‘It’s a one-off,’ Callum says hurriedly. ‘All dealt with and fine now.’
And then I can’t help it, because I’m curious about whether or not it will make Callum squirm, and I’m fascinated to see what this new, grown-up Callum is really like, I say, looking at him out of the corner of my eye, ‘Obviously he’s going to spend tonight making it up to meverynicely.’
He doesn’t squirm whatsoever. He just turns towards me, leans into me and says, as though for me but quite loudly, ‘You mean… thatthing?’ And then he lowers his voice, except it’s still quite audible, and says, ‘That you’ve beenbeggingme to do.’
Laura squeaks, while Carla says, ‘Ooh,naughty.’
And I say, ‘Ifyou’reupto it today,’ because apparently I started a fun game and I don’t want to lose.
In response, Callum shifts slightly so that he’s looking right into my eyes, in doting husband fashion. I square my shoulders and look right back at him, my face tilted up to his. And then somehow I forget that I started the silly game that he’s still playing and I’m supposed to be playing too, because now I’m just staring –gazing, in fact – at the deep, deep green of his eyes, and at how thick his lashes are, and I’m remembering things. Under the intensity of his gaze – even though I know it’s fake – I feel my heart start to beat faster and it’s like time has stopped for a moment.
And then he does the tiniest of frowns, which is justcute, and does nothing to slow my now-galloping heart rate, and leans even closer, so that I can almost feel his breath on my skin. He opens his mouth to speak and half of me goes mad and thinks about kissing him and the other half wonders, with ridiculously huge anticipation, what he’s going to say.
And then he speaks, his voice very, very gravelly low: ‘Are we not talking about Scrabble any more?’
I recover my wits and laugh along with everyone else and the moment’s passed. Except not completely, because now I can’t help remembering things.
Like, literally everything he does is now reminding me of the past.
He takes bread from the basket in front of us and I find myself staring at his (objectively) gorgeous hands. They’re strong and firm and oh myGodI’m losing my mind because I can’t help thinking that I’d like to feel them on me again, feel his touch one more time.
No, I would not. What is wrong with me?
And then he takes a sip of red wine from his goblet and I can’t help being hyper-focused on everything he does and everything relating to him, and first I think that the goblet is just beautiful – it’s old-looking and made of something that might be a bit metallic, maybe pewter, and is intricately carved – and then I think how beautiful hislipsare and think about kissing him.
Andthenhe tears a piece of bread off and puts it in his mouth and chews and, I’m not joking, I just can’t take my eyes off him.
He’s going to notice. I really need to get a grip on myself.
No, it’s okay. He’s just going to think I’m anexcellentactress. The married-couple-farce is the perfect cover.
Iaman excellent actress, actually. That’s what this is. I’m method acting.
I’m doing it really, really well.
Also, I remind myself, as I drag my gaze away from Callum and look around at our dining companions, I’m not feeling any kind oflove, whichwouldbe a worry, I’m just feeling a bit of temporary lust, which has almost certainly been brought on by the bizarre situation in which we find ourselves, and from which I will recover very, very quickly.
I’m going to help myself to recover from it by talking to the people around us.
They’re nearly all very sociable and very up for a chat and soon we’re exchanging Italy-travel stories and giving details about where we’re from and our backgrounds.
I’m usually quite free with details about my home life. I’m thirty-three, a special needs teacher, I live in London, I have no pets but I’d love to get a dog, and apart from my fake marriage this evening, I’m single, because I recently split up with my ex-boyfriend Dev, and I’m totally happy to tell those facts to people I meet and like. I’m also happy to share details on my favourite foods, drinks, books, films, plans for the weekend and holidays, all the usual superficial stuff.
This evening, though, even though that stuffisall superficial, I don’t really want to go there if Callum can hear what I say. Something’s making me just not want to tell himanythingabout my life.
So I go into interrogatory mode, mixing my questions with very specific anecdotes of my own that could actually have happened to anyone.
Callum has his own conversation with the people sitting on his other side, and it’s all good.
At one point I overhear Callum very, very sweetly questioning an elderly man about the holiday he’s taking with his brother following the loss of both their wives last year, then listening very closely to the man’s description first of his holiday and then of his wife and the holidays they used to take together, and if I’m honest my heart melts because it seems that Callum has moulded himself into being just the person the older man needed to talk to, and his patience and kindness aregorgeous.
I’m in the middle of describing an evening in Slovenia that ended in an impromptu night swim across Lake Bled to the island in the middle followed by a little snooze on the island until we got kicked off by an official-looking man when the sun cameup, when I realise that Callum has stopped talking to anyone else and is listening to me.
‘Bonkers,’ he says into my ear when I’ve finished, and this time it is only for me.
‘You can talk,’ I tell him.
‘Yep. I can. I am no longer rash.’
