‘That’s your five a day right there,’ I point to the shopping. ‘Or six. Or even seven. It’s soft porn for vegetarians.’ I look around the small space. Two sofas take up most of it, next to a not very smart TV. There are piles of recipe books and pages cut out of magazines on the coffee table. He strides to the oven. The fan whirrs and heat blasts out when he opens it. ‘See, I’m all prepared for hosting this little pizza party– just didn’t know I’d have a VIP guest. I’m glad I dashed to the market to pick up that aubergine now.’
I blink. ‘VIP? You clearly haven’t seen me eat. I’m like a toddler with a jar of apple sauce– everything goes all over my face and lap. I put it down to all those years of slobbing about on my own. How are the restaurant plans going?’
‘Imagine a kid standing in front of a sweet shop window every day, wishing he could get his hands on the jars? That’s how they’re going.’ He picks up a bowl resting on a radiator and teases out a ball of dough from a large lump. ‘This is the key element of a decent pizza and if anyone tells you different they’re a liar or a fool. You can forget the whole thing if you don’t get this part right.’
He rolls it out, quickly and lightly, before covering it in tomato sauce and grated mozzarella. Then he carves up a massive artichoke with a sharp knife from a professional-looking block. Placing rough slices of the vegetable around the edge in the shape of flower petals, he asks if I’m feeling chilly.
‘I’m never warm. I can wear two thermals, an Aran jumper and a parka and still need a hot bath to warm up after ten minutes in your queue. We’re all victims of your success and will be grateful when you get yourself some indoor premises. But this flat is quite cold. Can I warm my hands on your heated towel rail if it becomes too much?’
‘You’re very welcome but you’ll have to move my socks to one side,’ he says, which inexplicably gives me a small thrill. He nods to a mobile radiator. ‘You could turn on the heating instead.’ I do as instructed, and without a decent amount of warning, he removes his fleece and a pale blue jumper as soft as cashmere. A white T-shirt reveals his toned arms and I try not to fixate on the firm outline of his abs.
‘Shall I make some coffee? I don’t do latte art after 9.30 a.m. so don’t get your hopes up for that.’ He picks up a well-worn Bialetti Express from the hob.
‘Do you create pictures for everyone?’
‘God no. Only my favourites. Let me sort you out with a hot drink and I can bore you with coffee and pizza chat throughout lunch. Although if you think the food sucks I might shut up and reassess my future.’ This man’s humility is a refreshing change from Vince’s unshakeable belief he fell from heaven.
I screw up my nose at the damp on the walls. ‘Your van is nicer than your flat.’
‘I have considered living in it, believe me. But I do find fairy lighting the hell out of a kitchen helps with the atmos.’ He turns on several strips of LED lights fastened to the underside of the cupboards. ‘Do you like courgettes?’
‘I prefer pepperoni.’
‘While I agree there’s nothing better than pepperoni pizza, there’s also something unbeatable about fresh vegetables, simply cooked.’
‘Do you have any chillies?’
‘I guarantee you won’t need any extra spice.’ He grins, kneading the rest of the dough with expert fingers before reaching for pine nuts, garlic and olive oil. I sit back and watch him work. As he folds the dough and digs in with his knuckles, I imagine lying on my back, while he sweeps my hair from my neck, and starts gently kneading my shoulder muscles, those deft hands slowly travelling down to my waist.
‘Where are you right now?’ He brings me back to the kitchen counter and I don’t tell him I was fast heading towards the space between my thighs.
‘Wow, do you make your own pesto? I think I might be in love.’ I’m joking, mostly, and he throws back his head and laughs, his blue eyes returning to mine as a smile lingers on his lips. Marvel heroes don’t come dreamier than this– forget Thor’s hammer– he could bring down Surtur the Fire Giant with a smouldering look and a touch of paprika.
Pulling a handful of basil from a small herb garden on the counter, he rips the leaves apart. Now quite hot despite the temperature of the room, I flap the edge of my jumper around like a fan, until I remember I don’t have a T-shirt underneath it. Did I just flash him my bra? ‘You don’t have a garden then?’ It’s a stupid question unless he’s hidden a rose tree in his pot of basil, but if I don’t talk myself down from this flush, I’ll be ripping his shirt off like those leaves.
‘Sadly, I’m reduced to topless sunbathing on Shepherd’s Bush Green in summer.’
That really doesn’t help. ‘Can I use the bathroom? I’m all agog to see the famous towel rail.’
He gives me a crooked smile as he slips the pizza into the oven and then points the way to the bathroom.
When I return, he’s taking off oven gloves branded with a familiar TV character. ‘You likePeppa Pig?’
He stops in his tracks. ‘Yes. Er, no, if I’m honest. I was more of a fan of the Cookie Monster.’
‘Because he was a foodie?’
‘Me want cookie.’ He grins. ‘I also liked Dora. Still do. She’s spunky. And I always felt smug that I could understand a little of the Spanish.’
‘Did you watch a lot of TV?’
‘Not really. My mum was into theatre. I saw a lot of Shakespeare.’ He grimaces.
‘Not exactly a misspent youth?’
‘More like a well-travelled one. Back and forward to the States and in summer to Sicily.’
‘Your dad was a psychologist, right?’
