pour water instead and David doesn’t insist or make me feel guilty. ‘Besides, I’m driving.’ Of course I’m driving, I think. I didn’t need to say it. If I wasn’t driving, it would mean David would be driving me somewhere. And what does that bring to mind?
‘Oh God,’ I whisper because of what I was thinking, not meaning it to be audible.
‘Pardon?’ He smiles warmly, dissolving my angst. Everything about David Carlyle is calm and together and held in place by an aura that bursts with confidence yet is quietly compassionate. The nature of a GP, I assume.
‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the children.’ I’m lying, of course, although this in itself makes me think of them and wonder if they are playing on the towpath while Murray drinks himself into a stupor.
‘Are they with their . . . father tonight?’ He hesitates and frowns over the word father .
‘Yes.’ I nod and gulp my water so I don’t have to say anything else. Mixing Murray into our conversation so soon has thrown me. Thoughtfully offering me a reprieve, David insists on fetching me something more interesting to drink from the bar. He brings back two menus and a pineapple juice.
‘Have you been here before?’ He glances around, seemingly satisfied with the choice of venue. It’s busy, warm, cheerful and filled with the smell of home cooking. Just the kind of place I can really get to know David. Now I’m alone with him, I’m stating to sense there really could be something special between us.
‘Never,’ I admit, and for a moment I see Murray sitting beside the fire instead of David, his features highlighted by the flames, his neck arced over the menu, his finger running down the meals.
‘Their steak melts in the mouth. But the whole menu’s good here. You can’t go wrong.’
‘Do you own shares in the place?’ I joke.
Now we are out of Northmire, now he’s not visiting Mum, I don’t know what to say to him. My conversation feels awkward. I am a soon-to-be divorcee on a date with a man who I have met only half a dozen times. I try not to notice his razored hairline as it dips beneath the collar of his shirt or the way his eyes narrow when he smiles. His hair is speckled with grey and sits in a slightly tousled, longer style on the top. He clearly takes care of himself and his clothes are stylish. I wonder if he notices how many women in the room have glanced at him since we’ve been here.
‘No, I don’t.’ He laughs. ‘I just like eating out and discovering new places.’ He sips his wine, barely letting any into his mouth. Murray would be on his third glass by now; thinking about ordering another bottle. ‘Besides, it gives me somewhere to bring beautiful ladies.’ He passes me a menu.
I press my toes into the soles of my boots, the only things I am wearing that aren’t new. I can’t help but smile.
‘Lad ies ,’ I tease. ‘How many are there?’
‘Aha.’ He laughs and gentle lines flicker around his eyes. ‘Hundreds,’ he jokes. ‘Seriously, though, I’m not seeing anyone. No one special.’ He looks at me intently. ‘To be honest, when I’ve finished work there’s little time for socialising. I expect I’ll meet lots of lovely women in the area soon enough.’ He sips more wine. ‘Hey, I already have.’ He gestures at me and I’m not sure if I can swallow any more compliments for the time being. He’s trying to tell me that he’s available, that he’s interested, that he wants to take things further.
‘I’m going to have the crab cakes. Have you decided?’ I change the subject.
‘The fillet steak, of course. And it must be rare.’ His eyes twinkle at the thought.
Suddenly, all I can think of is Grace Covatta lying in the field, covered in blood. There is a moment’s silence, broken only by the crackling log on the fire. I must look miserable because he’s staring at me quizzically, wondering what’s wrong. ‘I’m sorry if I seem maudlin from time to time,’ I
‘Oh God,’ I whisper because of what I was thinking, not meaning it to be audible.
‘Pardon?’ He smiles warmly, dissolving my angst. Everything about David Carlyle is calm and together and held in place by an aura that bursts with confidence yet is quietly compassionate. The nature of a GP, I assume.
‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the children.’ I’m lying, of course, although this in itself makes me think of them and wonder if they are playing on the towpath while Murray drinks himself into a stupor.
‘Are they with their . . . father tonight?’ He hesitates and frowns over the word father .
‘Yes.’ I nod and gulp my water so I don’t have to say anything else. Mixing Murray into our conversation so soon has thrown me. Thoughtfully offering me a reprieve, David insists on fetching me something more interesting to drink from the bar. He brings back two menus and a pineapple juice.
‘Have you been here before?’ He glances around, seemingly satisfied with the choice of venue. It’s busy, warm, cheerful and filled with the smell of home cooking. Just the kind of place I can really get to know David. Now I’m alone with him, I’m stating to sense there really could be something special between us.
‘Never,’ I admit, and for a moment I see Murray sitting beside the fire instead of David, his features highlighted by the flames, his neck arced over the menu, his finger running down the meals.
‘Their steak melts in the mouth. But the whole menu’s good here. You can’t go wrong.’
‘Do you own shares in the place?’ I joke.
Now we are out of Northmire, now he’s not visiting Mum, I don’t know what to say to him. My conversation feels awkward. I am a soon-to-be divorcee on a date with a man who I have met only half a dozen times. I try not to notice his razored hairline as it dips beneath the collar of his shirt or the way his eyes narrow when he smiles. His hair is speckled with grey and sits in a slightly tousled, longer style on the top. He clearly takes care of himself and his clothes are stylish. I wonder if he notices how many women in the room have glanced at him since we’ve been here.
‘No, I don’t.’ He laughs. ‘I just like eating out and discovering new places.’ He sips his wine, barely letting any into his mouth. Murray would be on his third glass by now; thinking about ordering another bottle. ‘Besides, it gives me somewhere to bring beautiful ladies.’ He passes me a menu.
I press my toes into the soles of my boots, the only things I am wearing that aren’t new. I can’t help but smile.
‘Lad ies ,’ I tease. ‘How many are there?’
‘Aha.’ He laughs and gentle lines flicker around his eyes. ‘Hundreds,’ he jokes. ‘Seriously, though, I’m not seeing anyone. No one special.’ He looks at me intently. ‘To be honest, when I’ve finished work there’s little time for socialising. I expect I’ll meet lots of lovely women in the area soon enough.’ He sips more wine. ‘Hey, I already have.’ He gestures at me and I’m not sure if I can swallow any more compliments for the time being. He’s trying to tell me that he’s available, that he’s interested, that he wants to take things further.
‘I’m going to have the crab cakes. Have you decided?’ I change the subject.
‘The fillet steak, of course. And it must be rare.’ His eyes twinkle at the thought.
Suddenly, all I can think of is Grace Covatta lying in the field, covered in blood. There is a moment’s silence, broken only by the crackling log on the fire. I must look miserable because he’s staring at me quizzically, wondering what’s wrong. ‘I’m sorry if I seem maudlin from time to time,’ I
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