Chapter Seventy
Once back at the studio with the shopping, there was still no sign of Milo. Wow, Swipe Right Sarah must have thought she’d won the lottery having a handsome man turn up on her doorstep, whisk her off for a romantic meal, then take her home and deliver some action between the sheets. Lucky cow.
I had a sudden mental picture of her and Milo in bed, earlier this morning. A white bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Bright light pouring in. Sarah wafting into the bedroom with coffee and croissants on eau-de-nil porcelain. A wisp of a dressing gown covering her naked body. Hair swept into an updo. Loose tendrils tumbling artfully over her shoulders. Milo propped up against the pillows. Hair sexily tousled. Eyes lighting up as his new love stood before him and huskily declared, “What do you want first? The croissants or me?” A slow smile spreading over his face. Him declaring, “You, of course.”
Oh, stop tormenting yourself, Tilly. Why imagine the scene as a perfect one? Why not have him reaching for the tie on her robe and inadvertently knocking the breakfast tray out of her hands? Yes, brilliant idea. And in a flash, she’d have transformed from seductive Sarah to screaming Sarah. Snarling at Milo. Ranting that her pale carpet was ruined , the white bed linen wrecked and that he was nothing more than a clumsy prat. Even better, he would yell back at her. “Never mind the sodding soft furnishings. That coffee landed on my privates. My pubic hair has turned au -burn.”
I dumped my shopping on the kitchenette’s worktop, and frowned. Was that what I wanted? To have the man I was lusting after to be scalded. To have him injured . How horrible of me. What sort of person was I turning into? A dour one. And grumpy with it.
‘Alexa,’ I commanded. ‘Play some cheerful music.’
As Vivaldi’s Spring from Four Seasons filled the studio, I set to work chopping onions and crushing garlic. The frying pan sizzled and spat as the sound of violins joyfully announced the return of spring – which was now only a few weeks away.
Adding the minced beef, I stirred with one hand. With the other, I conducted an imaginary orchestra. The violins. Violas. Cellos. Double basses. A lone harpsichord.
The beef began to brown. My free hand urged the violinists to announce the arrival of birds. To celebrate the return of sunshine… blue skies… daffodils bursting from winter’s dark soil.
I sprinkled a stock cube over the meat, added water, turned up the heat – oh, hello, Nigella – then closed my eyes. The stirring spoon had morphed into a baton. The music became menacing. Thunderstorms had arrived, along with April showers that could drench one faster than driving through a carwash with the window down.
I stopped conducting and turned my attention to prepping the veg. Chopping and slicing. Stirring and mixing. Then – just as the music was coming to an almighty crescendo – transferred everything from pan to hotpot. I’d leave it all to slow-cook while opening one of the Strawberry Shed’s bottles of wine.
It was time to let my hair down, alcoholically speaking. To sip a few bubbles. Get fizzy. A bit dizzy. To mentally declare sod you, Swipe-Right-Sarah . And stuff you too, Milo . Well, I’d like to stuff him. Unfortunately, he was currently busy stuffing Sarah.
That’s crude, Tilly. Too crude. But as more golden liquid glug-glugged into a wine flute, I realised I didn’t care.
In no time at all, I was on my third glass and feeling nicely fuzzy. Cindy gave me a mournful look.
Do we have to listen to this racket?
Even Rambo looked pained. Suddenly, he threw back his head and began to howl.
‘Woooooo,’ he declared. ‘Woo-woo-wooooo.’
‘Really?’ I said, squinting at him. ‘Is that meant to be your idea of singing?’
‘Oooooooh,’ he replied.
Howling is in our genetic code , Cindy explained. It’s a form of communication. Wolves howl to rally the pack, ward off danger, or locate a lost pack member . Actually, I might give it a try myself.
And with that she flung back her head, shut her eyes, and began to duet with Rambo.
Alexa had since moved on to Beethoven’s Choral Ninth Symphony. I flopped down on the sofa. As an outpouring of triumphant music rang around the room, I decided to join in with Cindy and Rambo. Copying them, I closed my eyes, tossed back my head – along with the wine – and let rip.
Blimey. It was unexpectedly rather good. Very liberating. Eyes shut, I yodelled up a storm, joining in with the cacophony of noise. Certainly, I was oblivious to a tapping on the studio door. Likewise, when the knocking became heavy rapping. Nor was I aware of the door flying open, and a tall figure blocking out the light.
It was only when the dogs went silent, the music abruptly stopped, and it was just me wailing into a wine glass, that I realised I had company.