Page 22 of A Class Act

‘Goodness, he actually found someone to marry him?’ Instantly I could have bitten my tongue. Slating a man’s relatives when you hardly know the man himself is not exactly conducive to a harmonious evening ahead. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘That was very rude of me.’

‘But understandable.’ Fabian smiled. ‘I can only apologise again for his words and that you overheard them. OK, are you hungry?’

I realised I was famished. Apart from the bowl of porridge and banana I’d forced down before the audition – knowing Ineeded the energy to leap around on stage – and the coffee in Pret, I’d been far too nervous and excited to think about food. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I am.’

Fabian moved to the open-plan kitchen area, bending to retrieve dishes from the fridge. ‘Is it usual for you to be told that you’ve got the part on the same day of audition?’ he asked, removing cling film from a bowl and adding a salad dressing to its contents, tossing the whole thing as he spoke.

‘It hardly ever happens.’ I shook my head. ‘Usually takes a good week before they let your agent know. But this one was a bit different – the girl was pregnant and throwing up everywhere. For her own sake, as well as the rest of the cast, she had to give up the part. Lucky for me, of course.’

‘Come and sit down,’ Fabian directed, moving to the far end of the room where a table was set meticulously with silver and linen for two.

‘You are very precise.’ I smiled, sitting down and loving the fact that Fabian had pulled out the chair for me.

‘Is that a bad thing?’ he asked, looking slightly worried.

‘Just not what I’m used to. Having dinner with someone usually means a takeaway curry or a spag bol on my knee in front of the TV… Oh, goodness, this looks wonderful.’

Fabian set down two plates of something I couldn’t quite identify.

‘Palourdes au gratin.’ He smiled. ‘Baked clams with garlic butter.’

They were utterly delicious and as the alcohol went down and I dipped focaccia (apparently home-made, although when Fabian had had time to bash the dough and stud with rosemary, salt and tiny little tomato halves was anyone’s guess) into the garlicky butter, I found myself beginning to relax.

‘Where did you learn to cook?’ I asked. His eyes lingered on me longer than they should and I felt myself grow pink.

‘I studied languages at Oxford,’ he replied. ‘Had a year out in Germany and then France…’

‘Ah, that’s why you were able to converse with Wallbanger so well the other night.’

‘Wallbanger?’ Fabian raised an eyebrow. God, did he realise just how effortlessly sexy he was when he did that?

‘Miss Muffler, my boss at Graphite. You were chatting to her before you left on Friday evening.’

‘Oh, right, yes. And she’s actually calledWallbanger?’ Fabian started to laugh.

‘Long story.’ I smiled. ‘So, what were you saying to her?’

‘I was simply telling her that the evening had been totally enhanced by the beautiful, quite intoxicating waitress at our table who had not only captured my every sense, but who I simply had to get to know because?—’

‘You didn’t!’

‘No, you’re right, I didn’t. I simply asked her to compliment the chef on hisconfit de canard… I’ve never quite managed to get the right balance of thyme and bay leaf when I’ve attempted to make it myself.’

I put down my fork and stared. ‘And I guess that’s what you do all day? Spin a story of whatcouldhave happened, rather than what, in reality, you know to be the truth?’

‘You’ll never know, unless you ask Miss Muffler herself, justwhichis the true version.’ He smiled as he removed plates. ‘So, where did I learn to cook? I spent almost eight months at the University of Burgundy in Dijon.’

‘Where the mustard comes from?’

‘And the most sublime food. There’s a great mix of fine dining and relaxed restaurants in the region. My favourite – and an absolutely incredible one – is Au Fil du Zinc, but there’s also a cookery school called The Cook’s Atelierin the heart of Beaune where they only use ingredients from local artisan producers. Iwas supposed to be helping students converse in English at the university, but no one seemed bothered if I went AWOL.’

‘You miss it?’

‘It’s a long time ago now.’ Fabian’s brown eyes were sad. ‘Ilongedto stay there. Iwouldhave stayed there if I could.’

‘And why couldn’t you?’

‘What, not finish Oxford? And not go into law as the Carringtons have done since time immemorial? Not quite the done thing, Your Honour.’ He stroked my arm fleetingly as he took the plates into the kitchen area. As he stood at the worktop, his back to me, I sat and marvelled at his physique. He must have been six foot two and everything was in proportion, from the muscles working beneath the white T-shirt as he squeezed lime, tapering to the slim waist and taut buttocks clad in denim.

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