Still holding his hand and still standing pressed against him, she gazed up into his clear grey eyes. ‘I’m extremely confused.’
His eyes flickered as he answered. ‘And you’re not alone.’
Vinny, scrabbling at his jeans, broke them apart.
Twenty
Egon Schiele 1890–1918
Major figurative painter. Check images carefully for appropriate use in classroom! How does Schiele convey intense, raw sexuality? Are the paintings ugly or beautiful?
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Aware Vinny was eyeing all food prep avariciously, they’d eaten, sitting side by side, at the kitchen work surface, keeping it all at a height even a bouncy spaniel couldn’t reach. The combination of Brie and cured meats, along with the focaccia bread was simple but satisfying. Callie had added a salad and Johnny had produced several bottles of good Merlot and two slices of cherry tart and some clotted cream.
As Callie ate, she remembered him making a pot of tea whilst she’d perched on the same stool, poised for flight, on that first Saturday. It seemed a lifetime ago. Johnny had been a stranger then and, while she still didn’t know a great deal about him, she certainly no longer regarded him as a potential axe murderer. In fact, feeling the warmth from his body as he sat next to her,all she could think about was how much he attracted her. Her throat closed with lust and a sliver of olive went down the wrong way. Coughing, she reached for her glass. It seemed criminal to waste the wine but she glugged some down.
‘You okay?’ Johnny asked, concerned. ‘Need a thump on the back?’
Their eyes met and Callie felt a great wave of heat rise. She shook her head, dumbly. Coughing again, she found her voice. ‘I’m fine,’ she said feeling anything but. Her face must be embarrassingly crimson. ‘Think I’ve had enough to eat though.’
He nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s take the second bottle and sit on the sofa. Be more comfortable there.’ He took the Merlot and their glasses and put them on the low coffee table in front of the sand-coloured sofa. Vinny followed him, glued to the back of his legs but dropped onto the rug in front of the French doors as soon as he realised there was no food. The spaniel collapsed with a mournful sigh, nose resting on his front paws, eyes reproachful.
Callie sank down. Undecided if she was tired, relaxed, or strung out with sexual desire.
‘You all right?’ Johnny repeated.
‘Yes really. Just something went down the wrong way. Shouldn’t inhale my food with such indecent haste.’
‘It was all delicious. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, although all I did was open a few packets. We still haven’t eaten that delicious-looking cherry pie you brought.’
‘I couldn’t eat another thing. Maybe we can eat it later? It was all exactly right for an evening as warm as tonight though. I love lots of different things to pick away at. Some of my favourite meals have been tapas or mezze.’ He went on to describe a meal eaten on a roof top restaurant in the old town of Marrakech.
Callie had been about to explain that putting together cold cuts and cheese, along with some good bread, had taken little thought and had been a welcome change from throwing something dull but nourishing onto the table at the end of a long workday. But she kept quiet. Tonight she didn’t want to be seen as the workaholic single mother who dished up quick pasta bakes. She wanted to be the woman Johnny desired.
As he opened the second bottle of Merlot she listened, rapt, to his story of kofta rich with paprika and cumin, and sardines stuffed with chermoula, all eaten under the stars on a hot Moroccan night. Dreamily picturing them lying on rugs and gazing up at a dark sky studded with stars, she promised herself she’d check Lakeland to see if they sold tagines. Then she shook her head on a suppressed laugh. She had a hot man next to her and she was thinking about cooking pots!
Johnny batted away an insect and rose to light the candles. They chased shadows around the walls and made it all impossibly romantic. Vinny grumbled so he took the dog into the garden. By the time they’d returned, Callie had downed another glass of red and made her decision.
Johnny flung himself down next to her and rested an arm along the back of the sofa. ‘Hopefully the candles will keep the worst of the midges off. It’s far too lovely an evening to close the doors. And sorry.’ He sipped his wine, a rueful expression playing about his well-defined features.
‘What for?’ Callie asked, surprised.
‘For boring you about Morocco.’
‘Nothing you could say would bore me,’ she said simply and honestly. ‘You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve met in a long time.’
‘I am?’ He blew out a breath. ‘You flatter me but I really don’t think I’m particularly interesting.’
She leaned forward. ‘You’ve had the most fascinating life. Lived all over the world, seen so much of it. Seen and done things most of the rest of us can only dream about. It’s all so exotic, so glamorous.’
Johnny looked down, suddenly unsure of himself. Placing his glass on the coffee table with careful precision, he said, ‘It really isn’t, you know. Oh, I know it seems that way but it’s mostly living out of a suitcase, washing your boxers in a sink and then only when there’s a water supply, sitting around bored waiting for a story to break, then trying to cover it only to find your rival got there first.’
Moodily, he adjusted his wine glass so that it sat dead centre on a coaster depicting Monet’s garden. A muscle worked in his cheek. ‘And then there are the things you see which drive you to drink or insanity, or out of the job altogether. Trust me, it may look glamorous but it’s anything but.’
Callie’s compassion for him overwhelmed her. ‘I’m sorry for that. It must have been hard. I didn’t mean to be glib or dismiss what you’ve gone through.’
