Chapter 48
I turn into the car park at Zach’s apartment block and look for the bay he’d directed me to. There is a persistent flutter in my stomach, a long-lost type of feeling, like being fifteen years old and on your way to a party where you know you’ll see the boy you like.
I pull into the space and turn off the engine. In the twenty minutes it took to drive here, dozens more WhatsApp messages have landed. I’ve been invited to log my alcohol units, check the balance of my mortgage, undertake a restorative Vinyasa Flow and look at a video compilation of my photo memories from this day in 2014.
I click on the screen and swipe every one of them away.
Instead, I text Zach to tell him I’m here, as he asked me to. I check my lipstick in the rear-view mirror and release a long breath. Then I get out, open the back door to collect my bag and a bottle of Chablis. When I look up, he’s walking towards me, that showstopper of a smile on his face.
He is wearing jeans and a relaxed, white cotton shirt. The top couple of buttons are open, revealing the tanned, muscular notch at the top of his chest. He is cleanly shaven. His hair is still damp from the shower. His skin looks tanned, his lips full and flushed. He is the definition of sexy, oozing masculinity but with just enough softness around the edges.
He touches me on the elbow and bends down to kiss me on the cheek.
‘You look gorgeous. You smell gorgeous.’ Then he pulls back and looks me in the eyes. ‘Damn . . . you are gorgeous.’
‘That’s way too many compliments for one sentence.’
‘Have I peaked too early? I’ll rein ’em in.’
‘Oh, don’t do that.’ I smile and hand him the wine. He looks at the bottle. ‘Nice choice.’
‘It’s flinty with a long, tingly finish, apparently.’
‘Well, what’s not to love about that?’
We stroll towards his apartment block and he lets us in. The reception area is nicely decorated in muted shades of peach and cream, offset by a profusion of shiny, oversized plants. We take a lift to the seventh floor and when he opens the door, a delicious umami scent of cooking food ignites my senses.
The flat is bigger than I was expecting and, contrary to what he’d said, less impersonal. It’s open-plan and filled with light, decorated tastefully in soft shades, but with splashes of intense colour from the contemporary furniture and pictures on the walls. There’s a small corridor leading to a couple of bedrooms, one of which I can already see is filled with an abundance of pink accessories.
‘That one’s Mila’s. Just in case you were in any doubt,’ he says, as he takes my jacket and hangs it on a peg near the front door.
‘This is very swish, Zach. And my compliments to your cleaner George.’
He heads over to the kitchen area to open the wine. He pours two chilled glasses and hands me one, before stirring something in a pan as I wander to a floor-to-ceiling window that leads out to a balcony, where a small table and two chairs overlook the quays.
‘Can I go out here?’
‘Sure.’
I step outside and look across the network of waterways and skyscrapers of Manchester beyond. Given the weather around here, I don’t suppose this always makes for a glorious view. But today it does. Today, it is perfect. Everything is.
A hot summer sun is setting low over the water, creating a myriad of unlikely colours in the sky – deep turquoise through to burnished amber. Looking directly down, I get a full sense of how different the vibe is here at the weekend, the emphasis more on play than work. There are dog walkers and runners, as well as the odd cyclist, while in the canal beneath us, a group of thirty or so swimmers bob about in multicoloured caps.
‘They’re brave,’ I say, as Zach steps out to join me. ‘I don’t fancy the temperature in that water.’
‘No, it’s nice in there. Not quite Laguna Beach, but it still gets the endorphins pumping.’
I suppress a smile. ‘I might have known you’d have had a go.’
‘I’m that predictable, huh?’
He places his wine glass on the table. Then he takes mine out of my hand and puts it down too.
‘Come here.’ He slides his palms around my waist and draws me in to his body.
I never want to forget what it feels like to be tenderly enveloped by these big, loving arms. As I breathe in the scent on his skin, I want to bottle it and inhale it forever.
I can’t decide which type of Zach’s kisses I like the best. The soft, sensual ones, like honey running through my whole body. Or the hard, hungry ones when he wants me so much he can barely breathe. Truth is, I’d take either. Anytime, anywhere, as the saying goes. But for now, it’s the first kind – slow and sultry and sweet, the type that hints at much more to come.
‘I like what you did with your hair tonight,’ he says, reaching up as his fingertips play with a soft strand.
‘Oh . . . curlers,’ I say, entirely ruining any sense of mystique. ‘So, what’s on the menu? It smells wonderful.’
‘Well, you were totally unhelpful when I asked what you wanted to eat . . .’
‘I’ll eat anything.’
‘Precisely. No help at all. After great deliberation, I decided there was only one menu I could possibly serve you.’
‘Which is?’
‘A taste of home. New York City style.’
‘Ah! I love a hot dog!’
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, Darling. You are not getting a hot dog.’
What I get instead is a feast.
As the sun sets, we eat at a candlelit table just inside the apartment, both doors flung wide open to allow a gentle breeze to drift in. It starts with an incredible seafood platter, of fresh-shucked oysters, caviar, clams and shrimp. Next is a chicken dish with polenta and hazelnuts, served with a side of kohlrabi. He tells me this was all inspired by his favourite food from Gramercy Tavern.
‘It’s one of those perfect places, you know. The kind where everything is just right. A little bit of bustle, great vibe, delicious, fresh food.’
‘It’s been a long time since anyone cooked for me,’ I confess.
‘Oh yeah?’
I nod. Brendan did go through a phase once when he developed a sort of love–hate relationship with Gordon Ramsay and vowed to start making a special meal for us on a Saturday night. My main recollection of the experience was the phenomenal number of pots and pans left for me to wash up afterwards, which he seemed to think was a reasonable price to pay given that he’d been toiling over a couple of lamb chops and half a bottle of red for most of the afternoon.
I offer to wash up now, but Zach won’t countenance it. He’d done most of it before I arrived and leaves the rest in the sink, telling me he’ll deal with it later and that I am not to lift a finger, under any circumstances.
‘That might just be the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Russo,’ I say.
We eat and talk and laugh, all to a playlist he tells me he compiled earlier this afternoon. There’s a little bit of Lana del Rey, a touch of The Head and The Heart, a soup ? on of the Plain White T’s and Tom Odell. I make him promise to send it to me, just so that when he’s gone and I’m wondering if I hallucinated these last few months, I can press play and take myself back.
When he finally brings out a lemon tart made with buttermilk, bilberries and thyme, I’m convinced I’m too stuffed, but somehow manage it.
‘And now . . . I can’t move.’
‘My portions are probably bigger than you’re used to.’
‘Still managed to clean my plate though,’ I say, sighing contentedly. ‘Zach, this was incredible. You never even mentioned you liked cooking. I’d have been over every other night with a bottle of white if I’d known. . .’
‘I’ve hardly done any since I’ve been in the UK. When Mila’s here, she only wants exactly the same thing – pasta with cheese and veggies – despite my attempts to tempt her with something else. And when there’s just me, I tend to just batch-cook and keep things in the refrigerator. It was nice to actually crack open the cookbooks again.’
‘Well, I’m honoured. You should keep at it when you go back to the US.’
The reminder that he’ll be gone brings a lump to my throat.
He forces a smile. ‘Yeah. I should.’
I place my napkin down. ‘Well, I’m sure I could just do a couple of dishes . . .’ I say, standing up.
‘Oh, stop it and sit down. If I’ve only got a limited time left with you I’m not going to waste it by doing that.’
‘Fine.’ I do as instructed. ‘What now then?’
He draws his eyes across my face with a slow, sexy smile. ‘Scrabble?’
I start to laugh. But then he stands up, walks around the table and offers me his hand. I already know where we’re going next.