies from Mr. Komarov.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“How?” he said with a hint of annoyance. “How have I been helpful? You’re not a damn journalist, are you?”

“No.” I laughed. “I’m just someone who knows little or nothing about the game, but I want to learn. I’ve inherited pots of money from my grandmother, and I thought I might spend some of it having fun playing polo with the nobs.”

He quickly lost interest in us, no doubt believing that we were ignorant proles who should go spend our money elsewhere, just as I intended. I don’t exactly know why, but I didn’t really want either Peter or Pyotr Komarov to hear that I had been asking after him at the Guards Polo Club.

THERE WERE two matches played, each lasting a little over an hour total, and we stayed for them both. We watched the second from the tables and chairs placed in front of the clubhouse. The sun shone more strongly through the high cloud, and it became a delightful spring afternoon, ruined only slightly by the continuous stream of noisy jetliners overhead in their climb away from Heathrow airport. I didn’t want to think about the one that would take Caroline so far away from me the following day.

We chatted to half a dozen more people, and all of them had heard of Peter Komarov, although not all of them were as positive about him as our man in the grandstand.

“He’s not a good influence,” said one man. “I think he has too much power in the game.”

“How come?” I asked him.

“He not only sells horses, he leases them too, especially to the top players,” he said. “That means that some of the best international players are beholden to him. Doesn’t take an Einstein to work out the potential for corruption.”

“But surely there’s not a lot of prize money in polo?” I said.

“Maybe not, but it’s getting bigger all the time,” said the man. “And there’s been an increase in gambling on the matches. You can now wager on polo with some of the betting Web sites. And who knows how much is gambled overseas on our matches, especially in Russia. I think we would be much better off without his money.”

“Does he put money into the game, then?” I asked.

“Not half as much as he takes out,” he said.

No one had heard of either Rolf Schumann or Gus Witney, but I didn’t mind, I had reaped a wonderful amount of information about the elusive Mr. Komarov, including a gem from the clubhouse caterer, who also provided the food for the Royal Box. She was certain of it. Both Pyotr Komarov and his wife, Tatiana, were vegetarians.

“WHY ARE you so excited?” asked Caroline as we stood on the platform waiting for the train back to London. “Apart, of course, from the fact that you are with me again tonight.”

“Did you hear what that catering woman said?” I asked.

“Something about the Komarovs being vegetarians,” she said. “So what’s exciting about that?”

It means that even if they were at the gala dinner at the racetrack, they couldn’t have been food-poisoned, because I’m pretty certain the poison was in the sauce that was on the chicken.”

“So?” she said.

“They didn’t turn up at the Delafield box on the Saturday when they were expected to,” I said. “And they couldn’t have missed that lunch because they had been ill the night before, at least not like everyone else, because they hadn’t eaten the right stuff. So why didn’t they turn up? Was it because they knew there would be a bomb going off?”

“Hold on a minute,” she said. “That’s a hell of a conclusion to suddenly jump to, especially when you’ve claimed in the past that the poisoning was to stop someone being at the lunch and now you’re saying that maybe the bomber wasn’t poisoned at all but still didn’t turn up.”

She was right, of course. It was confusing.

“But suppose there was someone else the bomber didn’t want to be at the lunch,” I said. “Then both could be true.”

“You need more than ‘suppose,’” she said. “Suppose the bomb was aimed at the Arab prince after all. You can make anything you like sound sensible with ‘suppose.’”

Our train arrived, and we sat in a carriage surrounded by a party of children on their way home from a theme park. It had been a birthday outing, and they were all so high on the experience, describing with screams and laughter how frightening the rides were and how much fun it had been to survive them.

Caroline leaned on my shoulder. “I want lots of kids,” she said.

“That’s a bit sudden,” I said. “We’re not even living together yet and you want kids?”

For an answer, she just snuggled down closer to me and hummed. I don’t think it was “Nimrod,” by Edward Elgar.

I COOKED dinner in Caroline’s white-and-chrome kitchen, and she played her viola for me as I did. We had stopped at the supermarket in Waterloo station and bought some ingredients and a bottle of wine. I prepared a beef stroganoff while Caroline played the first movement of Bach’s Violin Concerto in E Major, her favorite piece. She was right. It sounded great on the viola.

