I pivot my body towards him. ‘And what sins were you confessing to?’
He stretches his arms over the back of the bench, his thumb catching my shoulder, the mischievous grin returning to his lips. ‘Well there was some gluttony… lust, coveting thy brother’s wife, you know – all the good ones.’ I let out an unattractive snort.
‘And what’s your punishment?’
‘Oh, just the five hail Marys and enduring dinner with my mother.’
‘Sounds like a fair deal.’
He looks at me with one raised eyebrow and I know in that moment he would rather take a physical beating over what the next few hours had in store. ‘What’s this?’ He looks at my lap, finds the notebook and before I can register his interest, he reaches for it.
‘Don’t!’ I snatch it away before he can take it, and he screws his eyes up at what he clearly thinks is an overreaction.
‘Alright, calm down.’ He holds his hands up, the wonderful lightness we had managed to inject into a rather shit day evaporating.
‘It’s just a diary,’ I shrug.
‘You took your diary out with you, here?’
I don’t have an excuse, I don’t have the time or the energy to explain either. I will one day, I’m sure of it, just not yet. ‘Yes, and your point?’
‘Okay, my apologies, it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.’
‘You’re excused.’ I throw it into my bag. ‘Now, can we possibly go so that this evening can be over and banished to my distant memory?’
‘Yes, Ava. Yes, we can go.’
Chapter 29
Madame Grenaud is perchedprecariously on the edge of the sofa, the evening news a welcome guest at this dinner party.
I don’t join her; I think Florian realises that it would be too cruel to insist that I do, so I pour the two of us some wine and hide in the kitchen, acting as an entirely useless sous-chef.
‘What are we having?’ I peer over to the stove where something dark and rich is simmering down.
‘Boef Bourguignon,’ he shrugs as if he might as well be chucking some chicken in the microwave and hoping for the best. ‘Here.’ He holds up a spoon for me. ‘Taste it, you can let me know if it needs anything else.’
‘I think we both know I’ll be next to useless at providing culinary advice.’
‘Still.’ He swings the spoon in the air, pouting a little until I give in, leave my glass on the side and let him scoop some sauce onto the spoon. I try to take it off of him but he scolds me until I stand there like a guppy with my mouth wide and he deposits the liquid onto my tongue directly and then stands there, waiting for my reaction.
‘It’s good. Really good.’
‘I’m glad. Now go set the table.’ He winks.
I do as he says, retrieving some placemats and mismatched crockery. ‘God, I’m going to miss the food here,’ I say to the room, beginning to organise the table into three distinct little areas. Check that there is enough distance between everyone in case things get difficult.
We work in a busy silence, Florian stirring something rather vigorously whilst I focus on folding napkins into little shapes.
‘I think we should talk about that,’ Florian says quietly.
‘About what, my textile origami?’ I gesture to a wonky swan with a flourish.
‘About you going.’ He doesn’t look at me, focusing intently on hooking out something from his pot with a spoon.
‘Oh.’ I stop decorating, look out of the doorway to where Madame Grenaud is perching, eyes still fixed on the TV. I rescue my wine from the sideboard and lean back against the sink, eyes fixed on the back of Florian’s head, willing him to turn around so I can at least gauge where to pitch my defence. ‘Well, we can talk but my flight’s on Sun—’
‘I don’t think you should go.’
