‘You look incredible,’ I said.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she said. She was all breathless. She tried to yank her dress down a bit. ‘This dress is a bit too short.’
‘Stops have been pulled out,’ I said. ‘If anyone deserves to meet a man tonight, it’s you.’ My non-honed body was stuffed into my clothes as usual, and my bottom felt enormous in my now-regulation pencil skirt; I was sure it was growing daily. I’d taken a chance on really high heels, too. We’d be sitting down most of the night, wouldn’t we? I flipping well hoped so.
‘Thank you, Daryl. I did two DVDs back to back for this; my glutes are killing me.’
We waited in a red, womb-like hallway while the girl disappeared with our coats. When she re-appeared, she gestured to the yellow glow of an archway at the end of the cobbled, pale stone hallway. We could hear the odd swell of laughter over a low tide of polite murmuring.
The floor got more and more uneven as we walked. By the time we reached the doorway to the kitchen, we were all over the place and we literally skittered through it, in our ridiculous footwear. To add insult to near-injury, the kitchen floor was quarry tiled and horribly slippery (health and safety, anyone?) and we had to hang onto each like a pair of marauding ice skaters. As we rounded the corner, watched by a room full of already-seated people, Sam was hanging off my shoulder and almost going into a swan dive.
‘Bloody heels!’ she muttered, then plastered a huge, un-bothered smile on her face as she looked up and faced our bemused-looking audience.
The kitchen was huge. It had beams and three fireplaces and saucepans suspended from metal racks; bunches of herbs hanging from antique hooks, and a bank of cream wooden cabinets. It had a low, beamed ceiling, a massive cream Aga with a huge steel range next to it, and a giant silver, retro-looking fridge. I half expected Hugh Fearnley-Wotsit to come in from the kitchen garden with a bunch of earth-dripping radishes in his hand, or some eco-friendly, sustainable cod wrapped in brown paper, or Nigel Slater to be washing up at a butler sink.
‘Quite an entrance, ladies!’ said a broad Liverpudlian voice. Standing at the head of an enormous marble-topped island in the centre of the room was what could only be described as a very portly chef. He was enormous. Long hair, swept back. Dazzling blue eyes. An apron that could probably wrap round Sam six times, and twice round the gasworks, as Mum always said. He was not quite the Italian dish I had hoped for but he looked friendly and twinkly and I was sure he was going to be good fun. ‘Please join us.’
There were two empty places at the long, oblong island. It was boy, girl, boy, girl. Of course it was – we were here for boy-girl action. I could tell at a rapid glance that everyone was forties or over, again. One of the women, sitting at the furthest end of the island and already eyeing us suspiciously, was a severe-looking creature with a neck like Audrey Hepburn’s. She was wearing a cobalt blue blouse and her hair was piled up on top of her head in a tribute to Elnett. The other woman, opposite her, had rosy cheeks, wild curly hair and both arms presented before her on the marble, palms down, so she resembled a sphinx.
But enough about them.
Oh good lord.
It’s not often I am stopped in my tracks by a man. There’d been a couple of occasions where I’d seen a man for the first time who had really stirred my senses, but they were usually passing men on the street I would never see again. I’d also found Will instantly attractive, when we first met, of course, and since, but he was a man so far out of bounds there may as well be police tape wrapped around him, cordoning him off. This man ahead of me… wow. Something about him announced ‘available’ and ‘entirely up for it’ and ‘wahey’ and ‘woo hoo!’ There was something quite immediately and gutturally sexual about him. He not only stopped me in my tracks but had me somersaulting on them, whooping and clapping and crying out ‘yes please!’ He had it all going on. He was gorgeous. His face was handsome. But not just that, he had one of those faces that simply said, with a kind of shrugging, un-self-conscious insouciance: ‘Yes, I’ve got it all – charm, cheekiness and personality. Come and get it.’
Blimey. What a man. My heart did a joyful little pirouette – like a giddy ballerina I was far too old to be. Oh flip! He was sublime. He had short hair – yes, that salt and pepper thing going on. I loved condiment hair. Eyes – blue? Yes, blue – that could fell a woman at twenty paces. Eyes that took in the whole of me, in a second. He was looking right at me. I did that thing that I always did, when I looked behind me, convinced there must be a more attractive person standing there, but there was no one. Sam was hovering next to me, close to my left. Behind me was just a wall, with hooks and herbs.