“Is that the piece you’re playing at Cadogan Hall?” I asked.

“No, sadly not,” she said. “I would have to play the violin to ever play this at a concert.”

“But surely you could play a violin too?” I said.

“Oh yes, I could,” she said. “But I don’t want to. I’m a violist, not a violinist, and it’s out of choice. Violins are so tinny compared to the mellow tones of a viola. Most of the orchestra think that we violists are failed violinists, but it’s not true. That’s like saying trombonists are failed trumpeters or flautists are failed oboists. It’s ridiculous.”

“Like saying waiters are failed chefs,” I said, although I knew quite a few waiters who were just that.

“Exactly,” she said. It was clear to me that this wasn’t the first time she had built up a head of steam over the issue.

“Caroline,” I said seriously, “you don’t have to prove your worth, certainly not to me. Be confident in your role as a violist. You don’t have to apologize for not being something else.”

She stood next to me and leaned back against the worktop.

“You are so right,” she said in a determined tone. “I’m a violist and pleased to be so.”

We laughed and drank a toast to Miss Caroline Aston, violist and proud of it.

“So what are you playing at the Cadogan Hall?” I asked.

“Concerto for Violin and Viola by Benjamin Britten,” she said.

“Can you play it for me?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “It would sound silly.”

“Why?”

“Because it needs to be played by two people, one with a violin and one with a viola. It would be like listening to only one person while they were having a conversation with someone else that you couldn’t hear, like they were on the telephone. You wouldn’t get the full meaning.”

“Does music always have a meaning?” I asked.

“Definitely,” she said. “Playing a musical score is like telling a story, using notes and harmonies instead of letters and words. Music can invoke huge passion, and a symphony should carry the listener through the full range of emotions, from anticipation and sadness and melancholy in the early movements to delight and joy at the climax.”

I couldn’t claim that my dinner would tell a story, but I hoped that it might provide a share of delight and joy, albeit briefly, on the taste buds.

I trimmed the beef and cut it into strips before seasoning and then searing it in a hot frying pan. Then I fried a sliced onion and some mushrooms until they were tender and added them to the beef with some plain flour. I poured a generous measure of cognac over the mixture and, much to Caroline’s horror, flamed off the alcohol.

“You’ll set the whole bloody building on fire,” Caroline shouted as the flames leaped towards her ceiling, and I laughed.

Next, I carefully poured in some sour cream and a small amount of lemon juice, and sprinkled some paprika over the top. I had previously taken a large potato and, since Caroline didn’t have a kitchen mandolin, I had grated it on the large-hole side of her box cheese grater to produce long thin strips of potato that I now fried briefly in a deep fryer to produce crisp brown potato straws, while my beef mixture warmed on a low heat.

“I thought beef stroganoff was served with rice,” she said, watching me. “And I didn’t expect a chef to use my deep-fat fryer.”

“I use one all the time,” I said. “I know that fried food is not considered very healthy, but it tastes so good, and it’s fine if you eat it only in moderation and use the right oil for the frying. I certainly wouldn’t use lard like they used to.” I lifted the basket of potato straws out of the oil. “It’s traditional in Russia to serve beef stroganoff with potato straws, although lots of people like serving it with rice.”

We sat together on the sofa in her sitting room and ate off trays on our laps.

“Not bad,” she said. “Why is it called stroganoff?”

“After the Russian who invented it, I think.”

“Another Russian,” she said. “Is that why you chose it for tonight?”

“Not consciously,” I said.

“It’s nice.” She took another forkful. “What gives it such a distinctive flavor?” she asked with her mouth full.

“The sour cream and the paprika,” I said, laughing. “This dish used to be on lots of restaurant menus, but, unfortunately, these days it tends to be made without the beef, is called mushroom stroganoff and is served up for vegetarians.”

“Like the Komarovs,” she said.

“Indeed,” I said. “Just like the Komarovs.”

MONDAY MORNING was full of contradictions and wildly different from the evening before.

Caroline was eager to leave for the airport and could hardly contain her excitement at the prospect of jetting to Chicago to join the orchestra. She kept complaining at how slowly the time was passing as we waited for the taxi she had ordered to take us to Heathrow.

I, meanwhile, was dismayed at how quickly the hours were rushing by. I was sickened by the thought of her being so far away from me, while, at the same time, I was trying to share her pleasure in going.

