‘Don’t be silly Jacob,’ says Nick, instantly regretting his prudery.
‘But you said we should admit it.’
‘I said don’t tell fibs.’
‘But it pongs.’ It did. ‘Why is your face like a tomato?’
Nick is surrounded by furtive sniggering. He imagines protesting his innocence over the tannoy. He looks for the comforting form of his wife. Then he remembers: Helen had sped off a minute earlier muttering urgently about mulling spices.
It is September.
Nick returns the macaroons to the shelf. They are Helen’s favourite.