Chapter 4
4
‘I’ll have to pick up Boris,’ Fabian said smiling, once we’d driven through miles of incredibly gorgeous countryside on the way out to Marlow. I’ve always considered the beautiful village of Beddingfield, where I’d grown up in West Yorkshire, stunning, and the scenery and sheer majesty of North Yorkshire, particularly around the Dales, and even round the bleak Pennines, unsurpassable, but as we passed through picture-box villages and expensive-looking towns with upmarket bars and restaurants, I could see why commuters would yearn to break out of London to live here. ‘You OK with dogs?’ Fabian asked, when I didn’t reply.
‘Depends what it is,’ I said. ‘If it’s a great big pit bull or a horrible yappy little lapdog, then probably not. I didn’t grow up with dogs. Mum’s house is surrounded by fields and amazing countryside but she’s never been keen on having one. Particularly as we have Roger.’
‘Roger? A cat?’
‘A rabbit,’ I said. ‘He’s a house rabbit. He’d probably see off any dog that dared to venture onto his territory. He’s particularly territorial about the sofa – we have to wrestle with him to get the best view of the TV.’
‘I’m sure Boris will pass muster.’ He grinned, slowing down as, a mile or so out of the riverside town of Marlow itself, we approached a long country drive. After passing through an electric gate, we drove along a tree-lined avenue planted richly on either side with herbaceous borders, mature trees and topiary. Fabian slowed with a crunch onto a gravel driveway in front of probably the most heavenly house I’d ever seen.
‘Is this all yours?’ I asked faintly as Fabian cut the engine.
‘Well, my parents’.’ Fabian smiled. ‘And my grandparents’ before that. Been in the family donkey’s years. I grew up here. Right, come on, I’ll just get Boris and his lead and the picnic.’ I followed Fabian as he bounded up a flight of honey-coloured stone steps, pressed a few buttons on the alarm and walked through a magnificent reception hall, a pillared archway leading to the main, cream-carpeted staircase. While the house must have been designed and built with grandeur in mind, the rooms weren’t stuffy, but instead portrayed generations of family life. I walked behind Fabian into a spacious kitchen, which my sister Jess, with her love of cooking, would have sold her soul to get her hands on. A huge six-door navy Aga obviously hadn’t been thought sufficient because to one side of it was a bank of stainless-steel ovens, steam oven, microwaves and coffee maker that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Costa. Hundreds of cookery books, as well as myriad gardening tomes, overflowed from a bank of bookshelves on one wall. As I gazed round in wonder, Fabian moved across the kitchen, opening what I assumed to be a utility room.
‘Oh!’ I jumped back in surprise as a blond bundle of energy flung itself upon me, knocking me backwards onto a kitchen chair.
‘Meet Boris.’ Fabian grinned.
‘Hell, he’s big.’ I laughed, both the dog and I enjoying the attention. ‘I thought you said he was a puppy.’ Big lion’s feet, out of all proportion to his slender legs, paddled furiously across the floor back to Fabian. ‘What the hell is he?’
‘Goldendoodle,’ Fabian replied, wrestling the dog to the floor where he lay supine as Fabian cleverly avoided puppy teeth while rubbing at the dog’s pink speckled tummy.
‘Right, OK,’ he said, standing up before moving to the sink to wash his hands. (I do like a man who washes his hands before touching food and, believe me, a hell of a lot of men don’t.) ‘Just give me a moment to sort the picnic. Red or white?’
‘Oh, erm, white, please.’ I wandered over to the huge window, taking in the acres of kitchen garden, greenhouses, a summer house and, the pièce de résistance , a large outdoor swimming pool, ornamented by expensive-looking, artistically arranged sunbeds, tables and chairs. This certainly beat my mum’s two splintered deckchairs she’d bought years ago at B identical clothes from some designer of the moment; ridiculously expensive handbags that are too big for gym-toned arms.’
I laughed. ‘Well, I like to think every bit of me is toned – I do enough dancing to tone the lot – but, my bag, I’m afraid, is M in fact, I love being in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, sorry to disappoint you: I’m utterly hopeless with anything culinary.’
‘Right, what would you like? A slice of quiche? Some coleslaw? That’s mine too.’
‘Thank you.’ I was suddenly ridiculously nervous again, my mouth dry, no appetite at all. Sitting within a foot of this exceptionally gorgeous man, who had been at the heart of my lustful fantasies for the past weeks, wasn’t conducive to tucking in with zestful abandon. Hell, what if I couldn’t swallow? I took another slug of wine – what on earth was I even doing here, a fish out of water, gasping for air?
