the alcohol making quick work of her normal reticence. ‘And Prue took me in.’
Jake raised his eyebrows. ‘OK … and now I ask you why and you say it’s none of my business.’
She laughed. ‘It’s not a secret. The man in my life walked out on me and I didn’t handle it very well.’ She saw him nodding.
‘But I’m fine now,’ she added. ‘It was three years ago.’
‘I’ve not really done the relationship thing,’ he said, draining the last of his Margarita and checking her glass. ‘You sort of have to give it time and attention I reckon, and setting up my business has taken all of that so far.’
Flora hesitated. She didn’t want him to think she was concerned about whether he wanted a relationship now or not, because she wasn’t. Her reply was neutral: ‘I know how many hours Prue puts in. I can imagine it’s not easy.’
‘Another?’ he asked.
‘Thanks.’ She drained her glass too.
The second cocktail seemed to go down even faster than the first. No tortilla chips with this one. She knew, vaguely, that she should eat, but things were going well. He was flirting, she was flirting back. It wasn’t so hard; she hadn’t forgotten.
God knows what time it was when Jake got up and dragged her to her feet. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to mine. I only live two streets away.’
‘So do I … well, four or five streets anyway.’
‘Mine’s closer then. Closer’s better.’ He guided her through the room, which had thinned out considerably since they’d arrived.
Jake’s flat was on the first floor of one of the large terraced houses off Westbourne Park Road. The ceilings were high, the sash windows in the open-plan living room/kitchen making a bay which looked over the street. The space was uncluttered, sparse, as if Jake spent very little time there. The kitchen cupboards were a warm oak – as promised – the furniture low and modern, the old floorboards stripped. Flora was feeling even more heady than she had in the bar. The night air had seemed to double the effect of the cocktails to dangerous levels. But when Jake produced a bottle of champagne from the fridge she didn’t argue.
They both sat on the black leather sofa.
‘What made you choose kitchens … to design I mean?’ she asked, for something to say. The change of venue, the fact they were now alone, seemed to have created an awkward constraint between them.
‘I’m a cabinetmaker by trade, and when I was putting in kitchen cupboards I noticed how lost most people are when it comes to organising their kitchens so they function properly.’ He shrugged. ‘They basically haven’t a clue. So I thought, hmm, bit of an opportunity here.’
‘But how did you know how a kitchen functions?’ Flora was trying hard to keep track of what he was saying. The champagne was cold and refreshing, and she found herself doing what she seldom did: living in the moment.
Jake laughed. ‘Well, I didn’t, but it wasn’t rocket science. And then I got busy, too busy to do it all myself, so I started Hobley and Star with my mate Gus.’
They talked on for a while, the conversation getting more and more disjointed as the bottle level dropped. She had no idea what they were talking about, the world had become a pleasant, hazy, floating place.
‘When we met at the party, I thought you were too trendy for me,’ she said, leaning back against the low back of the sofa as she met his eye. ‘I find those clothes slightly intimidating.’
Jake grinned as he glanced down at his dark shirt andskinny black jeans, waggling the long points of his lace-up shoes. ‘That’s the idea.’
‘To be intimidating?’
‘Yeah. It puts a sort of handy buffer between you and the client.’ He paused. ‘Look, I’m an ordinary guy. I made cabinets. I never took my jeans off … but they came from the Blue Harbour sale back then. Now I have to relate to rich people who hang out with – or are – celebrities and the super-cool. They care about
Jake raised his eyebrows. ‘OK … and now I ask you why and you say it’s none of my business.’
She laughed. ‘It’s not a secret. The man in my life walked out on me and I didn’t handle it very well.’ She saw him nodding.
‘But I’m fine now,’ she added. ‘It was three years ago.’
‘I’ve not really done the relationship thing,’ he said, draining the last of his Margarita and checking her glass. ‘You sort of have to give it time and attention I reckon, and setting up my business has taken all of that so far.’
Flora hesitated. She didn’t want him to think she was concerned about whether he wanted a relationship now or not, because she wasn’t. Her reply was neutral: ‘I know how many hours Prue puts in. I can imagine it’s not easy.’
‘Another?’ he asked.
‘Thanks.’ She drained her glass too.
The second cocktail seemed to go down even faster than the first. No tortilla chips with this one. She knew, vaguely, that she should eat, but things were going well. He was flirting, she was flirting back. It wasn’t so hard; she hadn’t forgotten.
God knows what time it was when Jake got up and dragged her to her feet. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to mine. I only live two streets away.’
‘So do I … well, four or five streets anyway.’
‘Mine’s closer then. Closer’s better.’ He guided her through the room, which had thinned out considerably since they’d arrived.
Jake’s flat was on the first floor of one of the large terraced houses off Westbourne Park Road. The ceilings were high, the sash windows in the open-plan living room/kitchen making a bay which looked over the street. The space was uncluttered, sparse, as if Jake spent very little time there. The kitchen cupboards were a warm oak – as promised – the furniture low and modern, the old floorboards stripped. Flora was feeling even more heady than she had in the bar. The night air had seemed to double the effect of the cocktails to dangerous levels. But when Jake produced a bottle of champagne from the fridge she didn’t argue.
They both sat on the black leather sofa.
‘What made you choose kitchens … to design I mean?’ she asked, for something to say. The change of venue, the fact they were now alone, seemed to have created an awkward constraint between them.
‘I’m a cabinetmaker by trade, and when I was putting in kitchen cupboards I noticed how lost most people are when it comes to organising their kitchens so they function properly.’ He shrugged. ‘They basically haven’t a clue. So I thought, hmm, bit of an opportunity here.’
‘But how did you know how a kitchen functions?’ Flora was trying hard to keep track of what he was saying. The champagne was cold and refreshing, and she found herself doing what she seldom did: living in the moment.
Jake laughed. ‘Well, I didn’t, but it wasn’t rocket science. And then I got busy, too busy to do it all myself, so I started Hobley and Star with my mate Gus.’
They talked on for a while, the conversation getting more and more disjointed as the bottle level dropped. She had no idea what they were talking about, the world had become a pleasant, hazy, floating place.
‘When we met at the party, I thought you were too trendy for me,’ she said, leaning back against the low back of the sofa as she met his eye. ‘I find those clothes slightly intimidating.’
Jake grinned as he glanced down at his dark shirt andskinny black jeans, waggling the long points of his lace-up shoes. ‘That’s the idea.’
‘To be intimidating?’
‘Yeah. It puts a sort of handy buffer between you and the client.’ He paused. ‘Look, I’m an ordinary guy. I made cabinets. I never took my jeans off … but they came from the Blue Harbour sale back then. Now I have to relate to rich people who hang out with – or are – celebrities and the super-cool. They care about
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