was gone.
I stood holding the edge of the door for some time, worrying about these impulses to touch and snuggle. Not Martin. Martin was a lovely man, a friend, even occasionally a confidant. But a partner? All those girls-I’d-never-seen-before. And I could hear Julia saying, ‘Avoid sportsmen.’ Besides, he probably only saw me as a friend. I closed the door at last and my inner chaperone said, ‘No,’ and ‘No,’ again.
But next time Martin suggested dinner, I was so surprised that there was a next time that I said ‘yes’ again.
‘I’ll cook,’ he said, which was a clincher in itself. A man who cooks, I thought. I wonder if there is a genetic indicator for that. Just so long as he didn’t make lasagne.
He didn’t. Martin casually tossed strips of beef and vegetables on a portable hotplate while we sipped at some cold white wine and talked about adolescent angst and fashion crimes and best friends and favourite places. There was a spicy sauce to go with the main course, followed later with a dessert of raspberries and cream piled into champagne glasses.
‘Raspberries,’ I said with a sigh as I finished mine, ‘are the most seductive of fruits.’
He smiled. Well, actually, he smouldered. ‘Want some more?’
When your heart skips beats, it is pointless to remind yourself that it is only a surge of adrenaline or sundry hormones that causes it. The feeling makes a person vulnerable, a little bit breathless. Did I want more? Martin waited, his eyes steady on mine. Blue was supposed to be a cool colour, but it could be very warm, I realised. Hot, even.
‘Yes,’ I said, almost in a whisper as if that strict inner chaperone might not hear me say it. ‘But not raspberries.’
If the taste of raspberries was seductive, the taste of them on Martin’s lips was irresistible. We sat on one of his couches, arms entangled as we explored by touch the territory we knew quite well by sight. I passed my palms over his chest, his shoulders, his beautiful back. When I felt Martin’s hands on my bare skin I leaned back and watched as he slid my bra out from under my shirt like a magician pulling silken scarves from a pocket. I giggled then sighed when he gathered me up in both hands and worked his thumbs until I was whispering his name over and over.
‘Beautiful Cass,’ he breathed, just before his mobile buzzed.
He was still for a moment but then withdrew. ‘Have to take this,’ he said, passing a hand over my hair as he got up. ‘Might be news about my father. He’s somewherein South America and I haven’t heard anything from him for weeks.’
Dreamily, I lay back while he talked. It was his father actually on the line. As the call went on, I got up and wandered about, enjoying the casual comfort of his home, more obvious without the party crowd. I passed a half-open door, not wishing to pry, but a glimpse of something familiar drew me back to look inside.
My paint sketch, framed, hung on the wall of what was clearly Martin’s home office. Intense pleasure pulled me inside. He really must like it. I wouldn’t have thought that my feelings for Martin could grow any warmer but they did.
Lightly, I touched my painting, feeling again that strange sense of connection with him.
I heard Martin say, ‘Take care of yourself, Dad. Don’t forget the antivenene.’ With a sense of anticipation, I moved towards the door, trailing my hand over Martin’s desk as I passed. I turned back to straighten a lab printout that I’d shifted and some small print leapt into my vision as if in a headline. Keith Farrar. I smiled. I’d all but forgotten Keith.
Underneath it was another printout. And another. Different formats and different laboratory names but all analyses of Keith Farrar’s DNA. The foreign labs showed Martin’s email address as contact. I frowned over the pages and looked up as Martin came to the door.
‘I saw my painting and came in,’ I said. There was something worrying about the way he
I stood holding the edge of the door for some time, worrying about these impulses to touch and snuggle. Not Martin. Martin was a lovely man, a friend, even occasionally a confidant. But a partner? All those girls-I’d-never-seen-before. And I could hear Julia saying, ‘Avoid sportsmen.’ Besides, he probably only saw me as a friend. I closed the door at last and my inner chaperone said, ‘No,’ and ‘No,’ again.
But next time Martin suggested dinner, I was so surprised that there was a next time that I said ‘yes’ again.
‘I’ll cook,’ he said, which was a clincher in itself. A man who cooks, I thought. I wonder if there is a genetic indicator for that. Just so long as he didn’t make lasagne.
He didn’t. Martin casually tossed strips of beef and vegetables on a portable hotplate while we sipped at some cold white wine and talked about adolescent angst and fashion crimes and best friends and favourite places. There was a spicy sauce to go with the main course, followed later with a dessert of raspberries and cream piled into champagne glasses.
‘Raspberries,’ I said with a sigh as I finished mine, ‘are the most seductive of fruits.’
He smiled. Well, actually, he smouldered. ‘Want some more?’
When your heart skips beats, it is pointless to remind yourself that it is only a surge of adrenaline or sundry hormones that causes it. The feeling makes a person vulnerable, a little bit breathless. Did I want more? Martin waited, his eyes steady on mine. Blue was supposed to be a cool colour, but it could be very warm, I realised. Hot, even.
‘Yes,’ I said, almost in a whisper as if that strict inner chaperone might not hear me say it. ‘But not raspberries.’
If the taste of raspberries was seductive, the taste of them on Martin’s lips was irresistible. We sat on one of his couches, arms entangled as we explored by touch the territory we knew quite well by sight. I passed my palms over his chest, his shoulders, his beautiful back. When I felt Martin’s hands on my bare skin I leaned back and watched as he slid my bra out from under my shirt like a magician pulling silken scarves from a pocket. I giggled then sighed when he gathered me up in both hands and worked his thumbs until I was whispering his name over and over.
‘Beautiful Cass,’ he breathed, just before his mobile buzzed.
He was still for a moment but then withdrew. ‘Have to take this,’ he said, passing a hand over my hair as he got up. ‘Might be news about my father. He’s somewherein South America and I haven’t heard anything from him for weeks.’
Dreamily, I lay back while he talked. It was his father actually on the line. As the call went on, I got up and wandered about, enjoying the casual comfort of his home, more obvious without the party crowd. I passed a half-open door, not wishing to pry, but a glimpse of something familiar drew me back to look inside.
My paint sketch, framed, hung on the wall of what was clearly Martin’s home office. Intense pleasure pulled me inside. He really must like it. I wouldn’t have thought that my feelings for Martin could grow any warmer but they did.
Lightly, I touched my painting, feeling again that strange sense of connection with him.
I heard Martin say, ‘Take care of yourself, Dad. Don’t forget the antivenene.’ With a sense of anticipation, I moved towards the door, trailing my hand over Martin’s desk as I passed. I turned back to straighten a lab printout that I’d shifted and some small print leapt into my vision as if in a headline. Keith Farrar. I smiled. I’d all but forgotten Keith.
Underneath it was another printout. And another. Different formats and different laboratory names but all analyses of Keith Farrar’s DNA. The foreign labs showed Martin’s email address as contact. I frowned over the pages and looked up as Martin came to the door.
‘I saw my painting and came in,’ I said. There was something worrying about the way he
Similar Books
