There was a looseness about his movements that was consistent with the alcohol fumes and Honor guessed he wouldn’t pass a sobriety test. ‘Biz?’
He waved his wine glass in an encompassing motion. ‘Modelling. Fashion. Photography. Are you an MUA?’
‘No. But I did think, today, watching the shoot, that there are worse jobs.’
His eyes widened. ‘Martyn took you to a shoot?’
Suddenly, she wondered whether she was not supposed to have been there. Maybe she was getting Martyn in trouble? Shehad only the haziest idea of the agent/model relationship. ‘I was going to go to Arundel on the train and he offered me a ride,’ she said hastily. ‘I really just hung out on the fringes.’
‘Right.’ He looked at Martyn and smiled.
Martyn placed warmed plates in front of them and then began to pull dishes from the oven, steaming and sizzling as they met the air. Ripping foil from the top of each he slid them on to the granite. ‘Braised lamb, Mediterranean vegetables and roast potatoes. Honor’s just here for the summer, looking for her mother.’
‘But not too hard,’ Honor added. ‘I’m beginning to think of that saying, you know? “Don’t wish too hard for what you want, or then you might get it.”’ Politely, she offered the serving spoon for the lamb to Ace.
Martyn took the seat opposite. ‘She’s met Clarissa and I think it’s put her off mothers.’ He took the serving spoon from Ace, who was waving it uncertainly, and ladled a lamb steak on to Honor’s plate.
‘Did you cook this?’ she queried, going next for the baby roast potatoes, golden and crunchy and pitted with rosemary leaves.
‘I ordered it from a caterer and they gave me instructions for how long to put it in the oven. Does that count as cooking?’ He topped up her glass.
Honor remembered Clarissa suggesting his interpretation of ‘domesticated’ revolved around avoiding real cooking. ‘I guess it’s domestication Martyn-style.’
Ace laughed. He didn’t attempt to put any food on his plate but drained his wine glass and held it out for Martyn to refill. ‘We should have had pizza, Martyn — American Hot, in honour of Honor.’
Martyn began to put food on Ace’s plate. ‘Tomorrow night we’ll have fish and chips.’
‘Yeah! Eastingdean fish and chips are the best in the world.’ Ace’s voice was a touch too loud.
‘Honor can take on a gang of thugs armed only with fish and chips.’ Martyn tasted the lamb and then reached for the pepper grinder. He told Ace the whole story, making a big deal out of Frog hopping about — appropriately enough — with steaming fish dropping into his boxer shorts.
Poking desultorily at a potato, Ace nudged Honor. ‘It’s every woman’s fantasy, isn’t it? For a giant to come striding to the rescue, like Martyn did?’ Once more he drained and refilled his wine glass and tried to top up her top up.
She put her fingers over the glass. A smart woman knew when to stay sober. ‘In my experience, men’s ideas of women’s fantasies bear little resemblance to women’s actual fantasies. Your caterer can cook up a storm, Martyn.’
Twizzling his wine glass, Ace fastened his eyes on her. ‘Go on.’
Her fork paused in mid-air. ‘Go on with what?’
‘Educate us. Tell us about what women’s fantasies really are.’ His eyes had slitted and sweat beaded his forehead. The wine was disappearing fast.
‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘Ignore him.’ Martyn frowned. ‘He’s taken his winding-down at the end of the week too seriously. Eat, Ace, soak up some of the booze.’
‘What, and waste the buzz?’ But Ace did pick up his knife and fork.
Taking refuge in silence, Honor addressed herself to her delicious meal — the gravy was to die for — and let Martyn steer Ace into talking shop. She listened to curious phrases such as, ‘I’ve taken a pencil on it,’ wondering if it meant the same as, ‘I’ve pencilled it in,’ and noticed that Ace heaped praise on Martyn at every opportunity. ‘DownJo love you. Everyone loves you,Martyn. I do, every time I look at my bank statement.’ Noticing, also, that Martyn never responded, as if he either didn’t want or didn’t need the ego trip.
She had the feeling that somewhere in Ace’s alcoholic pushy bullshit there was a nice guy trying to get out. But he wasn’t making it tonight.
As they were in deep conversation, she went into waitress mode, quietly clearing the plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. Then she figured out Martyn’s coffee machine, sliding in the little pouch and waiting for the jug to fill as she opened cupboard doors and found bright blue coffee mugs and a jar of sugar. The milk was in the refrigerator. She moved her finds over to the island counter and then went back for the coffee jug.
‘You seem at home here.’ Ace’s eyes were once more fastened to her.
‘It’s not hard to find your way around a kitchen.’
‘So does the kitchen figure in your “womanly fantasies”?’ He made stupid quote-unquote signals with his fingers without letting go of his wine.
