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Riccardo, always at the top of the game when it came to women, had felt for the first time in his life superfluous to requirements. His presence was tolerated because he had inflicted it upon her, leaving her no option but to concede temporary defeat. But he could sense her waiting for him to leave. It enraged and frustrated him at the same time.
‘What’s that?’ He realised that she had been talking to him, making polite conversation the way you would with a stranger.
‘I wondered when was the last time you cooked anything.’
‘Is that a comment on the food?’ he asked, still scowling, and standing up to clear away the dishes.
‘No, of course not!’ Charlotte protested, taken aback. ‘I was just making polite conversation.’
As he had thought. ‘Strangers make polite conversation.’ He tried to keep his voice level and jovial. ‘Usually people who have a child in common can be a bit more relaxed with one another.’
Charlotte refrained from pointing out that most people who had a child in common probably had a more conventional union . Instead she asked him brightly what he had cooked.
‘Pasta.’
‘Yummy. Italian food. My favourite.’
‘I know.’ Steer away from confrontation. ‘Although…’ he drained some tagliatelle and noted that it looked a bit on the tough side, hopefully convincingly al dente ‘…I can’t guarantee it’ll taste like anything you ever had in Italy.’
‘Smells good, though.’ This was bliss. Back from work, the smell of food in the kitchen, Riccardo busying himself…When she had invented Ben as her fiancé with a magical culinary touch, she had had no idea just how wonderful the ‘man in kitchen’ package could be. Thus far, she and Riccardo had avoided eating together. She had grabbed a sandwich and so had he, at a different time in the evening, and then there had been the occasional father and daughter bonding visits to a couple of local fast-food places. On weekends, admittedly, meals had been shared, but with Gina sitting solidly between them.
This situation now took domesticity onto a different and dangerous level.
Charlotte, waiting for the verbal knife to fall, decided that she would initiate the first cut. Attack was always going to be better than defence, she reckoned. Better to be empowered than reduced to being told that, yes, he would be on his way now, and thank heavens they hadn’t done anything crazy like get married.
It was clear that he was on edge. In fact, as she tried to chat about the food—asking him all sorts of questions about ingredients and cooking times, while she frantically tried to work out how she could manoeuvre the conversation skilfully into the place she wanted—she noticed that he was all but gritting his teeth together.
‘I’ll have to try this one,’ she said in a cheery voice.
‘Will you?’ He looked at her narrowly, wondering whether that meant that the boyfriend had been sidelined.
‘Sure! I mean, it’s not as though you’re going to be around here for ever, whipping up mushrooms and tomatoes and tagliatelle for my benefit!’ There. It was out in the open, and Charlotte was quietly relieved to have taken the bull by the horns. She stared at herself twirling pasta round and round her fork, and felt sickeningly oppressed by the knowledge that he was staring at her and thinking…what? Thanking God she’d broken the ice on a difficult subject? Hoping she hadn’t started thinking it was going to be permanent? Thinking that he’d never thought she led such a boring life, watching television and reading books every evening, or that he’d never imagined she possessed so many dreary clothes?
