Page 18 of The Art of Loving You

‘Hello, you,’ he said.

I tightened the belt on my robe, feeling exposed. Vulnerable.

‘I’m sorry I rushed out. It’s just … It didn’t seem appropriate to see you like … that … when … when I knew I wanted to ask you out.’ This time it was his cheeks that coloured. Coming from somebody else this might have sounded like a cheesy line, but there was a sincerity about him I was drawn to.

‘I …’ I fiddled with the fraying towelling of my belt. Where were my words?

‘God. Sorry. Go and get changed. Have a think. I’ll be waiting, in a non-creepy way of course.’ It was his turn to be unsure. Nervous.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Food? Do you eat? Of course I can tell you eat. I don’t mean … I’m not implying you overeat. You’re not fat. You’re lovely. You’re … shut up, Jack.’

‘Jack?’

He slapped his palm to his forehead. ‘Christ I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m such an arse. I’m Jack.’ He stuck out his hand.

‘Libby,’ I called over my shoulder as I pushed my way into the toilets to get changed. I wasn’t trying to be seductive by not shaking his hand but I was holding my robe together. I was trying to hold myself together.

I had known that it was the beginning of something.

‘That’s a lovely story!’ Angela said. ‘Certainly something to tell the grandkids, although I hope you kept your clothes on for your first date.’ She peered at me over the top of her glasses reminding me of my old English teacher.

‘Yes, let’s talk aboutour first date, Jack.’

‘Do we have to?’ he asked, knowing what was coming.

Payback.

‘Jack offered to cook me a romantic meal. Now what was it again?’ I tilted my head to one side, pretending to think. ‘Peanut butter and mashed banana on cream crackers.’

‘You’re having a laugh?’ Angela put her hands on her hips in mock anger.

‘Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it,’ Jack said.

‘Lucky you’re a handsome boy then isn’t it, if that’s the limit of your culinary skills?’ Angela shook her head sadly.

I had arrived that first night and tentatively knocked on the door, unsure what I was doing. There had been an undeniable spark between us but still, this was a stranger’s flat. A stranger who had seen me naked. I was about to turn around, flee for home, when Jack had answered the door wearing a black-and-white-striped butcher’s apron, splattered with something that looked like blood. I took a step back.

‘It’s tomato, I promise!’ He held his hands up. Even then, he could read me. ‘I’m making lasagne. Come in.’ He seemed delighted I’d turned up. His eyes fixed on mine, not travelling to other places on my body which he’d already seen.

I stepped over the threshold, towards the smell of garlic and basil.

We settled on the sofa with a glass of Rioja. From the stereo, sounds of ‘California Dreamin’.

‘A fan of The Mamas & the Papas then?’

‘It reminds me of being a kid,’ Jack said. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether I should listen to something cooler. More modern. But when I paint I like to listen to music that makes mefeel…’

Suddenly the room was plunged into darkness.

‘Sorry,’ Jack said. ‘That’s the third time today. I’m not sure what’s going on. Wait here a sec.’

I listened to his footfall as he crossed the room, a bang. ‘Shit.’ Followed by a ‘Sorry. Walked into the bookcase.’

The opening and closing of a door. A spark of light. A glowing candle.

‘Everything is as it should be in the fuse box. I don’t know what the problem is. Dinner is off unless we fancy raw pasta. Unless … unless you want to go out? There’s a nice Chinese at the bottom of the road.’

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