Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALEX
No busy bar or restaurant filled with distractions, but an invite to another man’s home for dinner.
Just the two of us, for a quiet night in.
It was way outside of my experience, and so far from my comfort zone it might as well have been on the other side of the universe and beyond.
We’d spent time alone of course, if the VIP area at Euphoria could have been called that, and then again when we’d bumped into each other at Stephano’s and he’d come around to mine where we had, in a sense, started again. But those had been chance meetings.
I booked an Uber, not wanting to use one of our drivers, not wanting it to get back to Kelvin where I had gone. After our conversation, if it could be called that, I had no desire to talk to him again about Kit.
The driver pulled up a few doors away from Kit’s.
I wanted to get a sense of the kind of place he lived in before I knocked on his door.
The development of new builds was tucked behind a busy main road.
Small starter homes, and not too many of them, but all the signs were there to say more were to be built.
It was neat, clean, and suburban, and I had a sudden image of Kelvin smirking, his dark eyes mocking.
I shoved him aside, because Kelvin had no place here.
Kit’s house stood out from his neighbours'; I would have known it was his even if I hadn’t had the address.
The small paved path to his front door lit up as soon as I set foot on it, illuminating the pots of winter blooming flowers—I had no idea what they were—that lined the way, providing a burst of colour in the depths of winter, and the china plaque screwed into the wall with the house number painted on was decorated with birds.
I moved the bag I was carrying, which held a couple of bottles of wine and some chocolates, from one hand to another.
I was tense, but not with the tension that gripped me tight each and every day, the tension that was so much a part of me I only really noticed it when it eased.
No, this was different. It was like how I imagined first date nerves to be, not that I knew what any kind of date was like, let alone a first. Whatever, it didn’t stop me from considering, if only for a moment, that it might be better for both him and me if I turned around and walked away.
If I had a chance to change my mind, it was gone, because the door opened and Kit, dressed in jeans and a baggy, too big sweat shirt that reminded me of his oversized coat, smiled up at me.
He looked at ease and relaxed, which was about as far from what I was feeling as you could get, and impossibly sweet.
I swallowed. Sweet? When had I ever thought of a man as sweet?
“You made it.”
He said it like he hadn’t been entirely sure I’d turn up, as he stood aside to let me in.
I shrugged, shifting the bag again from hand to hand. “Thought I’d see if you could actually cook.”
Kit grinned. “Come through. I hope you’re not expecting high end dining? Simple and filling is more my style of cooking. In other words, my culinary skills know their boundaries.”
Like my flat, the space was open plan, with the kitchen area separated by a breakfast bar.
But that was where the similarities ended.
Kit’s entire house could have fitted into my lounge, with room to spare, but it wasn’t the difference in size that struck me most, it was the feel of the place.
This was a home in a way my stark flat wasn’t and never had been.
Soft, warm lighting glowed from a single lamp in the corner and a faint hum of music, something bluesy, floated in the air.
A large, squashy looking sofa took up a lot of floor space but what struck me more than anything were the books.
They were everywhere. They overflowed the large, white painted, packed bookcase that was too big for the small room, stacked either side of it and looking like one nudge would send them tumbling.
I’d never seen so many books, outside of a library or a bookshop, not that I’d been into either in years.
“I, erm, like books.” He looked a little sheepish, like I’d somehow caught him out in a secret. “Is that for me?” He nodded towards the bag I was holding onto for dear life.
“Yes. Red and white, one of each, seeing as I didn’t know what you were making. Bought some chocolates, too.” I thrust the bag at him. Wine and chocolate. All that was needed were the flowers for a full on date offering.
He poked around inside the bag. “Oh, wow. These are from a very posh shop. Honestly, just a bottle of supermarket own brand would have been more than enough. And these chocs, too… But thank you.” He felt the white.
“This needs chilling. I’ve got a bottle of white already open—the very best own brand, naturally.
