Chapter 12
Tabitha
I opened the back door to a kitchen bursting with the crew setting up their filming equipment.
Simon was wrapped in another enormous scarf, even though it was going to be a scorcher, conversing over a clipboard with Freya.
Beside them, Phoebe was checking her boom, and two camera guys were discussing where to stand for the first shot.
The two interns peeked through from the dining room, hovering, but clearly still with nothing to do.
Tim walked in the back door after me, presumably from his truck, with my plans in hand.
He stopped short and ran a quick eye over my hair and down my new outfit and widened his eyes, appearing surprised.
He grunted, seeming rattled, but he appeared to like what he saw, and I could feel the heat of my blush.
But his reaction didn’t make sense after last night. “I would never.”
Scratching at his eyebrow, head down, he unraveled the plans on the kitchen island.
“Tabitha, got a minute before we start filming? I know these plans are finalized, but I just want to double-check something.”
His tight tone was something of a relief. He was back to his old self with me—exasperated.
“Yes, of course,” I answered.
As if in silent agreement, we half turned from the crew who were about ten feet away, chatting with the director over their equipment. Hopefully, they were too busy to listen in to this conversation anyway.
Tim crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned a hip against the kitchen island, and held my gaze with his brown eyes that were flecked with forest-green in the kitchen light. A memory flashed from seven years ago of those green flecks glittering as he leaned in for that kiss.
I shifted, momentarily off-kilter.
“There are some changes we could make to these plans without pulling another permit. For the bathrooms, you want a floor-to-ceiling marble look. You’re proposing we match up all these random imitation-marble tiles, so it’s a pattern that emulates the bleed of marble and the room looks like one big slab of rock.
That’s it, right? That’s your plan?” He took a long inhale.
I nodded, and his breath hissed out through his teeth.
“Do you know how many hours that’s going to take us down at the tile wholesalers? ”
I blinked at him, steeling my face to be impassive, to show how calm I was. “Well, we can’t afford real marble, so this is the next best thing. And they’re large tiles, so less labor.”
He looked skeptical, and I wasn’t sure which part of my statement his furrowed brow applied to. Surely he didn’t think we could afford real marble for ten bathrooms?
“We’re doing it,” I said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
He slapped his hands against his thighs, annoyed. I noted that the thighs in question looked extra girthy this morning. Were his trousers slightly more fitted than usual?
He shuffled the pages and found the sheet for the kitchen. “Okay. Next. These dimensions for the kitchen island are way too big. I think you’ve made a mistake.”
I leaned over, propped my elbows on the page, and took a look. “No mistake. They’re exactly right. I want the island to be generous and luxurious, not piddly like this existing one.”
“It’s too big for this kitchen,” he said, throwing up his hands to the two corners of the room in front of us, a small and cramped space. “It will look ridiculous.”
“It’s just right.” I put my hands on my hips. “And remember, we’re bashing down the wall to the dining room and the formal sitting room.”
“I don’t think we should do that. That’s a big job. We haven’t got time.”
I thrust out my chin defiantly. “We own the house, and it’s not protected by any heritage organization, so we can do what we like, within reason.
And, as you know, I’ve already pulled the necessary permits.
The dining and sitting rooms are ridiculous and formal and never get used—they’re just gathering dust. Trystan in the dining room?
That’s the first time it’s been used in decades. ”
“So, we bash down the two walls between the kitchen and the dining and sitting rooms. But it’s not just going to be one big open space, is it?”
“No, that would be cavernous. We need to create small, discreet cooking, talking, or eating areas.”
“Yes, there’s the breakfast nook with a—” he gazed into the distance “—skirted banquette with a toile design. A subversion of the classic.”
He’d thought hard, as though pulling that from his memory, but I wondered if he was just taking the piss. He examined the sample of material I’d supplied. It was printed with classic pastoral scenes of couples picnicking and women on swings, but the naughty, semi-clothed version.
He did a double take. “Shit. Okay.” I clocked his realization, and a bubble of amusement tumbled through me. He gathered himself. “Then there’s the round table area, the sofas by the fire, and the rattan barstools around the island.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“So, we’re opening up the kitchen, then closing it in again with all these areas.”
