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“A bit. It’s more that he’s irreverent. He doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.”
“That’s how you see me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m flattered. I can’t quite play the guitar like he can, but…”
“You play the guitar?”
“Sort of. As long as the song doesn’t have an F chord in it.” That makes her laugh. “You?” I ask. “Do you play an instrument?”
“No. Never had the chance.” She leans on the counter and examines the packet of steaks.
She’s still too thin, and she’s still only wearing black, but she looks amazing this evening. She’s pinned up her hair looser than usual, so more strands tumble around her face. The sun coming in through the windows has turned it to copper. It also brings out the color of her eyes, which shine likepounamu—the New Zealand greenstone that Maori carve into symbols and wear as pendants.
Her T-shirt is stretched over her bump. She really needs some maternity tops, but oddly I like the way it accentuates her figure. Her breasts are a little larger than they were, and there’s something about her curved shape that makes my pulse race.
Don’t be surprised if you feel frisky whenever she’s around, even if she’s the size of an elephant. My lips curve up at the memory of Kennedy’s words, but I push the feelings away. I’ve brought her here to get to know her better. Not to hit on her.
Later, I’ll ask her about her family, but for now I just want her to feel comfortable and relaxed. It’s not easy to pick topics to talk about, as it’s amazing how many relate to money or what opportunities a person’s had in their life. There’s no point in asking her if she’s traveled, because I doubt she’s been outside the country. Her schooling hasn’t sounded amazing, and I’m sure she hasn’t gone to university. I don’t get the impression she’s into art or literature, and I don’t want to embarrass her by asking questions about things she’s had no chance to explore.
So I pick the one thing I know she does like. “Who’s your favorite band?”
“Ooh,” she says, brightening. “I don’t know if I can pick just one.”
“Okay. Top ten bands. Then we’ll do top ten songs, and see if any of ours are the same.”
She laughs. “Okay.”
So we chat away about bands and songs while I parboil the potatoes, then toss them in Cajun seasoning and put them in the oven. Then while we argue about whether the best decade for music is the sixties (her) or the nineties (me), I chop the cabbage and carrots and toss the shredded mix with onion, mayo, sour cream, and chipotle paste.
I discover that, like me, her tastes are eclectic, and there’s little music she doesn’t like. The one thing she obviously considers an essential and refuses to scrimp on is her internet connection, and I suspect she’d rather go without food than give it up. Accustomed to using free sites that have regular ad breaks, she’s delighted by my memberships to Spotify, YouTube, Amazon, and half a dozen others, and once I tell her I’m happy for her to use my phone, she enjoys making me a playlist of her favorite songs. It’s clear that she uses music as an escape, and I can imagine her as a teenager, after the death of her mother, losing herself in her songs,
As I listen to her singing along to Dionne Warwick’sWalk on By—she loves Burt Bacharach—I turn the potatoes over, then get to work on the steaks. I don’t think she’s had her blood results yet, but even if she isn’t anemic, I’m guessing a good portion of eye fillet steak isn’t going to do her any harm.
After rubbing both sides with oil, I season them, then get the frying pan nice and hot. I cook them for two minutes on one side and three on the other, then cover them with foil to rest for five minutes.
When the potatoes are ready, I scatter them with some fresh chopped coriander, add a big heap of coleslaw, then slice the steaks into strips and lift them onto the plate.
“I asked Eleanor to get a non-alcoholic wine,” I say, retrieving the coral-colored rose from the fridge. “Would you like some?”
“That was nice of you,” she murmurs. “Yes, please.”
I pour us both a glass, and then I take the drinks over to the breakfast bar that adjoins the living room, close to the window that looks out at the sea. Retrieving some cutlery from the drawer, I bring that over too, and finally our two plates.
I hold out a hand to help her down from the barstool. She meets my eyes for a moment, then takes it and lets me lead her over to the breakfast bar, where we sit side by side.
“I can’t believe you’ve cooked this,” she says, staring at her plate. “It smells amazing.”
“Wait until you’ve tried it in case it’s shit.”
She laughs, cuts off a piece of the steak, and eats it. She closes her eyes, and my gaze lingers on her face as she chews. Then her eyelids drift open. “Oh my God, Saxon, that is amazing.”
I can’t think what to say for a moment, as that is exactly how she looked after her first orgasm, dreamy and happy. I clear my throat. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Mmm. And these potatoes… and the slaw! Ohhh…”
“Are you going to do a Meg Ryan on me?”
