She looks confused by my manic energy. ‘You’d like to have sex with her again?’
‘Definitely. Without it looking like I only want to have sex with her. Without it appearing like rando holiday sex. I want to get to know her. I want to look after her and find out if she likes doughnuts or not.’
‘Everyone likes doughnuts. If she doesn’t then I’d have to have serious words with you over the viability of this relationship,’ Flo jokes. ‘What does she do?’
‘She’s an architect. She likes to draw. She has mousey brown hair with a slight curl, hazel eyes and two piercings in her left ear. She likes to click her fingers while she talks like she needs a backing track. Something tells me she’s really smart and thoughtful; I see something in her, something I don’t think she sees in herself.’
Flo smiles, looking at me on the screen and shaking her head.
‘You think I’m a fool,’ I say.
‘I think you’re Ben,’ she replies, beaming.
‘So how do I play this? How do I show her I’d like this to be more than sex?’ I ask.
‘Now you have to bring the romance, kiddo. What’s on the menu tonight?’ she asks.
‘Pollo al ajillo,’ I tell her.
‘Garlic breath for later…sexy, sexy. I know you. Go easy.’
‘Also with fresh bay and thyme from the garden, the garlic is amazing – really sweet if you cook it down. I’ve baked some bread to go with it and I’m making a pear and frangipane tart for after.’
‘Have you started the tart yet? Put the pears with chocolate…trust me,’ Flo tells me. ‘Make that crust with the hazelnuts too, you’re excellent at that.’
I have some paper next to me and I write down notes.
‘Are you writing down your playbook of smooth moves for her?’ she jokes.
‘No,’ I say, putting down my pen.Maybe.
‘What you don’t realise is that you’ll be fine. You’re annoyingly loveable.’
‘That sounds like a veiled compliment,’ I say.
‘It’s mostly down to the good work us sisters have done but you are a bit magic, kiddo. Show her your magic.’
‘Is that innuendo? Because she’s seen that sort of magic already.’
Flo laughs. ‘Do you need any other sisterly wisdom?’ she says.
‘Is Phoebe cleaning the coffee machine?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ she says.
‘Liar,’ I say, smirking. ‘Also, don’t tell Norah about this. She’ll tell me off and Phoebe will?—’
‘Announce it on social media and make it a thing. Which is why you called your favourite sister.’
‘You’re all my favourites,’ I tell her.
‘And he calls me the liar. Love you, kiddo. Remember. Magic.’
I get back to work. But as I knead, I look up at the wall, at the old photos of this place, and at one in particular of UncleLorenzo, his shirt undone, sitting in the garden with a look of mischief on his face. The garden. And a memory slowly emerges. One from my childhood.Magic.
22
CHLOE
