Page 11 of A Class Act

‘And the quiche isn’t? Did you get your mum to make it?’

‘Not at all.’ Fabian affected mock offence. ‘As soon as you agreed to meet me for lunch last night, I looked in the fridge and freezer, and got my pinny on.’

‘Really?’ I stared and then laughed. ‘No, youdidn’t! Your sister, then? Or the cook. I bet you’ve a cook.’

Fabian smiled. ‘I can assure you, M’Lud, the defendant in front of you this afternoon is speaking nothing but the truth. I actually find cooking relaxing; in fact, I love being in the kitchen.’

‘Oh, sorry to disappoint you: I’m utterly hopeless with anything culinary.’

‘Right, what would you like? A slice of quiche? Some coleslaw? That’s mine too.’

‘Thank you.’ I was suddenly ridiculously nervous again, my mouth dry, no appetite at all. Sitting within a foot of this exceptionally gorgeous man, who had been at the heart of my lustful fantasies for the past weeks, wasn’t conducive to tucking in with zestful abandon. Hell, what if I couldn’t swallow? I took another slug of wine – what on earth was I even doing here, a fish out of water, gasping for air?

I nibbled at the quiche Fabian handed to me on a plate. It was truly delicious and if I’d been at home, by myself, I’d have devoured the lot in three greedy mouthfuls. Fabian was buttering bread lavishly, piling on a garlicky pâté and tucking in, but turned when he saw I was struggling.

‘You don’t like it?’ He pulled an anxious face.

‘I do, I do. It’s absolutely divine. I’m eating slowly, cherishing every morsel,’ I lied, offering up a face of appreciation. ‘You didn’t make the bread as well?’ I added, trying to get his attention from my dry mouth and seemingly closed throat.

‘Certainly did. I got into bread making during lockdown.’

‘Like lots of people.’ I smiled. ‘You should meet my sister Jess, she’s a superb cook: can produce a fabulous meal out of just a few ingredients… I keep telling her I’m going to get her ontoMasterChef…’ I trailed off, realising I was gabbling when Ishould have been eating. ‘So,’ I said, ‘you appear to have got my life story out of me. What about you?’

‘The usual,’ he said easily. ‘I’m one of three: I’ve an older brother – half-brother actually – and younger sister, born to white, very English, very, you know, conservative parents. Both in the legal profession.’

‘Oh? Solicitors? Lawyers?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Something like that?’

‘Yes… So, try some of the coronation chicken. I add apricots – my own recipe.’

‘What?’ I laughed, sensing a reluctance on Fabian’s part to continue as he spooned out creamy cold chicken and poured more wine. ‘Thank you.’ I hesitated. ‘So, your dad’s a top judge or something, is he? And your mum was on Boris Becker’s defence team…?’ I trailed off: something was beginning to turn cogs in my brain. ‘Roland Carrington?’ I finally said, staring across at Fabian for confirmation.

He nodded, a mixture of pride and embarrassment on his beautiful face.

‘Your dad is the Lord Chief Justice of England?’

‘And Wales.’ He smiled, nodding again. ‘I’m amazed you know that. Most people don’t even know who the foreign secretary is.’

‘I do,’ I said, immediately giving the correct name.

‘Or even the home secretary…’

‘Easy,’ I said scornfully. ‘I’m in a pub quiz team,’ I explained. ‘When it doesn’t clash with my shift at Graphite. “Who is the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales?”was a question a month or so ago. No one knew.’

‘Even you?’

‘No, not at the time. I do now though.’

‘Well, there we go,’ Fabian said lightly. ‘So, your dad’s a musician?’

‘Yes, been with various reggae bands ever since he was expelled from school. He does have quite a following in the Netherlands and Scandinavia.’

‘Something to be proud of.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Is it?’ I looked directly at Fabian before relenting. ‘I suppose it is.’

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