I tore my eyes away. There were three other men here – I really should have a look at them, however cursory. I flicked quickly between them all, but they were all bland. I saw some grey heads, some navy and grey jumpers, some striped blue shirts, a pair of glasses, a floppy head of blond hair. Whatever.
When I looked back, he was still looking at me. With amusement, with a kind of ‘Well, there you are’ look. I was certain sparks were flying from him to me and crackling through the air and I was surprised no one could hear them. They could have been caught in a coal scuttle and used to light the Aga. I’d never been so brazenly undressed by someone’s eyes before. This was the first time a man had disrobed me in just one look. I felt hot and excited, exposed. I was naked, with just a spatula sparing my modesty…
What was happening to me?
‘Would you like to take a seat, ladies?’ said the portly chef.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I said.
Condiment Man was sitting next to Audrey Hepburn, but there was an empty space to his left. He patted the chair. Sam and I looked at each other and she gave me a signal with her eyes which I knew meant ‘go ahead’. I didn’t need telling twice.
‘Hi,’ I breathed, as I sat down.
‘Well, hello,’ he said. And he leaned straight into me, putting his warm mouth right up close to my ear and whispered, ‘Thank god for you. I was beginning to think this evening was going to a complete waste of time.’
Good lord, he was straight in there with the flirty banter. I wasn’t expecting it so soon. The air was immediately charged. He smelled of lemon and spices and warmth and maleness and I was intoxicated. He sat back again and I had a really good look at him. He was fifty-something, I reckoned. Early fifties. His face was mischievous, like a naughty boy’s. That he had ‘that look in his eye’ was an understatement – he had that look all over his face. I knew I would have no trouble spending the evening just staring at his mouth. I also knew, from his face and his very first words to me, exactly who this man was: he was charm, he was fun, and he could be downright dirty. I never thought such a man would have such an instant, raw appeal to me; I was wrong.
And actually I was relieved. I’d been worried that any flame I may have once had (yes, sexual flame), had been extinguished long ago – simmering, as it had been, on a low, uninspiring heat with Jeff for a long, long time, and then being completely put out when he stamped on my heart so terribly… I’d also been worried that my rather insipid encounter with Ben, which I’d been trying to ratchet up to something more, was partly due to me, not him, being a bit of a damp squib. Now I knew better. I still had it in me; my flame had not been extinguished but was flickering very merrily round my body (mostly in my lower regions). I’d still got it – I was on fire.
I quickly checked out his clothes. Gorgeous teal jumper. The collar of a white shirt underneath, unbuttoned. Nice jeans, nice shoes. Fab. He’d do. He’d do very nicely. There were two identical wine glasses in front of me. Both were already filled. One with white wine, one with water. I lifted the glass full of white wine and took a deep draught. I could feel my cheeks were hot and hoped it would cool them down. I wanted to press the glass to them but thought that would look silly. ‘Thank god for you.’ Wow.
He was looking me up and down, head to toe, and I liked it.
‘You mi
ssed the formal introductions,’ he said. ‘I’m Dex, pleased to meet you.’ And he held out a hand to me which when I touched it was firm and warm and full of sensual promise. It sent a gorgeous heat straight to all parts of me. ‘Dex’! I was already swooning at his name. Dex! It suited him perfectly. I remembered Dex Dexter from Dynasty. Didn’t everyone? My cheeks felt hotter than ever. Dex Dexter had been quite a dish, hadn’t he? Joan Collins had certainly liked him. And this man was quite a dish, too. A dish served hot.
Before I could introduce myself in return, the Liverpudlian chef, still standing at the head of the table, started talking. Dex released my hand and I returned it reluctantly to my lap.
‘My name is Johnny,’ he boomed, ‘and I’ll be your Head Chef of Love tonight.’ I could tell this was scripted and that he was cringing. I wondered if Nigel Smith-Fortescue was the owner of this company, too. Scowly Audrey Hepburn rolled her eyes. Cherub-faced Sphinx Lady giggled and rattled her jewellery. ‘We’re going to take the cooking very seriously, but your experience tonight is all about forming connections, making love matches…’ – the cringe factor on his face was palpable; Dex turned to me and winked, sending more heat round my body – ‘… and making great food. So, without further ado, for the first course, we’re going to prepare scallops with pancetta and garlic. Please examine the recipe cards in front of you.’
