Page 41 of All I Want for Christmas

‘Uh...’

‘I noticed you didn’t seem to have anything from the fridge yesterday.’

‘Of course not. I’m not going to come over here and eat your food,’ she muttered.

He rolled his eyes, a small groan escaping him. ‘Darcy –’ But he stopped again, staring at her with an inscrutable look. He turned away and walked back to the kitchen counter, pulling some pastries from a brown paper bag. ‘Come over here.’

She hesitated, then did as instructed. It was the furthest she had moved into the room and it felt like she was stepping out of the ‘professional’ realm that had brought her here and into the private one. She saw paperwork on the marble counters – stiff invitations, bills, letters – an Acqua di Parma scented candle, a pair of brown leather gloves. He had apples and pomegranates in the fruit bowl and when he opened the Wolf fridge, she saw an unopened bottle of Krug and a whole wheel of Brie. He retrieved a plate of cold, crisp grapes, ribbons of prosciutto and some sliced gouda.

‘Hungry?’

She nodded, knowing she had no business being famished. She had eaten well last night but in her haste (and panic) this morning, food had been the last thing on her mind.

He carried the food over to the table, setting the plates down at the far end. He took the chair at the head, pulling out the one beside it for her. ‘Sit. Eat.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she quipped in military fashion, drawing a quick look from him. She smiled, breaking the tension, and he gave a half-smile back. They seemed to be rare with him, these lighter moments of emotion.

‘So you were out last night?’ he asked, motioning for her to fill her plate first.

‘Yes, dinner plans,’ she replied, forking some of the cheese and ham onto her plate and breaking off a clump of grapes.

‘Where?’

‘Noma.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Did you have the duck feet candies?’

The what...? ‘No.’

‘Shame. They’re excellent.’

‘Oh. Maybe next time, then.’ She could sense he wanted to ask who she’d been with. Somehow the question hovered, likethe feeling of being watched – distinct but intangible. And she found she didn’t want to tell him – but she did. Just like she didn’t want to be here – but she did. And she didn’t want him to be here – but she did. It was confusing, this constant sense of conflict. ‘You like it there?’

‘That’s rhetorical, right?’ She wanted to ask who he’d gone with, too, but she didn’t. She felt a silence bloom between them filled with questions they couldn’t ask, conversations they wouldn’t have.

‘Is that really a Liebermann?’ she asked instead, looking over at the huge oil on the wall above the sofa. She wondered idly what other artworks were hanging in this beautiful home.

He half smiled again, looking impressed. ‘Yes. Everyone always assumes it’s Manet.’

‘Well, it would be pretty poor if I didn’t know.’ She sighed. ‘It’s really sensational.’

‘It’s always been my favourite,’ he murmured, twisting in his chair to look over at it.

‘Always?’

He hesitated, turning back to her. ‘My parents owned it first. It used to hang in the music room.’

Music room? Who had a music room?

‘My father was determined I should be able to play piano to a decent standard, even though I detested it and clearly had no natural talent. My teacher would rap my knuckles with a wooden ruler whenever I got anything wrong. Which was frequently.’

‘Really?!’

‘I know. Old school.’ He shrugged. ‘I would try everything to get out of the lessons. That painting hung on the wall opposite and I would just stare at it, wishing I was inside the canvas. Anywhere but there. Sounds crazy, right?’

‘Not at all. I always used to do that too.’

‘You did?’

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