We arrived at the terminal more than two hours before her plane was due to leave, and she checked in with no problems.

“I’ve been upgraded to business,” she exclaimed with a squeal, clutching her viola case to her chest.

“The check-in man must have fancied you,” I said.

“It was a woman,” she said, poking me in the ribs with her finger.

We sat on high stools and had coffee. There was an uneasiness between us. I wanted to spend every last moment with her, while she was desperate to get through to departures, as if in doing so her plane would leave more quickly. Neither of us wanted to express our eagerness to the other, as we both understood the situation.

“Do you want another coffee?” Caroline asked.

“No thanks,” I said. “I think you ought to go on through now, in case the lines for security are long.” I didn’t want her to. I wanted her to stay with me forever.

“I’ll stay a little longer,” she said. But I don’t think she really wanted to. She was trying to please me.

“No,” I said. “You go now, and I’ll get the train back to London, then on to Newmarket.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said, clearly relieved.

I waved to her until the very last second, until she and Viola finally disappeared into the security area and the departure lounge beyond. I then stood there for a while, waiting just in case they came back, just in case they needed something. But, of course, they didn’t.

How was it, I thought, that she could be so close to me, just through a door or two, and yet so far away? I even spoke to my overnight bag. “How could she go without me?” I asked it. It didn’t reply. I thought of my passport, sitting in the side pocket. Why didn’t I just fly to Chicago? Would Caroline be pleased or embarrassed by my arrival? What would Carl say if I didn’t go back to the Hay Net for another week?

“Stop being so silly,” I said to the bag, and received some strange looks from people around me.

I caught the Heathrow express train to Paddington and felt very lonely. It wasn’t so much that I was not with her; it was also the fact that I couldn’t even call her on the telephone if I wanted to, and wouldn’t be able to do so for at least the next nine hours. I couldn’t tell her how much I was missing her already, how much I was hurting. Perhaps it was just as well, I thought.

By the time I got to King’s Cross station, I reckoned that her flight must have surely departed. She would be sitting comfortably in her business-class seat, sipping business-class champagne and deciding which movie to watch. She was cocooned in an aluminum tube, rushing away from me at six hundred miles an hour, and I felt dreadful.

CARL COLLECTED me from Newmarket station at three o’clock and drove me to the Hay Net. I didn’t want to go home and sit alone in my cottage.

“We did sixty-five lunches yesterday,” said Carl.

“Good,” I said. “Perhaps we can now say we’re back to normal.”

“Still down a bit on dinners,” he said. “We only had twenty last night, and that’s low, even for a Sunday.”

“Perhaps we should close on Sunday evenings,” I said. “What do you think?”

“It would give us all Sunday evening off,” he said. Fixing the weekly staff rotation to provide for time off was always a headache.

“How many lunches did we do today?” I asked him.

“It was quite good,” he said. “At least thirty-five. But we’re the only place that does lunches on Mondays.”

We arrived at the Hay Net to find that Gary was busy with the kitchen porters cleaning in the kitchen. They had moved all the stainless steel worktop units and were scrubbing the floors beneath.

“What’s all that about?” I asked Carl as we went into the office. “Gary seems very industrious all of a sudden.”

“I think he’s trying to impress,” said Carl with a laugh. “He’s had his nose put out of joint a bit by Oscar.”

“Oscar?” I said.

“You know, the temporary chef from the agency.” I nodded remembering. “Seems that Gary thinks that Oscar is muscling in on his life and he doesn’t like it.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I said. “Oscar will only be here for a few more days.”

“Ah, but it’s not just in the kitchen,” said Carl. “Seems that Oscar has designs on Ray as well.” Ray and Gary, the couple. “Gary is jealous.”

“I’m keeping out of it,” I said. “As long as it doesn’t affect the running of the kitchen.”

“Are you working tonight?” Carl asked. “I could let Oscar go now if you’re going to be back full-time.”

“No,” I said. “Keep him here for a while longer. I don’t feel fully back to normal yet.” Also, I thought, I might need to be away more for the next few weeks as I looked for a London site. And I had been thinking of having another chef in the kitchen anyway to help with the workload. Having Oscar around for a bit longer might help me decide if it was really necessary. Staff salaries were the biggest of my overheads, and I certainly didn’t want to employ more chefs than I needed.

