“I’ll have to get a train,” I say.
His face scrunches. “Why not stay with me?” I stare at him, and he shrugs. “You would be very welcome.”
“You hardly know me.”
“Cary, I have been inside your mouth. I know the face you make when you attain your pleasure. That shows averyintimate knowledge indeed,” he says far too loudly.
A lady passing hisses in outrage, and I fight the urge to laugh. “That’s not quite enough to warrant a house guest.”
“Ah, but you could explore my library more,” he says cunningly.
“Oh my god. You’re like Satan with plaits.”
He cocks his head, his eyes twinkling. “It is as if my books are more of an attraction than me. Cary, tell me it isn’t true.”
“I cannot tell a lie.” He laughs, and I smile at him. “Are you sure?”
The temptation isn’t the books. It’s all him, but I won’t tell him that. Anticipation stirs. I could stay with him for a few days, couldn’t I?
Obviously scenting weakness, he coaxes, “I can show you around Cornwall.”
“I have to be home for Christmas Day. My parents will be back from their cruise and they’re expecting me for dinner.”
“Can they not just buy a turkey and be happy with it like other people?”
I snort, and he takes my hand. “Come,” he says. “Stay with me. I will show you the Cornwall I know, and I will organise a car for when you are ready to leave.”
“Why are you so keen for me to stay? I’m a stranger, and I sort of get the impression that you move men on very quickly.”
He lowers his head, watching where his fingers are tracing over my hand. “I like you,” he says with the air of a proclamation.
“I like you too.” I hesitate for another second, but the thought of spending more time with him is too tempting. “Well, okay if you’re sure.” His grin is wide and immediate. “I would love to stay with you.”
“Ah, Cary, I am very happy.” He pauses. “You may have your own room. Do not fear on that account.”
“It never occurred to me. Do youwantme to have my own room?”
“No.” His answer is immediate.
I fight a smile. “Well, it’s getting cold. I suppose we should preserve bodily warmth at night.”
“It is not just a need. It is aduty.”
“Thank you, Winston Churchill.”
He laughs, and we begin to walk towards the car park.
A moment later, an old voice quavers from behind us. “Professor Arvesen!”
I turn and see a lady in a tweed suit pushing a wheelchair. In it is a very old man, stooped and thin, his pink skull gleaming beneath strands of silver hair. “Professor Arvesen,” he says again. “I knew it was you.” He stares at Sigurd.
Sigurd is immobilised, his face as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.
“Sigurd?” I say.
“Sorry,” he says and bends down towards the old man. “I’m afraid that isn’t me,” he says kindly.
The old man stares at him. “It is you,” he insists in a querulous voice. “I’m Beau Brown. You were my professor at Oxford.”