I nibbled at the quiche Fabian handed to me on a plate. It was truly delicious and if I’d been at home, by myself, I’d have devoured the lot in three greedy mouthfuls. Fabian was buttering bread lavishly, piling on a garlicky paté and tucking in, but turned when he saw I was struggling.
‘You don’t like it?’ He pulled an anxious face.
‘I do, I do. It’s absolutely divine. I’m eating slowly, cherishing every morsel,’ I lied, offering up a face of appreciation. ‘You didn’t make the bread as well?’ I added, trying to get his attention from my dry mouth and seemingly closed throat.
‘Certainly did. I got into bread making during lockdown.’
‘Like lots of people.’ I smiled. ‘You should meet my sister Jess, she’s a superb cook: can produce a fabulous meal out of just a few ingredients… I keep telling her I’m going to get her onto MasterChef …’ I trailed off, realising I was gabbling when I should have been eating. ‘So,’ I said, ‘you appear to have got my life story out of me. What about you?’
‘The usual,’ he said easily. ‘I’m one of three: I’ve an older brother – half-brother actually – and younger sister, born to white, very English, very, you know, conservative parents. Both in the legal profession.’
‘Oh? Solicitors? Lawyers?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Something like that?’
‘Yes… So, try some of the coronation chicken. I add apricots – my own recipe.’
‘What?’ I laughed, sensing a reluctance on Fabian’s part to continue as he spooned out creamy cold chicken and poured more wine. ‘Thank you.’ I hesitated. ‘So, your dad’s a top judge or something, is he? And your mum was on Boris Becker’s defence team…?’ I trailed off: something was beginning to turn cogs in my brain. ‘Roland Carrington?’ I finally said, staring across at Fabian for confirmation.
He nodded, a mixture of pride and embarrassment on his beautiful face.
‘Your dad is the Lord Chief Justice of England?’
‘And Wales.’ He smiled, nodding again. ‘I’m amazed you know that. Most people don’t even know who the foreign secretary is.’
‘I do,’ I said, immediately giving the correct name.
‘Or even the home secretary…’
‘Easy,’ I said scornfully. ‘I’m in a pub quiz team,’ I explained. ‘When it doesn’t clash with my shift at Graphite. “Who is the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales?” was a question a month or so ago. No one knew.’
‘Even you?’
‘No, not at the time. I do now though.’
‘Well, there we go,’ Fabian said lightly. ‘So, your dad’s a musician?’
‘Yes, been with various reggae bands ever since he was expelled from school. He does have quite a following in the Netherlands and Scandinavia.’
‘Something to be proud of.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Is it?’ I looked directly at Fabian before relenting. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘Ice cream?’
‘Home-made?’ I smiled.
‘Is there any better?’
‘Well, I’m not averse to a Magnum if pushed.’
Fabian laughed, cleared away the remains of the picnic before opening some sort of thermos cool box. ‘Hmm.’ He frowned, looking down. ‘Not quite as hard as I’d have liked.’
For some childish reason, that made me want to titter and I had to look away, folding the starched linen napkin Fabian had passed me earlier. Grow up, Robyn, I silently chastised myself. This man is a sophisticated adult: a barrister, the son of England and Wales’s Lord Chief Justice.
I turned, the actor in me coming to the rescue as I offered a totally straight face in Fabian’s direction, only to find him laughing himself. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, unable to stop. ‘So sorry.’ He turned to the box, scooping out a soft spoonful of vanilla ice cream before standing and moving right over to where I was sitting. ‘Now,’ he ordered, ‘try this. Hang on, close your eyes…’
‘My eyes?’
‘Yes. You can’t savour the exquisite vanilla taste if your other senses are still on full alert.’
‘I can smell the vanilla,’ I argued. I could also feel my pulse racing, my heart going nineteen to the dozen.
‘Close your eyes,’ he insisted again.
I did as I was told, parting my lips slightly, anticipating sweet, vanilla-flavoured coldness.
Instead, there was a soft touch of cotton as his shirt brushed my bare arm, followed by warm, equally soft, lips on my own. My eyes fluttered open in surprise, but Fabian smiled. ‘Just an experiment,’ he explained, seriously. ‘I read ice cream tastes so much better and colder if alternating with something warm.’ He offered the spoon and, laughing, I licked the ice cream this time, but he leaned forwards, kissing my mouth once again until I wasn’t sure which was the kiss and which was ice cream, both so utterly delicious I truly wondered if I’d died and gone to heaven.