Peters scrambled to help, opening the drawer to find rolled-up straw mats that looked suspiciously like they'd been removed from the New China House on Cheap Street. He took out three and found cutlery in the next drawer along. Beryl, meanwhile, clattered plates as she dished out three generous portions of lasagna and plopped them on the Chinese mats. She sat and swapped the cutlery over to put the knife in her left hand.
“This looks nice, love.” White elected to forego the knife altogether and used the edge of his for to carve out chunks of green pasta and excavate the bolognese sauce from beneath. Oil and hot whey pooled around the edges of his plate as he scooped up a generous mouthful. “You could do flower arranging. Or French.”
“What good would that be? You're allergic to flowers.” She shot a sideward glance at his sergeant. “And I know what sort of French you'd like to see coming out of my mouth and I won't learn that at the college.”
Peters clattered his silverware against the plate, making the point that he wasn't listening to his boss's fifty-eight year old wife talking about French Polishing. “Lovely meal, Mrs Whhite. You have a flair for Italian cooking.”
“It's all out of a jar, love.” She sounded pleased nonetheless. “All I really do is fry up the mince and onions.”
“That's all you do whatever meal you make.” White grinned, trying to join in the conversation. Beryl's scowl indicated it might have been the wrong thing to say so he tried a different tack. “Perhaps you could consider a cooking class.”