Chapter 15 #2
‘It is,’ I confess. I take a sip of the delicious vin chaud. The combination of heat, alcohol and spices warms my throat in the most wonderful way. ‘I have the team working on a massive gingerbread village—it sounds stupid.’
‘No it doesn’t. Tell me about it.’ He leans forward and puts down his fork, crossing his arms flat on the table.
I have his full attention, and I wonder what this would be like, longer term.
Having a man like Paul, who’s been so successful, treat you like you’re the only thing that matters. I suspect I could get used to it.
‘Well, it’s a project I dreamed up with the visual merchandising team.
It’s the first year we’ve done it. My grandmother was Austrian, and my sister and I used to make gingerbread houses with her every Christmas back in Derbyshire, where I’m from.
They’re the kind of things you can really go to town on. ’
He nods. ‘I bought one of those gingerbread house kits from Fortnum’s last Christmas.
Thought it would be something fun to do with the girls.
It was an utter car crash. One of the most stressful experiences of my life.
I couldn’t get anything to stick to the gingerbread, and the entire fucking thing ended up collapsing overnight.
My youngest came down in the morning and found it—she was inconsolable. ’
I burst out laughing, and he looks positively delighted at my reaction. ‘Oh no,’ I say through my giggles. ‘That’s so terrible.’ I lean forward. ‘The secret is to use caramel to stick the pieces of the house together. It holds far better than icing.’
‘Now you tell me,’ he deadpans. ‘At least I have a beautiful, talented pastry chef on speed-dial this year.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ I warn. ‘I estimate that I’ll be all gingerbreaded out by mid-December.’
‘You’re safe,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t think I could stomach another attempt, anyway. I’m too traumatised. If I tried again, it could be very triggering. Especially for Flora—that’s my youngest.’
I giggle again. ‘Best to leave it to the professionals,’ I tell him.
‘So what’s the plan with it?’ he asks, picking up his fork again.
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Is this a dastardly plot to keep me talking so you can polish off all the tartiflette?’
He gives me another perfect grin. ‘Exactly that.’
This is easier than I thought. I can do this date thing. Admittedly, Paul is smoothing the path for me with his easy questions and sexy smiles and all-round gentlemanly behaviour.
I launch into a description of the village we’re plotting, and the plan to unveil it in the Oast House in a couple of weeks.
He’s attentive and complimentary and asks smart technical questions that suggest he’s either interested in what I have to say or does indeed intend to attempt another gingerbread house this year and is shoring up intel.
I suspect it’s the former.
As I wrap up, I say, ‘We should stop talking about me. Tell me about you, before you eat all the tartiflette.’
He smiles and puts his fork down, holding his hands up as if in surrender. ‘It’s all yours. What do you want to know?’
‘I don’t know.’ I realise I actually don’t. I cast around in my mind for a suitable topic but end up blurting out, ‘So, how long have you been single for?’
He laughs. ‘Wow. Going straight into the good stuff, I see.’
‘We don’t have to,’ I say in a panic. ‘We can talk about your work.’
‘Jesus, no. I think I’d rather talk about my ex-wife.’
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
‘Let’s see,’ he says, cocking his head in a manner I find quite charming, though I find myself wondering if it’s his intention to be charming, or whether it’s an unconscious gesture.
‘Well, we got divorced the summer before last. We separated a year before that. And before you ask, no one did anything naughty.’
I grin.
‘We just’—he shrugs helplessly—‘drifted apart. It sounds like the worst cliche in the world and the lamest excuse. But we met during our training contract when we were both twenty-one, and let’s just say the physical side of things lapsed.
For both of us. We ignored it for a long time, told ourselves it didn’t matter, and in the end I was the one to suggest that marriage may not be the best format for our relationship anymore. ’
I exhale. ‘That sounds pretty brave, if nothing was massively wrong on the surface.’
‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘And both sets of parents were devastated. They couldn’t understand how we could turn our backs on what was basically a happy marriage.
They were of the generation where you stuck your heels in and got on with it.
But we’d both just turned forty, and we came around to the idea that it was better to take a leap into the unknown rather than live out the second half of our lives or more in a marriage that was just fine. ’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘How disgustingly mature of you both.’
He laughs, and I decide I really like his laugh. ‘I know, right?’
‘And have you dated much since then?’ I venture.
His face turns serious as he gazes at me.
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘Oh,’ I squeak. ‘Why is that? I mean, you must get lots of offers.’
He flashes his dimples at me. ‘It’s not about that. It’s more about guarding my time. Lizzie and I share custody of the girls, and work is full-on. I’d rather spend more time with my kids, or just enjoying my down-time, than on lots of average dates.’
‘Of course,’ I murmur, chastised.
‘Molly,’ he says.
I look up.
He shakes his head. ‘This is not one of those average dates,’ he tells me, and my breath hitches. ‘I’ve been waiting quite some time for you to agree to go out with me.’
‘I know,’ I stammer, ‘and I’m sorry it’s taken so long—’
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You should absolutely not apologise. I’m just honoured you finally said yes. Shall we go for a wander?’
He slings an arm loosely around my shoulder. ‘Is this okay?’
I smile up at him. ‘Sure.’ It feels good, actually, to have the weight of a man’s arm around me. Anchoring me to him. Especially a man who looks and smells as good as Paul. It’s weird and thrilling in equal measure to think that to the casual passer-by we look like an actual couple.
We set off at a gentle pace, meandering around the market and taking in the sights and sounds. While we’ve been eating, the recorded music has given way to a small choir who will sing every Friday and Saturday night for the next few weeks.
As the solemn notes of the music ring out around us, and the food and wine sit pleasantly in my belly, I allow myself to relax enough to really enjoy the moment.
This is a seriously good date. Paul has lavished me with attention without coming on too strong.
He insists on buying me the most beautiful hand-blown glass bauble in vivid ruby red for my tree at home (when I get around to putting it up, that is), and he fetches me another cup of vin chaud before we wander over to the small crowd gathered in front of the choir.
‘I’m not trying to get you drunk, I promise,’ he says with a cheeky grin that’s undeniably charming. I grin back at him. The wine has taken the edge off everything, and I find myself wondering, could I kiss him? It’s such a weird thought, but not an unpleasant one.
Until our little bubble is unceremoniously popped.
Because, standing just to the left of us, is Max.