He nods slowly, scanning down at me in my swimming costume but then trying his best to avert his eyes elsewhere. ‘I don’t cook like this, I better clarify that.’
‘That’s good to know. I can think of someone on Instagram who does. He’s very popular.’
‘You sound like you know him quite well,’ Ben says, propping himself up against the counter.Don’t look at the waistband of his underwear peeking out from his shorts. Don’t look at the way his hair has curled in this heat. Look at that ham. It’s an impressive ham.
‘I follow him. For the recipes. Naturally.’
He laughs and it’s a pleasing throaty sound. There’s no doubt Ben is attractive but there’s also something satisfying about someone understanding the rhythm of your humour – someone who sees more of you than what’s on show. And I have a lot on show.
‘I actually came in here to apologise,’ I say.
He stands straighter and cocks his head to one side.
‘I think I arrived here on the defensive, strangely tense and not knowing what to expect,’ I explain. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve come across as a bit of a bitch.’
His eyes crease and he shakes his head. ‘Please don’t say that. Maybe I should have thought more about first impressions. You’re a single woman travelling on your own. You were right to have your guard up.’
There’s a moment of silence as I digest this. ‘We’re the first people to come on this retreat, aren’t we?’
A smile creeps across his face. He looks impressed that I’ve worked that out. ‘Maybe.’
‘There’s a lamp upstairs with a price tag on.’
He looks down and laughs to himself. ‘Nothing much gets past you, does it?’
I shrug. ‘I just like honesty, transparency, zero bullshit.’
‘And do I not give off those vibes?’ he asks, standing there with his top off.
I look at my watch. ‘I’ve known you six hours. I thought your name was going to be Lorenzo. There was a naked man in your pool when we arrived, and you drive a sunshine-yellow SEAT. I’m still working you out.’
‘Well, take your time, we’ve got all week,’ Ben says. He smiles at me. I’m not sure what that smile means.Is it vaguely smug? Does he think he can win me over?Not likely.
At that moment, a small, furry face appears at the kitchen door. It’s a tabby cat, mottled in about four different colours. Bright orange eyes look up at me, half its tail is missing.
‘Oh, SHIT…’ Ben says.
‘That’s a weird name for your cat,’ I try and joke.
He stares at the cat who looks deeply unimpressed. ‘That’s not her name; she doesn’t have a name.’
‘It’s probably why she looks so angry. Is this the cat you were telling us about?’ I ask.
‘Yes. This whole house was her domain when it was vacant, so I think she’s a bit pissed off I’ve taken residency. She always appears when I get my ham out.’
This shouldn’t be funny but it is. I stand there and giggle.
He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Seriously, she is vicious. I tried to rehome her with the lady in the farm next door and she came right back.’ He makes a strange gesture, slowly reaching for the ham; the cat follows his every movement. She edges towards him and hisses, baring her teeth and swiping at him with a paw. He dodges it but hisses back. ‘See? I told you. Feral. Get out of here, you’re scaring my guests!’ Ben stamps his foot and the cat almost laughs at him.
‘Well, not really.’ I go over to her and look her in the eye. ‘Hola, Señorita. ¿Quétal?She’s a Spanish cat, maybe you’re not speaking her lingo.’ I reach for a tiny fleck ofjamónon the counter and put it in my hand. She comes and eats it out of myfingers, nuzzling her head against my palm. ‘You like the nice man’sjamón, do you? Is it tasty?’
She purrs. I smile.I really hope you don’t have fleas or something more exotic like rabies. But I look up and Ben is staring at me, smiling. I look away, aware of my face flushing, resisting the urge to giggle. I return my gaze to his big hock of ham instead.
10
BEN
‘Christ, she tamed the cat? That cat nearly had Phoebe’s eyes out! And why didn’t you have a top on?’ Norah asks as I recall the incident to her on the phone while I close the kitchen down for the evening, running a cloth across the countertops.
