Chapter 23: The Morning After

I woke at six, and the closet door was still shut.

That was the first thing I noticed.

The second was that the bed beside me was empty, and warm, and that somebody in my kitchen was reading out loud.

"Calamari," said Tobias's voice. "Absolutely not. Anchovy paste. No. Worcestershire. Hold on."

I pulled on his shirt from the floor and padded down the hall.

He stood at my counter in last night's trousers and nothing else.

My reading glasses were pushed up on his head, and he had found them in a drawer.

He held a bottle of sauce at arm's length and squinted at the label.

There was a line of jars along the counter, and every one had been turned so he could read the ingredients.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He jumped.

"You're up." He set the bottle down guiltily. "I was making eggs."

"With the Worcestershire."

"It has anchovies in it. I didn't know that. It could have had shellfish."

His ears had gone red.

"I've been on this label for ten minutes," he said. "I'm not sure I'm allowed to touch the pan."

I stared at him.

I had grown up with this allergy.

I had explained it to waiters in four languages and to boyfriends who nodded and forgot.

For three years Tobias had known about it, and he had never once read a label.

"I called my doctor at five," he said. "I wanted to know what to do if it happened. I wrote it on the fridge."

I turned around.

On the refrigerator, on a sheet of hotel paper, he had written in blocky capitals.

It said: Hives. Throat. Injector, left side of her bag. Inject, then call.

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