Chapter 15
There was nothing for it but to wear the same dress again on Wednesday. I had no time to go shopping, and it was the only sexy outfit I had. Plus I needed both nights to prepare my mind and body for ‘the date’. On Monday night, I did a YouTube course in beginner’s French because I knew Jeremy was fluent. I had some rudimentary knowledge from school, but I needed a refresher. Did I think he was going to expect me to converse in French? No. But I wanted to show I could parley-voo if required or at least nod my understanding. Then of course, there was the usual body prep, but forgoing the oily face mask (there was no way I wanted another repeat of Krakatoa).
While waxing my bikini line on Tuesday night, however, I wondered why I was bothering with that level of detail. I seriously doubted that anything sexual would be taking place even if Jeremy had been ogling me. There’s always Thomas, I thought. He’d appreciate it. But despite enjoying Thomas’s enthusiastic endeavours in the bedroom to get me up to speed, I wasn’t sure if continuing our arrangement was a good idea. What if this date went well, and Jeremy and I started seeing each other outside of work on a regular basis? Being involved sexually with another guy would massively complicate things. But I enjoyed Thomas’s company outside of the bedroom too. Perhaps he’d be amenable to being friends.
An image of him kissing my cheek and giving me that look swam into my mind as I ripped off the hardened wax with a grimace—somehow, I didn’t think Thomas would like playing second fiddle to Jeremy.
By Wednesday afternoon, not surprisingly, I was a bundle of nerves and seriously considering popping to the nearest bar for a neat whisky shot or two.
Becca was giving me suspicious looks because of what I was wearing. ‘Why are you so dressed up again?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to the opera with my mother. She’s been visiting from London for a few days,’ I said with conviction.
‘Ah, I see.’ Becca knew from my mother’s previous expeditions to Oxford that she could be exacting. Luckily, she didn’t ask me what opera we were seeing as I had no idea what was on.
Speaking of my mother, her Saturday night invite loomed in the distance—the night where I would have to spend an awkward evening in the company of my sister and my ex, pretending I was over their betrayal. Maybe if Jeremy was starting to think of me in a romantic sense, he wouldn’t mind accompanying me to London. The look on my sister’s face when I turned up with him in tow would be sweet karma indeed.
Unfortunately, sweet karma didn’t extend to the weather. Grey clouds gathered and the sky darkened outside my office window. Jeremy had confirmed that he’d meet me outside after work and we’d walk there. But as the afternoon progressed and translucent droplets ran down the windowpane, I worried he might decide it was all too hard and call it off. Silence ensued, and I waited on tenterhooks, my armpits wet with anxiety.
Just as I was about to lose my mind, he messaged, saying he’d pick me up out front and we’d drive to the restaurant. The tightness in my gut eased. He was a pro at this; all I had to do was relax and enjoy his company, along with some excellent French food and wine. There was nothing to tie myself in knots about.
It was raining heavily when I opened the main door of the building and poked my head out. There was no sign of Jeremy’s car, and I didn’t want to stand out in this without an umbrella. Unless he was parked farther along and I couldn’t see him? Shit.
Unbuckling my trench, I held it over my head and tottered down the puddle-strewn path to the front gate. No car. I didn’t have his mobile number, so I couldn’t text him. After an indeterminable wait under a dripping tree, his black MINI Cooper pulled up with a flourish next to the waterlogged kerb; and I jumped back, narrowly missing getting splashed from head to foot. The passenger door sprung open, and I collapsed inside, bundling my coat in front of me. But it effectively sent a rivulet of water all down my stockings. I banged the door shut, muttering an expletive.
‘Hi,’ said Jeremy, sounding amused. A quick glance over and I saw he was unruffled in a black raincoat with the collar turned up, his hair slightly damp. A grin on his handsome face. The space suddenly seemed too small for the both of us, and I found it hard to breathe. Was there a phobia for being in a car with a searingly hot guy?
‘Bit wet out there, huh? Would you like a towel?’
‘Yes, please,’ I squeaked, feeling drips wandering down my neck and wondering about the state of my mascara.
‘Sorry I took so long. There was a queue in the parking lot. Excuse me.’ Jeremy reached in front of me to open the passenger glovebox, his arm briefly brushing mine, and handed me a small folded blue hand towel. It smelt of old perfume. Did his dates use it to dry off if they got too hot and sweaty in his presence? I dabbed it perfunctorily on my décolletage and placed it to one side. I’d sort myself out once we got to the bistro.