Or would you prefer your very classy red? ”
“As long as it’s cold and wet, I’ll have it.” I was a spirits drinker mainly, with a taste for whisky. I didn’t know one wine from another, and had let the young woman in the very posh shop make the selection for me.
“Make yourself at home,” Kit called across from the kitchen, “I just need to check on dinner. I’ll be over in a tick.
” He opened the oven door to check on whatever it was he was cooking, releasing the rich aroma of garlic, basil and cheese, making my mouth water and my stomach rumble, reminding me that I’d survived the day on a couple of slices of toast, and endless coffees.
“Okay,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
I cleared my throat and made to move towards the sofa, but I didn’t get further than a couple of steps when a very fluffy, very ginger cat slunk out from beneath it and wound itself around my legs.
“Hello, you.” I bent down and offered the cat my hand to sniff but instead it rubbed its head against my palm, purring as it did so.
On impulse I picked it up, letting it nestle against my chest, its purrs growing louder.
“Didn’t know you had a cat,” I called out. Kit answered with a load groan.
“I don’t,” he said, coming across. “This is Buster. Or at least that’s what I call him. He turns up a couple of times a week and demands food and cuddles, before he slinks off again. But he’s out of luck tonight because I’m out of cat food.”
“You don’t just give him scraps? You actually buy food for a cat you don’t own?”
Kit shrugged as he tried, and failed, to keep a straight face. “It’s only a couple of cans a week, and the basic stuff. I don’t shell out on prime salmon or lobster varieties for him.”
From the shifty look in Kit’s eyes, I wasn’t sure I believed him.
“I didn’t even know the little sod had got inside. Here, let me put him in the garden.” As soon as Kit opened his arms to take him, Buster jumped across. “He transfers his affections very easily.”
“He looks too well looked after to be a stray.” Buster was too well groomed, too well fed, and too well behaved, with none of the skinny, feral hissing I’d seen in the strays sneaking around the bins around the back of Euphoria in the early hours.
“I don’t think he is, although he’s not microchipped. I keep telling myself not to feed him, that he’ll stop turning up if I do, but…” Kit shrugged, and a faint flush coloured his cheeks.
“He’s cute, so why would’t you want to make a fuss of him?”
Kit was whispering sweet nothings to Buster as he opened the French windows leading into the garden, kissing him on the head before setting him outside. The cat wasn’t the only thing that was cute.
Kit went back to the kitchen. Instead of sitting, I hovered near the edge of the coffee table, picking up a book from the top of the small pile teetering on the edge.
It was dog-eared and worn, the kind of thing that had been read and reread.
I skimmed the blurb on the back. Mobsters, terrorising London’s dark, gritty criminal underworld.
I put it back, and turned my intention instead to the bookcase.
Book after book on Thailand. Birds of Thailand.
Thailand’s natural wonders. Thai cookery.
Thai history. Thai for beginners. Thailand, Kit’s very, very happy place.
Along with the books, there was a large picture frame filled with photographs.
There didn’t seem to be any order to them, with photos of Kit as a little kid next to others that were more recent.
There were lots in an exotic location which I assumed was Thailand, but more than anything else there was photo after photo of Kit with a woman who couldn’t be anybody other than his mum.
I leant in closer and peered at one that stood out from the rest. It was a large colour photo, but it was like looking at a negative of Kit.
The woman had long, wild, curly hair so dark it was almost black; it would have been easy to think it’d come from a bottle, except that the dark eyes and olive skin disputed that.
For all that the colouring was so different, it was easy to see they were mother and son.
“Daniella. My mum.”
I swung around. Kit was holding two glasses of white and he handed one to me. His fingers brushed mine, and I told myself I didn’t notice. He nodded towards the photo.
“That was taken in a pub garden where we’d gone to celebrate her birthday.
We even had birthday cake and when it was brought out the other customers all sang Happy Birthday and cheered.
She was so happy and vibrant that day, so full of life.
” His face tightened, and I knew in my gut that the happiness that shone from the photo wasn’t set to last.