Bugger. Now I saw where he was going with this. He was twisting my plans to make his point. “It’s not quite like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.
I tapped my lips, tamping down my irritation.
I didn’t want him to see how much he’d riled me.
“Tim, if you signed up for one of our dating weekends to find the lucky woman of your dreams, wouldn’t you want to be free to wander from group to group, so you’re not stuck next to someone who’s a no-go for an entire night?
How dreadful would that be, to waste your time? ”
He fumed, hands slapped onto his hips, mouth tight.
“I’m not staying with your parents on one of these dating weekends.
I don’t need—” He screwed up his face, as though realizing what he’d just said.
“I mean, if I signed up, which of course I’d like to do, I’d never behave like that.
You’re deliberately making me out to be a calculating bastard. ”
“Your words,” I said mildly, without any emotion, which was intended to rankle him.
He breathed deeply. Then a smile crept on to his face. “Let’s move on,” he said. “So, the drawing room will be part of the kitchen, but then you’re using that area for things like dance lessons—hip-hop, cotillions, line dancing. Why not just leave it as the drawing room, then?”
“Because people want to dance in the kitchen. No one wants to be led into a separate room to do activities.”
“Do people and their pets want to learn to dance on these weekends?”
“Don’t you love dancing, Tim?”
He opened his mouth, no doubt to retaliate.
“We’re doing it, Tim. End of story. Get your mallet out, or whatever you use to bash down walls, and put those ridiculous pecs to some use.”
He crossed his arms, visibly pumping out his muscles. His gaze flicked down.
Yeah, made you look, you vain creature.
“I haven’t quite finished yet,” he said. “And even though I’ve never seen your parents cook the whole three months I’ve been here, except maybe heat up baked beans, we’re going to have this—” he took a breath “—fuck-off enormous blue stove.”
He was right about one thing. Mum and Dad didn’t cook. If I weren’t at home and making their meals, at best, they’d assemble basic old-style nursery food—baked beans or poached eggs, followed by tinned custard on tinned fruit.
“A duck-egg-blue AGA stove,” I pointed out. “It’s like an altar, a focal point, a fire to gather around.”
He threw up his hands. “Duck-egg blue. I stand corrected. Please forgive me. The adorable color makes a mockery of my whole argument.” Tim rolled his head back and sighed like he was calming himself.
He was tiring, I could see it. He’d gotten up so early, and that had been for me. I felt guilty about that. Was he clearing the front entry for me? He took a breath and visibly gathered energy. “And you know these new kitchen cabinets don’t match.”
“Precisely.” I folded my arms. Now we were facing each other, both of our arms crossed.
“And you want me to move the—” he consulted his notes again “—baroque Italian chandelier from a hallway to the kitchen. What about the fumes, the smoke, the grease—and that thing is enormous.”
“It won’t be in the cooking area. It’s the most beautiful piece in the house, and it needs to be seen and enjoyed all day, every day.”
He shook his head, dumbfounded. “And speaking of cabinetry, you have no upper cabinetry in the kitchen.”
“I hate upper cabinetry. It makes the kitchen feel claustrophobic. The kitchen needs to feel like a room, not a kitchen.”
“Won’t it feel empty?”
“I’m going to put all Mum and Dad’s best paintings on the wall. Probably the nudes. But again, not in the cooking area.”
He hit his forehead with his plans. “But if you take away the upper cabinetry, where are your parents going to put all their cooking stuff?”
My parents were hoarders. They had toasters from the seventies. “That’s the point. There’s too much stuff. No one needs that much stuff, and this is a way to limit it. And there will still be enough space to store equipment for whoever cooks for the guests.” Obviously not Mum or Dad.
“You do know what kitchens are for, right? To cook, to clean, to store.” His voice was getting louder.
“Kitchens are for people. For people to live.” My voice was reaching fever pitch.
We both glanced up at the aforementioned kitchen.
Goatee had climbed onto the counter, where he was bleating at four outraged cats. The two-legged dog was barking at them all.
“And scene!” Simon called.
“Couldn’t have gone better if we’d staged it,” he said to Freya.
Oh shit. They were filming?
Simon stared at us. “Did you stage it?”
“No!” Tim and I bellowed, for once in unison.