‘So bonjour, comment allez-vous?’ I said brightly as Jeremy put on his blinker and pulled away from the kerb. Might as well show off my conversational French skills.
‘Ah, très bien, merci,’ he replied, checking his side mirror. ‘I didn’t know you spoke French?’
‘Un peu,’ I said, feeling glad I’d made the effort and done that YouTube course. Now I was setting myself apart from those random women he dated.
But then Jeremy rattled off an incomprehensible sentence that ended with a question mark and glanced at me expectantly.
I gulped. That was a bit beyond beginner’s level.
‘Er, oui, bien s?r,’ I replied, not knowing what else to say.
But it seemed to be the right answer because he smiled widely. ‘Parfait! Nous pouvons faire ?a.’
Oh great. What had I just agreed to? Hopefully, it was something pleasant, like going to Paris with him.
We arrived at the restaurant—a rather austere, but chic space with sconce lighting, wooden floorboards, and modern seating. I was expecting French-type artwork or photos on the wall to set the atmosphere, but there were none. Jeremy had assured me, however, that the food was good. He seemed to come here regularly. While I headed to the ladies’ to sort out my hair and face, Jeremy said he’d order our starters.
When I returned, feeling marginally less bedraggled, I found a small white plate on my side of the table with a pair of round tongs and a two-pronged fork resting beside it. There was also an opened bottle of red wine and two glasses poured. Jeremy was currently swigging from one. As I sat down, a waiter appeared and served us both silver dishes filled with half a dozen gently steaming brown shells.
I looked at the dish in alarm. Snails! Urgh!
Jeremy set his wine down and picked up his tongs. ‘I couldn’t believe it when you said “oui” in the car as no one I ever bring here wants me to order them snails.’
Oh god. This was obviously something he really enjoyed. Snails were a French delicacy after all, and this was my chance to impress him.
I forced a smile and inclined my head towards the dish. A waft of garlic and a faint earthy smell hit my nostrils, and my stomach churned. Following his lead, I grasped a snail in my tongs and used the fork to dig out a fleshy grey slug.
‘Bon appétit!’ Jeremy said enthusiastically and popped it in his mouth. There was nothing for it but to put the slug in my own mouth and chew. It tasted like tyre rubber basted with garlic and had a lingering aftertaste of soil. I quickly washed it down with a large gulp of wine.
Worried he was going to order us frog legs next, I grabbed the leather-bound menu and said, ‘I’ll check out the mains.’
‘I’m paying for this, by the way. So don’t hold back. Get the filet mignon if you like. I am.’ Jeremy popped another snail in his mouth and patted his glistening lips delicately with a napkin. I stared, feeling slightly lustful. Trust Jeremy to make ingesting snails look sexy.
After I’d forced down another couple of snails and several more large gulps of wine, I was beginning to feel pleasantly tipsy, if a little nauseous from eating slugs. But I was relieved the date was going well. Jeremy talked mostly about his book, which he’d started writing. But that was OK; it was inherently interesting to me. This was why I loved him—what other man would get so excited about smallpox outbreaks?
He wiped his hands on a napkin. ‘Have you finished that memoir yet? I was thinking I’d quite like to read it after all.’
My gut hopped. I wondered what Jeremy would make of Jasper bonking Arabella while Mercy cowered in bed having to listen to it. Then there was the latest encounter in his room involving her hasty escape before he pounded the wall with his fist. The guy was a first-class bully. Couldn’t she see how horrible he was? I wanted to reach into the past and shake some sense into her. Plus I didn’t want Jeremy reading anything about unrequited love at this point in time. He might start seeing similarities.
‘Honestly, it’s a bit rambly and all over the place. I can send you through my notes when I’m finished to save you the effort,’ I countered. ‘The majority of it is her coping with life after smallpox. The scarring made things a struggle.’
Jeremy tutted. ‘That is unfortunate. Any mention of vision loss?’
‘No.’ However, maybe there was if Mercy had seen herself reflected in the cloche as scar-free and perfect. Poor thing.
Jeremy started talking about a lecture he was giving next week, and I nodded along but felt a little impatient. When was he going to ask me anything personal? Didn’t he want to know about my hobbies or my friends? I’d thought we’d get to know each other.
I started to feel uneasy—was this a working dinner and not a date after all?