‘I can’t cook to save my life,’ whispered the sexy man to the right. ‘You might have to help me. Would you like some champagne?’
There was a bottle on the island. He poured me a glass, into an empty champagne flute. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And I’ll try.’ I wasn’t a brilliant cook; I’d tried my best when I was with Jeff, sometimes rather unsuccessfully, and these days I didn’t even have to utilise the scant skills I possessed – it was all beans on toast and jacket potatoes with cheese when I was catering for one. Perhaps Dex and I could be hopeless together. He looked like he hoped so too; he was smiling at me, delight in his bright blue eyes. As the rest of the group picked up their recipe cards and read them, he didn’t take his eyes off me, and my week so far just fluttered away on the wind, without a backwards glance.
‘You can hold my hand,’ Dex continued, with a wolfish grin. ‘We can stir things up together.’
‘Okay,’ I said, with a huge grin. I looked at his hands – they were on the large side, with long fingers and buffed, clean looking nails. I watched as he picked up a glass of red wine and took a deep drink from it. I sipped from my champagne.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Daryl.’
‘Delightfully pleased to meet you, Daryl.’ He raised one eyebrow at me and gave a little smile. His top lip curled up deliciously.
‘And what do you do, Daryl?’
‘I’m a weather presenter. Radio. You?’
‘Acquisitions,’ he said, with a seductive smile.
Ooh, acquisitions; I found that sexy. One of my favourite films was Working Girl, 1988. Starring Melanie Griffith, and Harrison Ford as hot business man, Jack Trainer. He was in acquisitions too. Ever since, acquisitions equalled incredibly sexy.
‘Fabulous,’ I said, with what I hoped was an equally seductive look. I was resting my chin on my hand, movie-star style. What was happening to me? I had become kittenish putty in this man’s hands. We’d only known each other two minutes! I didn’t know what was happening but I really liked it. Hello Dex! This is what I’d meant when I’d said I wanted to have fun and go dating – men like Dex! I hoped I was in for a good evening.
I picked up the recipe card and cast my eyes over it quickly, then did a perfunctory scan of the ingredients. I wasn’t really interested. There was only one thing at this table that was whetting my appetite. Dex was prodding at the raw scallops with his index finger and frowning at the instructions. I smiled.
There was a clinking of metal on china from across the table, as though someone was about to make a speech, and I looked up to see Sam trying to attract my attention; I’d forgotten to even look over at her since I’d sat down. She looked pretty happy and gave me a thumbs up. The man with the floppy blond hair was sitting very close to her; he had glasses and an open, friendly face, and was staring at her in an enchanted fashion.
I realised, to my mild horror, I’d also completely forgotten to talk to the guy on my left, since I’d sat down. How rude of me. I interrupted him from copying the recipe into his phone and quickly introduced myself. He told me, in an extremely quiet voice, his name was Edward. He had blobby features, as though his face had been daubed on with a stiff, squat brush, and seemed nice enough, but he was no Dex. Sorry, Edward, I thought.
Johnny, the Chef of Love, was announcing what to do. We each had a small hob in front of us, set into the island and as instructed, I threw the scallops in a small pan with the pre-chopped onion and garlic, and watched them sizzle. Dex topped up my champagne; I had drunk half already, and I looked around the kitchen again. It really was lovely, with a great, welcoming atmosphere. I bet all sorts went on here – corporate away days, team-building, bake-off style classes – and I bet all sorts went on here. This cottage had probably seen a lot of people getting it on, I thought. I wondered what it was like upstairs, then blushed; I was getting carried away.
Dex threw his scallops into his pan with quite a flourish and then leant across me and turned my hob down.
‘Your heat’s too high,’ he said. ‘They’ll burn.’
‘Thank you,’ I said and he placed his hand on my arm. It could have been as hot as a burning pan. I was scalded; I nearly jumped three foot in the air at his touch. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle: things were sizzling in my Spanx. I really liked him. I knew, after the not-quite-disastrous date with Ben last night and that lacklustre, non-thrilling kiss, I was thrilled to be with a man I instantly felt a spark with. I was determined to enjoy myself, and who knows? I may get a date out of it, and more. Dex did seem very promising.
