he looked down instead and spun his wineglass around a few times before he drank its remaining contents. We ate and finished the wine. We even danced. Not the energetic party stuff but slow and old fashioned while a vocalist sang about being romantic.
Martin smelled nice. I’d never been close enough to notice how nice. I closed my eyes to identify the different parts of his scent. Sea salt with a hint of lemon and matured cheddar with grapes … I love matured cheddar. I stifled a laugh at the comparison and felt obliged to say something when Martin held me a little away from him and conveyed inquiry.
‘Do you believe you can identify your ideal partner from their smell?’ I asked. For some reason I thought this was less embarrassing than telling him he smelled like a cheese platter.
He stared at me. ‘What?’
‘I’ve read that some labs specialise in matching up people by comparing their body odours. They send in their sweaty T-shirts and get them analysed to find out if—’
‘Cass, you’re looking for certainty. It doesn’t exist.’ He gathered me in a bit closer. ‘Let’s just dance.’
The following Sunday morning, Martin knocked at my door, arms filled with coffee and croissants from the deli downstairs. I opened the door, realising that I was wearing no make-up and my hair was tangled. One hand automatically formed itself into a comb and valiantly pushed through the knots. I was also wearing my old Buffy the Vampire pyjamas that I’d put away because Simon mocked what he called my ‘cultural immaturity’. Martin smiled at The Slayer with her stake raised and ready, and I fancied that he was not averse to Buffy.
At any rate, I forgot that I looked a mess and, possibly, ‘culturally immature’ as we ate and drank on my balcony where I kept my easel and painting stuff. The air reeked of paint, linseed oil and turpentine.
‘Show me what you’ve been painting,’ he said, brushing croissant crumbs from a chest that had benefited from all that skiing and climbing and diving. I suppressed a desire to say, ‘Let me do that for you,’ but said instead, ‘This way,’ and led him to the spare room.
As Martin moved around, picking up a canvas here, a painted sketch on paper there, I wondered if I was falling for him. That would be ridiculous, of course. Martin was a sweetie but he was not long-term material.
After nodding a couple of times at my partial still life, he went back to a barely brushed-in sketch of distant mountainswith a vibrant foreground of crops. I’d done it hastily on a drive with Simon, who’d paced around, keen to get going again.
‘That’s only a quick study for a proper painting. I haven’t got around to developing it,’ I said.
He pointed to a distinctive peak on the mountain range. ‘I’ve climbed in those mountains.’
I had this vision of me, by the roadside, painting a mountain while Martin climbed it. A peculiar sense of togetherness gripped me. Stupid, of course. I was too imaginative for my own good. Perhaps I should phone Julia for some ice-water sarcasm before it went any further.
With a throwaway gesture at the sketch, I said, ‘You can have it if you like.’
‘I’d like that.’
Well what else could he say? ‘No thanks, it’s not good enough’? ‘No thanks, I can afford
real
art’? I kicked myself for putting him on the spot. At least, though, it was only on paper and easier for him to dispose of than one of my boxed canvases.
Martin offered no particular reason for dropping by and it was only later that I noticed that. After the initial surprise it had seemed a very natural way to spend a Sunday morning. I went to the door with him and he raised the sketch and said, ‘Thanks, Cass.’
Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to my cheek, just touching the corner of my mouth. I was about to turn my head to make it into a real kiss but, fortunately, Martin kept it brief and, with a parting smile that warmed me from my bare feet upwards, he
Martin smelled nice. I’d never been close enough to notice how nice. I closed my eyes to identify the different parts of his scent. Sea salt with a hint of lemon and matured cheddar with grapes … I love matured cheddar. I stifled a laugh at the comparison and felt obliged to say something when Martin held me a little away from him and conveyed inquiry.
‘Do you believe you can identify your ideal partner from their smell?’ I asked. For some reason I thought this was less embarrassing than telling him he smelled like a cheese platter.
He stared at me. ‘What?’
‘I’ve read that some labs specialise in matching up people by comparing their body odours. They send in their sweaty T-shirts and get them analysed to find out if—’
‘Cass, you’re looking for certainty. It doesn’t exist.’ He gathered me in a bit closer. ‘Let’s just dance.’
The following Sunday morning, Martin knocked at my door, arms filled with coffee and croissants from the deli downstairs. I opened the door, realising that I was wearing no make-up and my hair was tangled. One hand automatically formed itself into a comb and valiantly pushed through the knots. I was also wearing my old Buffy the Vampire pyjamas that I’d put away because Simon mocked what he called my ‘cultural immaturity’. Martin smiled at The Slayer with her stake raised and ready, and I fancied that he was not averse to Buffy.
At any rate, I forgot that I looked a mess and, possibly, ‘culturally immature’ as we ate and drank on my balcony where I kept my easel and painting stuff. The air reeked of paint, linseed oil and turpentine.
‘Show me what you’ve been painting,’ he said, brushing croissant crumbs from a chest that had benefited from all that skiing and climbing and diving. I suppressed a desire to say, ‘Let me do that for you,’ but said instead, ‘This way,’ and led him to the spare room.
As Martin moved around, picking up a canvas here, a painted sketch on paper there, I wondered if I was falling for him. That would be ridiculous, of course. Martin was a sweetie but he was not long-term material.
After nodding a couple of times at my partial still life, he went back to a barely brushed-in sketch of distant mountainswith a vibrant foreground of crops. I’d done it hastily on a drive with Simon, who’d paced around, keen to get going again.
‘That’s only a quick study for a proper painting. I haven’t got around to developing it,’ I said.
He pointed to a distinctive peak on the mountain range. ‘I’ve climbed in those mountains.’
I had this vision of me, by the roadside, painting a mountain while Martin climbed it. A peculiar sense of togetherness gripped me. Stupid, of course. I was too imaginative for my own good. Perhaps I should phone Julia for some ice-water sarcasm before it went any further.
With a throwaway gesture at the sketch, I said, ‘You can have it if you like.’
‘I’d like that.’
Well what else could he say? ‘No thanks, it’s not good enough’? ‘No thanks, I can afford
real
art’? I kicked myself for putting him on the spot. At least, though, it was only on paper and easier for him to dispose of than one of my boxed canvases.
Martin offered no particular reason for dropping by and it was only later that I noticed that. After the initial surprise it had seemed a very natural way to spend a Sunday morning. I went to the door with him and he raised the sketch and said, ‘Thanks, Cass.’
Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to my cheek, just touching the corner of my mouth. I was about to turn my head to make it into a real kiss but, fortunately, Martin kept it brief and, with a parting smile that warmed me from my bare feet upwards, he
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