When I’d met Thomas, he’d defined our encounter straightaway as a date, and I’d liked that. It gave me a solid brick wall to lean against. I knew what was going on. This dinner with Jeremy felt flimsy, like tissue paper.
That is, until we both reached for the salt to sprinkle on our filet mignons and knocked over the entire pot. There was much laughter and scooping up of salt from the table. In the confusion, Jeremy took the chance to deliberately entwine his salty fingers with mine. I nearly spontaneously combusted.
OK, so it wasn’t a working dinner?
I looked down at our meshed fingers and back up at him, hardly able to believe he was touching me—finally. The corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Now we have to throw it over our left shoulders,’ he said, rubbing his thumb lazily against mine. ‘Or it’s bad luck.’
‘Ah, right. That is the superstition, isn’t it?’ I said, his touch feeling like the sun on a winter’s day.
‘It’s the left shoulder because that’s apparently where the devil sits,’ he continued, squeezing my fingers. ‘Throwing salt in his eyes keeps him away.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said, squeezing his fingers back. ‘I wonder where that originated from.’
‘The Last Supper. Judas Iscariot spilled the salt cellar.’
Together, we threw pinches of salt over our left shoulders, and I hoped I hit the devil right in the eyes with mine. I didn’t want any interference in what was now looking to be an actual date with Jeremy.
We returned to our food, having salted our respective filet mignons. After finishing my meal, I made an excuse to go to the ladies’, leaving him perusing the dessert menu. Clutching the edge of the counter, I took a few deep breaths to calm down. My heart was jumping around in my chest like the Energizer Bunny. Just as I thought it was one thing, he’d completely upped the ante, and now it was another. What would happen after dinner? I had no idea.
But if he was holding my hand, there was a possibility of him being up for something else later. Maybe at least a kiss? That was both exciting and nerve-wracking.
I used the loo, checked my phone, and saw I had a message from Thomas.
TTTE:How’s the date going?
Me:Good!
TTTE: Has he made a move yet?
Me:Yes! He held my hand.
TTTE: Great (thumbs up emoji). Sounds like he’s into you.
Me:I hope so. But I’m nervous about what’s going to happen after dinner. What if he wants to kiss me? Should I let him or play hard to get?
TTTE: How long have you been in love with this guy?
Me:Just over two years.
TTTE:I really don’t think you should play hard to get.
Me:Right. Thanks for the advice.
TTTE:No problem. Message me later if you get stuck.
Me: I think I should be fine.
TTTE:OK. Have fun!
***
With Thomas’s words of encouragement playing on my mind, I was only too happy to acquiesce with a ‘oui!’ when Jeremy suggested we take a detour to his place after the crème br?lée. He said he had an ‘artefact’ that he thought I might find interesting and that he’d drop me back at my flat afterwards.
I imagined it was a line he’d used many times before. But now that he was using it on me, I wasn’t complaining. Since we were headed to his house, I was pretty sure that he had more in mind than just a kiss. Thank goodness I’d had that practise with Thomas, or I’d be a nervous wreck right now. As it was, one of my legs had developed a nervous tremor, and my stomach kept clenching whenever I thought about it.
The rain had eased off, and the sky was clearing as we reached the outskirts of town and started passing hedgerows and fields with round golden bales of hay. It was still relatively light as we’d clocked over to daylight savings the weekend before.
‘Gosh, this is a bit of a hike into town each day,’ I commented.
‘It is a little,’ Jeremy replied, concentrating on the road, which had narrowed considerably. ‘My wife and I bought the house as a kind of country retreat.’
I gave a start. Wife!
He coughed. ‘I should say ex-wife. We’re divorced.’
My heart rate lowered from its adrenaline spike. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been married.’
‘Yeah,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Not something I’m looking to repeat anytime soon. The rectory has become a millstone around my neck. I’ll probably sell it at some point.’
I whipped my head around. ‘Rectory?’
‘Yes, it’s been converted. Well, partly. We bought it as a doer-upper, but it’s grade II listed. So there’s a ton of things you can’t do. It’s more of a don’ter-upper.’ He chuckled at his own joke.
‘How long have you lived there?’
‘About four years.’
I couldn’t believe it. He lived in a rectory. What were the chances? Hopefully, he didn’t have a whip as well!
Not too long after, we drove up a gravelled driveway to a two-storey white-brick house covered with ivy. It was like something off a chocolate box.
