Page 31 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

She watched him clock the stain on the sofa and perch himself awkwardly as far from it as possible, a look of distaste on his face. Then she went into the kitchen, poured the drinks and sat down beside him. He immediately reached across to her and took her hand.

‘I loved your message,’ he said. ‘Very clever. You’re witty as well as beautiful.’

He stopped stroking her hand, took his jacket off and laid it across the sofa next to him. No cufflinks, she noticed. Ordinary buttons. And that shirt was a little creased too. But then, he had been working all day. And working hard, by the look of it; were they patches of sweat underneath each armpit?

Tarquin had a look on his face. Hunger. And not for food, she realised. For her. He was about to kiss her.

She had always liked those moments in romantic films, where the hero was about to kiss the heroine and they both knew it was about to happen. There would be a bit of gazing, perhaps his hand would brush her cheek, stroking a hair away from her face. Their mouths would nearly meet, but not quite. They’d linger, savouring the moment. The anticipation… well, it was almost as good as the kiss itself, she always thought. Not that anyone had ever kissed her like that. But she longed for the day when someone would.

This was not that day. Tarquin plunged straight in, clamping his mouth onto hers. He was barely an improvement on Neil, the tapas guy. After less than a minute of soggy smooching, Tarquin’s hand was on her thigh and she could feel it edging higher. It was all too much, too soon, and Jo thanked heaven that she always wore jeans and not a skirt. She pulled back, taking his hand firmly in hers and placing it on his own thigh.

‘Slow down,’ she said.

He blinked at her. ‘Sorry, Jo. Got a little carried away there. You can’t blame a man for trying. I find you so attractive. Irresistible. I want you, Jo.’

‘I thought we were going to play Scrabble?’

He laughed. With a snort. ‘Scrabble? God, no. That was a euphemism.’

A euphemism?

(18 points.)

So he hadn’t meant it?

‘You knew that, right?’ he was saying now.

Suddenly he launched himself at her, his mouth covering hers, and his hand fondling her breast.

She turned her head so his mouth was no longer on hers, and said, ‘No, Tarquin. Stop.’

But like Si, all those years earlier, Tarquin didn’t seem to understand the word no. He tried to kiss her again, his hand now squeezing her breast.

‘I’ll scream,’ she said. ‘The woman in the house upstairs…’

‘House upstairs?’

‘This is an underdwelling. There’s a house upstairs.’

‘How quaint,’ he said, his lip curled in a sneer. ‘I thought you owned the whole place.’

‘No, the bottom two floors. And I rent it. I don’t own it.’

Tarquin shrugged. ‘Now where were we?’

‘I think you were going,’ she said, wriggling away from him and struggling to her feet. She picked up his jacket – it was rather garish, she noticed – and handed it to him. ‘This isn’t what I want. I like to take things slowly in a new relationship.’

‘Who mentioned a relationship?’

Jo stared at him. He had seemed so attractive, so gorgeous, that first evening at the speed-dating pub quiz. But now, for all the fancy clothes, the chiselled cheekbones, the deep brown eyes, he seemed sleazy somehow. Like a second-hand car dealer trying to palm you off with a dilapidated old banger. Or an estate agent extolling the spaciousness of a studio flat you couldn’t swing a cat in.

‘What do you mean who mentioned relationship? That was you. Was it a ploy to get me into bed?’

With as much dignity as she could muster given that her bra had somehow ridden – or rather been pushed – above her right boob, Jo walked to the door. In her mind’s eye, she would open it and make a gesture indicating for Tarquin to leave, and he’d disappear out of her life. In reality, she tussled with the handle for what felt like ages – but was probably only a few seconds – and when she finally wrenched it open, she fell back against the wall. And she didn’t need to gesture. Tarquin stepped out.

‘You’re frigid,’ he said.

The word stung. It had been one of Si’s favourite words.