on the far corner, then take a run up and spring like a gazelle into the air and land like a hippo. I turn and
jeté
again, trying for a softer landing this time. Then I try once more, and in no time I’ve crossed the room.
I come to a stop and lean forward, my hands on my knees, panting. Christ, it’s been a long time since I did that.
Which is when I hear a sound like a whip, but it’s actually one slow handclap. Followed by another.
13
It scares the shit out of me.
I yelp and turn to see that it’s him: Edward Parker.
Of that I have no doubt. He’s standing in the corner, leaning up against the door, like he’s been there for ages watching me. He’s wearing a cool grey suit with a collarless linen shirt.
Panicking, I try and control my breath. I know my cheeks are pulsing with embarrassment. Where the hell did he come from?
He looks different in the flesh. And very different from my fantasy shower-Edward. For a start, he’s taller than I imagined and he’s younger, too.
‘Oh, I . . . I’m so sorry,’ I gulp. ‘I . . . I . . .’
I have no words.
I have totally and utterly fucked up.
Only then, as he pushes nonchalantly off the wall and walks toward me, do I see that rather than being stern, an amused smile is dancing on his lips. He has a dimple in his cheek.
‘You must be Miss Henshaw,’ he says. A smile plays on his lips.
Who the hell else would I be?
‘Yes. Hi. I’m Sophie,’ I blurt, as he reaches me in the centre of the room. I shake his hand.
‘You’re making yourself at home already, I see.’
‘I’m so sorry. I . . . I . . . turned on the lights and I saw the picture and I couldn’t help coming in to see it and then—’
I try and explain, but my words stall on my lips as I find myself swallowed into his eyes. He’s not wearing glasses and he’s staring at me so intently, I feel suddenly naked. His eyes are an extraordinary shade of light green, with speckled brown bits in his irises. He seems entirely without shame as he stares at me and won’t let me look away. Heat rises in me. I know my throat has gone dry.
What can I tell him? I’m
jetéing
across his perfect parquet sprung floor because it’s the most space I’ve had to myself in my entire life? That something about this room – maybe this house – made me want to dance? That I’ve never been somewhere so clean, or perfect, or posh?
I can’t say any of that. It sounds too naff.
He breaks his stare suddenly and looks towards the painting.
‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’
His voice is deep. Not too accented. The way he says it makes me feel as if I’ve already proffered this opinion and he’s agreeing with me. The room, for him, is clearly about the painting, and not about me at all.
‘I’m interested that you were drawn to it. What do you like about it, Miss Henshaw?’
I’m still slightly out of breath. I stand next to him and face the painting. He smells incredible, I notice. A deep, musky, spicy scent that is overwhelmingly masculine. A proper grown-up man’s smell. Sexy. The kind of smell that speaks of a man with a fast car, expensive taste, oh yes, and a fuck-off great big oil painting of his beautiful wife.
‘I like, er . . . the, um, size?’ I offer. I cringe inwardly. I feel ridiculous for saying something so pathetic. The painting is clearly a masterpiece and must be worth a fortune. And this man – my new boss – is a world-renowned aficionado, for God’s sake. It has many other qualities, other than just its size, obviously. Both good and bad, I realize. Like, for example, that it’s a fairly inappropriate thing to hang in a house where young boys live. But they’ve grown up with an art-curator dad and a designer mother, I remind myself. Meaning that they’re probably totally used to it, right?
‘Ah, yes. You mean the way the proportions are all spot-on?’
‘Yeah. And the light,’ I hazard. He stares at me intently, waiting for more. This is a man who clearly doesn’t
jeté
again, trying for a softer landing this time. Then I try once more, and in no time I’ve crossed the room.
I come to a stop and lean forward, my hands on my knees, panting. Christ, it’s been a long time since I did that.
Which is when I hear a sound like a whip, but it’s actually one slow handclap. Followed by another.
13
It scares the shit out of me.
I yelp and turn to see that it’s him: Edward Parker.
Of that I have no doubt. He’s standing in the corner, leaning up against the door, like he’s been there for ages watching me. He’s wearing a cool grey suit with a collarless linen shirt.
Panicking, I try and control my breath. I know my cheeks are pulsing with embarrassment. Where the hell did he come from?
He looks different in the flesh. And very different from my fantasy shower-Edward. For a start, he’s taller than I imagined and he’s younger, too.
‘Oh, I . . . I’m so sorry,’ I gulp. ‘I . . . I . . .’
I have no words.
I have totally and utterly fucked up.
Only then, as he pushes nonchalantly off the wall and walks toward me, do I see that rather than being stern, an amused smile is dancing on his lips. He has a dimple in his cheek.
‘You must be Miss Henshaw,’ he says. A smile plays on his lips.
Who the hell else would I be?
‘Yes. Hi. I’m Sophie,’ I blurt, as he reaches me in the centre of the room. I shake his hand.
‘You’re making yourself at home already, I see.’
‘I’m so sorry. I . . . I . . . turned on the lights and I saw the picture and I couldn’t help coming in to see it and then—’
I try and explain, but my words stall on my lips as I find myself swallowed into his eyes. He’s not wearing glasses and he’s staring at me so intently, I feel suddenly naked. His eyes are an extraordinary shade of light green, with speckled brown bits in his irises. He seems entirely without shame as he stares at me and won’t let me look away. Heat rises in me. I know my throat has gone dry.
What can I tell him? I’m
jetéing
across his perfect parquet sprung floor because it’s the most space I’ve had to myself in my entire life? That something about this room – maybe this house – made me want to dance? That I’ve never been somewhere so clean, or perfect, or posh?
I can’t say any of that. It sounds too naff.
He breaks his stare suddenly and looks towards the painting.
‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’
His voice is deep. Not too accented. The way he says it makes me feel as if I’ve already proffered this opinion and he’s agreeing with me. The room, for him, is clearly about the painting, and not about me at all.
‘I’m interested that you were drawn to it. What do you like about it, Miss Henshaw?’
I’m still slightly out of breath. I stand next to him and face the painting. He smells incredible, I notice. A deep, musky, spicy scent that is overwhelmingly masculine. A proper grown-up man’s smell. Sexy. The kind of smell that speaks of a man with a fast car, expensive taste, oh yes, and a fuck-off great big oil painting of his beautiful wife.
‘I like, er . . . the, um, size?’ I offer. I cringe inwardly. I feel ridiculous for saying something so pathetic. The painting is clearly a masterpiece and must be worth a fortune. And this man – my new boss – is a world-renowned aficionado, for God’s sake. It has many other qualities, other than just its size, obviously. Both good and bad, I realize. Like, for example, that it’s a fairly inappropriate thing to hang in a house where young boys live. But they’ve grown up with an art-curator dad and a designer mother, I remind myself. Meaning that they’re probably totally used to it, right?
‘Ah, yes. You mean the way the proportions are all spot-on?’
‘Yeah. And the light,’ I hazard. He stares at me intently, waiting for more. This is a man who clearly doesn’t
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