‘There you go. Small, but perfectly formed—just how I like my women,’ Jeremy quipped.
Cheesy,I thought. But at least he was attempting to flirt.
‘It looks lovely,’ I said, peering through the rain-smeared windscreen.
‘Let’s go in. I’ll put the kettle on and show you the artefact. I think it’s something you’ll like.’
Oh yes, the artefact. I grinned to myself, wondering if it would resemble the clay specimen I’d lovingly crafted. Thomas’s face, his eyes closed in pleasure, popped unbidden into my mind. Dammit, I shouldn’t have replied to his message. This wasn’t the time to be thinking about handling his artefact!
‘You’ll have to excuse the muddle. I’m still sorting things out from a recent antique haul,’ Jeremy said, turning his key in the white-painted door.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, following him in. ‘I do a bit of antique shopping myself.’
I was expecting a few vases or some such to be lying around. But the sight that met my eyes when we passed by the lounge was more than a few vases. It appeared that Jeremy hadn’t shopped for the odd item—he’d practically bought the whole store! I paused and stared.
The low-ceilinged room with oak beams was stuffed to the brim. Grandfather clocks, tables holding crockery and china, cabinets jammed with glassware, boxes of knick-knacks, framed paintings propped on chairs, and books (so many books) stacked everywhere. You couldn’t see the floor. Well, you could see a small corner of a Turkish rug, but that was it.
Jeremy abruptly pulled the door shut, and I felt relieved the mess was hidden. ‘As I said, I’m still sorting things out. Kitchen is this way.’ He sounded a bit embarrassed.
‘Oh, right.’
I followed him down a narrow hallway with blue-flowered wallpaper to the back of the house. The kitchen must be the tidy sanctuary where he hangs out, I thought. But upon reaching the kitchen, I was disconcerted to see that it wasn’t a sanctuary or tidy in the slightest. There was a leaning tower of dirty plates in the sink, open pizza boxes on the table, various electronics, stuff all over the bench, and a general feeling of fusty grime.
Jeremy swept the pizza boxes off the table and dumped them by the overflowing bin. He gestured for me to sit down while he switched on the kettle. I picked my way across the sticky floor, avoiding a brown sauce-like stain that had been oozing its way across but had since dried and hardened.
‘Tea?’ Jeremy asked.
I nodded mutely.
‘White?’ He opened the fridge to get out the milk, and a distinct smell of rotting vegetables hit my nostrils.
‘Black is fine, thanks,’ I said faintly, trying not to breathe in the fumes.
Feeling a bit shocked, I looked around as it slowly sunk in. Jeremy actually lived like this. Should I say something? Or ignore the white elephant in the room? Part of me was a bit annoyed that he’d invited me round when his house was so untidy. Even if he hated housework, surely, he could’ve made an effort? I wasn’t a clean freak by any means (OK, I was a little bit of a clean freak). But if he’d been coming to mine, I would’ve at least done the dishes and put out the rubbish. Even Thomas’s flat was better than this, and his loo was passably clean for a guy.
But what could I say? This was the man I cared about; and if you loved someone, weren’t you meant to accept them, warts and all?
Jeremy bustled around at the sink, sourcing mugs and cleaning them out. How could he look so groomed and exist in utter shambles? He was a walking dichotomy.
Bringing over our mugs of hot tea, he sat down opposite. I tentatively took a small sip. I was reluctant to drink too much in case I needed the loo. Something told me Jeremy’s toilet might not be that hygienic.
I tried to be diplomatic and kind.
‘How has it been living here since you separated from your wife?’ I asked.
‘A bit up and down, to tell you the truth.’ He scratched his forehead. ‘I found it really tough at first.’
‘Why did you break up? If you don’t mind me asking.’
Jeremy smiled ruefully. ‘In her words, “I didn’t sign up to live with a slob”.’ He glanced around the kitchen. ‘I mean, I know I’m a little messy. But it’s not too bad, is it?’
I gulped. OK, so this was a major issue.
‘It’s a little lived-in. Maybe you could hire a weekly cleaner,’ I said gently (or like five of them and pronto). ‘I can help you arrange it.’
He gave me a lopsided grin, and my heart throbbed for him despite his disgusting kitchen.
‘Thanks, Anna. You’re the best. Drink up, and I’ll show you that artefact. It’s in my bedroom.’