“Here's your eggs, love.” Beryl deposited a plate in his lap. It looked like something he would have derided Peters for eating, over-done toast like two pieces of leather sandwiching a thin line of rubbery omelette, almost (but not entirely) unlike the plate of lightly scrambled eggs topped with chives and grated blue cheese he'd once seen on a cookery programme. “Do you want any sauce with it?”
“Um...” He lifted the top sheet of cardboard. The egg looked as uniform (and dark) as an old 45 record. Did anyone of Peter's generation know what a 45 was? Chances were they'd think he meant a handgun. “I'll have a splash of red sauce, if I may.”
“Just a splash, mind.” She went back into the kitchen, raising her voice so he could hear her over the sound from the television. “There'd be no point in skipping the sugar in your tea if you make up for it in tomato sauce.”
“Thanks.” He held out the sandwich for her to apply as much or as little sauce as she saw fit. Perhaps he should have asked for mustard, too. A whole jar might have made the sandwich palatable. He took a bite, he teeth crunching through the carbonised bread, and chewed slowly.
Beryl watched him, her head cocked to one side and her eyebrows raised. “All right, is it?”
“Lovely.” He smiled, hoping his teeth weren't covered in bits of burned toast. How could a woman who produced the edible equivalent of an orgasm with her lasagne be so unutterably bad at scrambled egg on toast? “Just what I'd been thinking about while you were making it.”