“Talk me through it.”
“Well, I am trying to impress you, so most of it’s posh. But I did throw in some Scotch eggs and cocktail sausages. Plus...” He lifts up a bag. “Couldn’t go without Scampi Fries.”
I shake my head. “This is amazing. You guessedsowell.” I survey the feast of garlic-stuffed olives, vegetable samosas, four-cheese focaccia, smoked ham, and chicken salad spread out on the rug. “You succeeded—I’m seriously impressed.”
“Wasn’t sure what you’d want to drink, so I bought prosecco, and”—he examines the bottle—“rhubarb pressé.”
“I’ll go for some pressé, please.”
He takes the bottle and starts to unscrew the lid before hesitating, then swearing softly.
“What’s up?”
“Forgot glasses,” he says, laughing. “We’re going to have to swig from the bottle.”
“That might lower the tone,” I joke, nodding at the people surrounding us, who are all equipped with plastic champagne flutes.
“Okay,” he whispers. “We’ll have to wait till the lights go down.”
As if on cue, a drum strikes onstage, the lights in the garden fall, and a hush descends over the murmuring crowd. Moths flit through the air as the stage becomes illuminated.
An actor steps forward into the spotlight. “Two households, both alike in dignity,” he bellows. “In fair Verona, where we lay our scene...”
Across the rug, Caleb reaches out, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “Okay, we’re safe. Swig away,” he whispers. And as I smile, I feel an overwhelming swell of relief that I decided to call him last week, rather than hold out for the memory of a man nearly ten years in my past.
—
Though today’s been warm—weather more suited to summer than late spring—neither of us was prepared for how sharply the air temperature would dip as the Capulets and Montagues’ feud wore on. By the time the actors are lined up onstage taking their bows, I am shivering and my teeth are chattering, despite drowning in the jumper Caleb draped over me during the half-time interval.
Caleb’s friend, who was playing the doomed Count Paris, was very good, but there’s a large crowd around him at the end, and we decide it’s too cold to wait to say hi.
“God, sorry,” Caleb says, once we’ve gathered up our things and have joined the queue to exit the walled garden. “Didn’t think it would be quite this Baltic.” We’re surrounded by people who clearly do this sort of thing all the time and have come prepared in layers, hats, and thick coats. My skirt and emergency jumper are clearly marking me out as a first-time outdoor-theater fan.
Once we’ve made it outside, we both hesitate. I’m pretty sure neither of us wants the night to end, but we’re still at that point of getting to know each other where we need to discuss what we’re going to do next.
“Fancy coming back to mine?” Caleb asks, slipping an arm around my shoulders. I like the feeling of being held close by him, of our bodies pressed together, of his warm, unflinching frame.
I look up at him and smile. “Sounds good.”
We walk briskly back in the direction of his cottage, hand in hand. He didn’t say anything as he wrapped his fingers around mine, and I didn’t pass comment. It felt the most natural thing in the world for him to do.
The night sky is lustrous with stars now, the coastal air sharp andsalt-filled. Above the rows of rooftops, the moon hangs low, like a candlewax disk stamped into the blackness.
“So, shall we mark it out of ten?” Caleb asks, as we pass the town’s little art gallery, a display of seascapes illuminated in its window.
“The play or the date?” I say, then catch myself. I mean, thiswasa date, wasn’t it?
Caleb doesn’t appear to pick up on this split second of self-doubt. “Let’s go with the play. Not sure I’m quite up to being scored yet.”
“Of course. Sorry. Okay—I’m giving it a firm nine. You?”
“I’m going with... seven.”
“Seven?”
“Sorry. But I do like my plays to have a happy ending.”
“Even the Shakespearean tragedies?”
