Daniel's Dream Read Online Free PDF Page B

fifty-fifty basis, yet in six months he had not offered to do so much as boil an egg. Consequently they had been surviving on takeaways, occasional restaurant meals and numerous packages of chilled, prepared meals from high-street stores. Only at weekends did Lisanne have either the time or the inclination to cook a meal or two.
     
    ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said, trying not to sound either too surprised or two enthusiastic. She knew that Daniel’s moods were particularly capricious these days, and that too positive a response to his occasional suggestions could just as easily put him off as encourage him. ‘I’ll be back around six-thirty.’
     
    ‘Okay. I’ll do something nice; something different.’
     
    ‘I’ll look forward to it. Bye.’ And she kissed him again, on the forehead this time, before heading for the front door. 
     
    For several minutes after she had left Daniel sat there stupefied. He could not imagine what had prompted him to offer to cook. He had no interest in cooking these days, had not cared two figs for food since the accident and, in direct contrast to his usual attitude, had taken only minimal pleasure in its consumption. And yet, just as Lisanne had crossed the floor to kiss him, he had suddenly been assailed by the sight and smell of a dish that he had eaten several times but never prepared in his life.
     
    So vivid was the image, so potent the odour, that he felt compelled to go out into the streets, purchase the ingredients and spend the rest of the day if necessary preparing it. It was an immensely curious sensation, but no less real for that. Only one problem remained: how exactly did one make moussaka?
     
    A few moments later Daniel was showered and dressed. He looked at himself in the mirror, keenly aware of his improved appearance. He had always been good-looking, with a fine physique, and strong, well-defined features: people who met him for the first time felt almost obliged to comment on the unusually intense colour of his eyes, a deep, cobalt blue that put one in mind of some semi-precious stone.
     
    Since the accident Daniel had let himself go, but this morning he made a little more of an effort and it paid dividends. He put on his clean black jeans rather than the tatty blue ones that he had loafed around in for weeks on end; his trainers, although a little scuffed, were given a quick once-over with a damp rag and he chose to wear the new blue sweatshirt Lisanne had bought him for his birthday, as opposed to the green one with the holes in the elbows. He even brushed his thick, dark hair, so that it was sleek and smart. In all likelihood he would turn a few heads that morning.
     
    The sky was bright, yet despite the sunshine there was a decidedly sharp edge to the day. Daniel turned right out of the gate and headed for Green Lanes. Daniel liked Green Lanes, and had in fact been drawn to the area because of its particular brand of buoyant activity, which ensured the place was alive day and night.
     
    This part of London, known locally as Cyprus City because of its preponderance of Greek and Turkish Cypriots, owed more to the mores and customs of the Mediterranean than to those of England. When, at five-thirty, many other parts of London started closing for the day, Green Lanes was still a thriving, bustling market, subsumed in a welter of activity as the locals thronged the busy pavements in search of the best fruit and veg of the day, or queued noisily in the bakeries, buying loaves of fresh-baked aniseed bread or baklava by the kilo.
     
    It was always busy, which was how Daniel liked it. He hated neighbourhoods that became ghost towns after six o’clock, whose only activity centred around the doorway of the local pub. Green Lanes was full of vitality even at ten at night, and with its strong local flavour always made him smile. Indeed, on a bright, sunny Sunday morning, to wander past the grocery