He laughs. “Yeah. I was starting to think I might have to go back to The Smugglers tonight on the off chance you’d be at the bar again.”
A little eddy of pleasure rushes through me. I smile. “Well, as it happens, I am free tonight.”
I can hear him smiling too. “Excellent.”
—
Caleb was at work when I called, so he suggested we meet at his studio, in town. It’s inside a converted terraced house, one of those old whitewashed ones tucked down a cobbled side street, all sloping walls and creaking floorboards and beams low enough to head-butt.
After he buzzes me in I climb a narrow, winding staircase and pop my head around the door marked with his name.
I don’t know what I was expecting—lots of lights and tripods, maybe, and some of those weird white umbrellas—but the studio is in fact just a small room, with stripped wooden floorboards, white walls and white furniture, along with a potted plant, coffee machine, and massive Mac computer. I can’t even see Caleb at first, until he pokes his head out from behind the monitor, which is about the size of your average cinema screen.
Smiling, he gets to his feet. “Hello again.”
He’s even more handsome than I remember, casual in a pair of dark jeans and faded navy blue sweater.
“Nice studio,” I say, feeling slightly shy suddenly.
He laughs. “Thank you. Although I do realize I must have come across like a bit of a tosser, suggesting we ‘meet at my studio.’ ”
I laugh too. “Honestly, I didn’t even think about it.”
We both pause for a couple of moments, taking each other in.
“You look nice,” Caleb says.
God, so do you, I want to say.Where did you spring from?
I agonized this afternoon over what to wear (is this a date? Isn’t it?) before eventually aiming for the midpoint between comfort and style in a gray cotton smock dress, sheer tights, and heeled boots. And some bright red earrings, for a pop of color.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Um, I got you something.” He passes me a paper carrier bag.
I peer inside, and laugh. The bag is filled with packets of Scampi Fries. He must have gone out specially this afternoon to buy them.
“Wow. Thank you. That is a truly superior gift.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, have a seat. Just need to press send on one e-mail, then I’m all yours.”
The nearest chair is one of those wire-basket-type affairs of the kind that frequently feature in interiors magazines. I’m slightly worried it’s going to have a sausage-factory effect on my backside, but I flip down the cushion propped up against the back of it, whereupon it becomes much comfier than it looks.
“So, Lucy,” Caleb says, showing no interest at all in attending to his e-mail. “You were in the middle of telling me why you quit your job, when I saw you.”
I wince, recalling the way I sprinted out of the pub to chase after Max. “Listen, about that—”
“You really don’t need to explain.”
“But I want to.”
I meet his gaze. His brown eyes are kind. “Okay,” he says.
“The guy I saw... was an old friend. I hadn’t seen him in years. I was really enjoying talking to you, but—”
“Likewise.”
“I just had to... run out and say hi. Sorry, though. You must have thought I was pretty rude.”
