‘Yes. The one true fishing.’
‘If you’re trying to make aGame of Thronesgag, it doesn’t work for this.’
He laughs and shakes his head at me. ‘Come on,’ he says and puts his hand out and takes mine. It’s reassuringly strong, and I enjoy being led down the bank onto the rocks. It’s cold. Cold and damp.
He pulls the rods out from his backpack and I sit back and watch him ready us for fishing. He must know I don’t really care about it, but it doesn’t seem to sully the mood. After all, he suggested lunch and I chose fishing.
‘Heather,’ he starts to talk, and I cringe again at the name, and James hands me a rod. I hold it in my hand and wait for him to take his own rod out, but he’s rummaging through a plastic box for what look like tiny little bugs and flies. He chooses one and pulls the edge of my rod towards him and spends some time trying it on.
Suddenly a huge fish appears below us, jumping into the air. It’s enormous and I scream. ‘Oh my God, look!’
He laughs and pulls my rod back. ‘It’s just the salmon running,’ he says. ‘You know what they’re doing, right?’
‘Spawning,’ I say. I know it, but I’ve never seen it and, as I speak, another jumps, higher than the first. ‘Holy shit!’
James laughs and stops his prep for a moment.
‘I don’t like it,’ I say. ‘They’re trying to make babies!’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we throw any mamas back. Is it too much? You want to watch for a bit?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
James is focused and he finishes setting up my rod and then does something similar to his own, and before I can say,This is ethically dubious, he’s tossing his line into the water. The line lingers in the air, and what looks like plain fishing suddenly looks like dancing, as it never seems to do anything but skip about above the running water. I watch him move effortlessly between the rocks in his waders.
‘James …’
‘Shh,’ he says. ‘You can’t shout when you’re fishing.’
I take a place on the rock and observe for a while, as he throws the line out again. After about twenty minutes he stops and wanders back to his plastic container.
‘Just going to change flies,’ he says, leaning down. Then he looks up at me and he’s totally vexed. ‘Shit! Sorry, Heather, I amsointo fishing.’
‘Is there a bit where we drink tea?’
‘Actually, yes. If I was here with Brett, we’d probably have a wee dram, but I did bring tea, as it happens.’
I feel a little disappointed at this and he catches my frown.
‘All right, I brought both,’ he says. ‘But let’s start with tea.’
Underneath the tartan rug is a picnic basket with a Thermos and some Tupperware containers from the kitchen.
‘Is that lunch?’ I ask.
‘Well, you wouldn’t let me take you to lunch, so I took it to you,’ he says, kneeling down next to me. He pulls out the Thermos andpours me a cup, and I put it to my lips – it’s milky and sweet, exactly as I like it.
‘Mmm,’ I say, feeling my throat warm as it gushes down.
‘Tastes better in the outdoors,’ James says, and he’s staring at me. ‘Everythingis better outdoors.’
I wonder if he’s being flirty, because so far it’s not really been his style, but I look across at him and he looks quickly away, like he’s backed out of his flirtiness in a wave of fear or sudden regret. Then, in an instant, he looks back at me again and we catch each other’s eyes. For a moment I let myself revel in that delicious thrill of pure, unadulterated chemistry, and then it’s me who is crushed by unexpected shyness and looks quickly away.
‘Do you miss London?’ he says after a moment’s silence.
‘Sure. I misssome things,’ I say, as I sip some more tea. James throws the rug on the ground next to me and motions for me to sit on it, which I do, and it’s considerably more comfortable than the cold stone.
‘Like what?’