Scowl-y Audrey Hepburn woman was turning out to be not too scowl-y after all. She was sitting to the right of Dex and had a very loud, very annoying laugh that she employed approximately every ten seconds, mostly for his benefit. He humoured her with a quick poke at her shallots and a re-tie of her apron strings. Dex was friendly and responsive, but clearly not interested. This made me feel absolutely wonderful. Out of politeness, I checked on Edward. His scallops looked flaccid and undercooked. Oh dear. Edward was not the catch of the day.
I sipped some more champers. Sam was again trying to catch my eye across the table – winking at me and glancing at Dex with a ‘get in there’ look. She shrugged about the man to her left – who looked a bit like Ray Winstone and was chatting away to the Sphinx – and gave a grin and a raise of her spectacular eyebrows regarding floppy-haired blond guy. He turned to her, and gave her a rapt smile as she helped him stir his scallops. I noticed she didn’t even have her phone on the table. Perhaps she didn’t need it. Perhaps she was throwing calories to the wind.
We cooked. Dex’s were perfect; mine black on one side, all right on the other. I thought he said he was a terrible cook! He was telling porkies, wasn’t he?
‘I’m impressed,’ I said. ‘But you’ve been telling fibs. I thought you said you couldn’t cook to save your life?’
‘Thanks,’ he said, prodding one of his scallops with a fork and holding it up to the light, as though for inspection. ‘And perhaps I have my moments…’ He grinned at me, before giving a big (and I have to say it – cute) shrug. ‘All right, I admit it – I’m a fantastic cook. Though I’m not really sure I can say the same for you.’
I giggled. ‘I’m someone who tries hard,’ I said.
‘Really?’
Oh god, ‘tries hard’ had sounded naughty, hadn’t it? Perhaps I should have rephrased that.
‘I mean, I’m not a brilliant cook, but I give it a good go.’ Marginally better, but still sounded a bit suggestive…
Dex laughed. ‘So, I’m guessing you’re here tonight for tips from Johnny, Chef of Luuurve, then?
’
‘No, not really,’ I said.
‘Oh! So, what are you here for?’ He leaned in close to me. He was virtually whispering in my ear again.
‘Convivial chat and an evening out.’
He leaned back and laughed. It came from his throat. His eyes almost closed with pleasure. I felt like all my Christmases had come at once.
It did have a rather Christmassy feel tonight. It wasn’t long, after all. And so lovely and warm in here, too. Dex suddenly reached up and took his jumper off, the way men do, and as he did so I felt the heat from his armpits and got a waft of a lemony cinnamon smell that was really quite heady. He threw the jumper on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves, exposing taut forearms. Gosh, I really did fancy him. The thing that had been missing with boyish Ben was not missing here. Not at all. There were no missing links.
He sat back down and smiled at me.
‘So you’re here with your friend?’
‘Sam, yes.’
‘Me too.’
‘You are? Which one?’ Was it Sam’s man?
‘Anthony, over there. Burnt scallops at three o’clock.’ He pointed to Ray Winstone, who waved across the table then carried on talking to The Sphinx.
Oh, right. The fact Dex was with Anthony made Dex seem even nicer, in my eyes. He wasn’t a sleaze who came on his own, to pick up the ladies; they were mates who’d come together. To have a laugh. To meet people. In a non-sleazy way. I liked Dex more and more. I really hoped he liked me. Audrey was tugging on his right sleeve trying to get his attention, and laughing that ridiculous laugh. But he was looking at me, and smiling. He liked me.
It was cannelloni time. We each had a pasta-making gadget and had to make our own. Oh dear, I didn’t have a clue. I used to make lasagne with bought pasta sheets and two jars of sauce – the tomato-y one and the cheesy one. It was actually one of the few of my dishes that was a huge success – probably because I couldn’t take much of the credit for it. Gabby had been quite partial to my lasagne too, I recalled. She used to beg me to make extra, so she could take some home in a tub. She once got me to make some for a date she was having with some guy – I had to drop it round to her house so she could pass it off as her own and she told me she got quite a result from it… A successful night, but not quite successful enough, obviously. She still had an appetite for my husband.
Cloudy with a Chance of Love Page 14