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‘What would you call it, then?’
‘I’ll take the amazing woman part, thank you, but I think I’d phrase the dating part differently. Dating implies wining and dining, rather than painting and tiling, which is how we’ve spent most of our time together so far. How about “Hey, Mum and Dad, this is Ella, who I coerced into working on my house for free under the false pretence of curing her fear of heights and then lured into my bed”?’
‘I don’t think I lured you. If I remember correctly, it was you that suggested we went upstairs.’
‘Technicalities!’ I argue. ‘I was sorely provoked by some underhand foreplay.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t seem to remember you minding. In fact, I’d describe you as an active participant.’
‘I was probably just going with the flow.’
‘I think we’re getting off topic.’ He smiles. ‘Of course you don’t have to come if you think it’s too soon. I suppose I just didn’t like the idea of a whole day without you in it, and I admit that I’d quite like to show you off, but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’
He turns back to the sink to carry on washing up. Feeling reassured that he’s not pressurising me, I move behind him again, and my hands somehow find their way under his belt and end up resting provocatively on the waistband of his underpants.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I tell him as my fingers slip underneath the elastic. ‘Now, about this underhand foreplay and the question of who lured who.’
‘OK, OK. I give up,’ he groans. ‘I just have one more argument for the defence, while I have enough willpower to resist what you’re doing.’
‘And what would that be?’ I ask. From what I’ve just found, logic should be way beyond him by now. I’m not sure I’d be able to frame a particularly coherent argument myself, if I’m honest.
‘I did buy you lunch.’
‘That you did. Well done,’ I tell him, as he turns and starts lifting my top.
26
Noah was right. Although I was sure we would be hot gossip all over the site, our joint arrival the following morning appeared to be a compete damp squib. Part of that was because we were pretty much the first to arrive so Noah could unlock the site, but even the occupants of the few vans that were waiting to be let in when we arrived couldn’t have seemed to care less. John grunted, ‘Morning, Michael, morning, Carol,’ and that was the only acknowledgement we got. I’m not stupid, and I’m sure that the rumour mill was feeding the information that Noah and I were together to all those who didn’t already know, but nobody seemed bothered by it at all.
I, on the other hand, still have a problem, which is Noah’s invitation to meet his family. I’ve been thinking about it for most of the week, but I haven’t come to any firm conclusions. Noah’s been really patient and not said anything more about it, but I know he’s expecting an answer soon. I did briefly toy with asking John what I should do, but one lengthy, curry-based intervention is more than enough for me, even though I have to admit he was spot-on with the first one. My decision is made harder by the fact that I can’t quite put my finger on the cause of my reticence. Of course Noah’s family will want to meet his new girlfriend, and I’m curious to meet them too. I suppose it’s just the slight awkwardness that he seems to feel about his inability to join the family firm. I don’t think I could just sit silently if they were mean to him about it. Also, despite what Noah seems to think, I still feel that it’s awfully early in our relationship to be meeting each other’s families. What if they reveal all sorts of embarrassing secrets about him? Are we solid enough to weather that, or would I be completely put off? I know we all have embarrassing secrets from childhood, but what if he was the kind of child who liked to torment kittens or something? I’m pretty sure he wasn’t, but you know what I mean.
By the time Friday comes around, I know I have to give him an answer.
‘Noah,’ I say to him as we’re locking up the site. ‘What would this meeting your family thing involve?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it having a meal with them, for example, or staying with them for the whole weekend?’
To my relief, he laughs uproariously. ‘I love my family to bits, but even I couldn’t spend a whole weekend with them, so there’s no way I’d inflict that on you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Firstly, because the concept of a “weekend” doesn’t really exist when you’re fishing. It’s incredibly heavily regulated in terms of what you’re allowed to catch and how much, so it’s pretty much a seven-day-a-week occupation, either at sea, filling in all the paperwork, or maintaining the boat. So, while I’m sure we’ll be fed, we’ll definitely have to sing for our supper. The reason I chose this weekend is because the boat isn’t at sea, and the planned maintenance is largely painting, which I know is up your street.’
‘What is it with your family and forced labour?’ I ask. ‘Or do I have a boat-related neurosis that you’re planning to cure, despite me being unaware of it?’
He does at least have the decency to blush a little. ‘Sorry. They’re just not “put your feet up, have a cuppa and tell us about yourself” people. There will be cups of tea, and conversation, but everything revolves around the boat, and the boat comes first.’
‘OK, what’s the second reason?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said “firstly”, which implies there should be at least one more reason.’
‘I’d have thought the second reason would be obvious.’
‘Enlighten me.’