IN THE END, I did work in the kitchen that evening, although it wasn’t because I was needed. It was more to take my mind off Caroline’s flight. We did more than fifty dinners, which, while not quite at prepoisoning levels, was a huge improvement over last week.

I immersed myself in my cooking, panfrying fillets of Scotch beef and roasting sea bass, glazing racks of lamb and braising pork medallions. It felt good to be back in the groove even if the numbers were still down.

Twice I found Jacek standing, watching me work. His job involved coming into the kitchen to collect the used pots and pans for washing in the scullery and then returning them to the chefs for reuse. The first time, I thought he was just waiting for me to finish with the pan I was using, but on the second occasion I was sure he was observing me cook. I dismissed him back to the scullery with a wave.

“You want to mind that one,” said Gary, who had witnessed the exchange. “I don’t trust him.”

I think I agreed with him, and I resolved that in the morning I would try to find out more about our new kitchen porter.

Two of the evening’s customers were Ms. Harding, the news editor from the Cambridge Evening News, together with, I presumed, Mr. Harding, the paper’s overall editor. I hadn’t seen them arrive, and I didn’t even realize they were in the dining room until Richard came to see me about their bill.

“She says you invited them to come for free,” he said somewhat accusingly. Richard was never one to allow anyone to get away with something for nothing. That was one of the reasons I employed him.

“That’s right,” I said, taking their bill from the plate he was carrying. I looked at it. They had ordered a bottle of wine, but it was one of the cheaper ones on our list, and I decided to allow that too. Richard wouldn’t have approved.

I went over to the Hardings’ table with a bottle of port and three glasses.

“Do you fancy a nightcap?” I asked.

“Hello,” said Ms. Harding warmly. “This is my husband, Alistair. Max Moreton.” I saw him read the embroidered name on my tunic.

Alistair stood up, and we shook hands.

“Thank you for the dinner,” he said. “We’ve really enjoyed the evening.”

“Good,” I said. “Can I join you for a port?” I held up the bottle.

In the end, only Ms. Harding had one with me since her husband was driving.

“I can’t go on thinking of you as Ms. Harding,” I said to her. “But I don’t know your first name.”

“Clare,” she said.

“Well, Clare,” I said, “I hope you don’t suffer any ill effects after eating here.”

She looked rather startled and then smiled broadly as she realized I was only joking. At least, I hoped I was only joking.

“I am sure I will be fine,” she said. “I had the snapper with the pear, and it was absolutely delicious.” Gary would be pleased.

“And I had the medallions of pork,” said Alistair. “They were wonderful.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I am so glad you enjoyed it.”

We chatted for a while longer, and then they departed, promising to be back again, and next time at their expense. And they hadn’t mentioned anything about the intended prosecution. Perhaps things were indeed getting back to normal.

My cell phone rang in my pocket.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello, my darling,” said Caroline excitedly. “I’ve arrived, and it’s beautiful. I have a lovely room overlooking the river. I wish you were here.”

I wished it too. “Did you have a good flight?” I asked.

“Lovely,” she said. “I slept for about three hours, so I’m doing pretty well.”

“Well done,” I said. “It’s eleven-thirty here, and I’m going home to bed.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“At the restaurant,” I said. “I’ve been helping with the dinner service.”

“You’re a naughty boy,” she said. “You should be resting.”

“What, like yesterday?” I said, laughing.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m meeting everyone else downstairs in five minutes. We’re going out on a boat. I’m going to be exhausted.” She sounded excited.

“Have a great time,” I said. We hung up, and I positively ached to be there with her.

I yawned. I was exhausted too, both emotionally and physically.

I changed, and then Carl gave me a lift home, and it was not until after he had driven away that I realized that I had left my overnight bag in the office at the restaurant.

“Oh well,” I said to myself, “I’ll have to go to bed without brushing my teeth.”

And I did.

I DREAMED that I could smell toast. But someone had left it in my broken toaster for too long and it was beginning to burn. Burned toast. My father had always rather liked his toast burned black. He had joked that it wasn’t burned, it was just well-done.

I was awake and I could still smell the burned toast.

I got up and opened my bedroom door.

My cottage was on fire, with giant flames roaring up the stairway and great billowing black smoke filling the air.