Cloudy with a Chance of Love (18 page)

‘If you say so,' I smiled. Whatever happened, I decided it was going to be a good night. I was young-ish (sort of), free and single. Sam was right; it was good to keep my options open. Ben and I had only had one date – he wasn't my boyfriend or anything – and he hadn't called me today, although I wasn't really expecting him to. If I wanted to meet another man, I could.

The taxi drove for a while. It was raining, again; all my weather reports were dismally boring and samey at the moment. Cold and rain. Rain and cold – that was it. We didn't even get the promised excitement of the hail shower the other day, in the end. It was all very dull. Literally. Adele came on the radio and we annoyed the taxi driver by singing along. We erupted into giggles on the high bits, which was most of it.

‘I
think
this is it,' I said, as the driver queried where we were going. ‘A right turn here, isn't it?' He swung a right and we drove up a single track lane and then into a tiny, dimly lit car park with only three or four other cars in it. We pulled into a parking space and the driver turned off the engine.

‘Here?' he asked.

‘Yes,' I said, but I didn't feel too confident we were at the right place. There was no sign of any cottage or anyone else around. The place looked deserted. We
were
fifteen minutes late though (there'd been some roadworks at the last junction), and we'd
definitely
been signposted in – there'd been one of those brown signs saying ‘Phyllis Law's Cottage,' at the entrance to the car park. This must be right!

We got out of the taxi and it drove off, the driver's ears relieved no doubt, and looked around us. Along three sides of the car park was a high, dense hedge. We scanned our eyes along it, our steamy breath escaping into the chill night air and our perfumes mingling with the strong scent of pine. I'd over-done mine a bit; a passing bat veered off in the opposite direction.

‘There!' exclaimed Sam. She pointed to a tall wooden gate set back into the hedge, at one corner of the car park. It was barely visible in the gloom. We trotted over in our unsuitable heels and Sam turned the latch like Alice in Wonderland.

‘Bloody hell! Wow!' That was me. There, on the other side of the gate, was a beautiful cottage. It was thatched, like all the cottages were in my dreams, the roof squatting low on the gables like poured-on Lego hair or a Gallagher brother's brow. It had dozens of small sash windows with tiny, separate panes. A crimson front door, lit from above. A winding path up to the front porch, lit by cute Victorian lamps. All it needed was a sprinkling of snow and it would make a wonderful Christmas card. It was perfect: the most heart-warming and inviting place I'd ever seen. And I've been to Cadbury World.

‘Blimey,' said Sam, ‘It's gorgeous. So romantic. Let's hope there're some equally gorgeous men waiting inside.'

She flung her shroud round herself dramatically, almost having my eye out, and we walked to the cottage, our heels crunching on the gravel path. With Sam was a good two foot taller than me, she looked like a crane, me like a mad, fluffy owl. We were a right pair.

The front door had ivy all the way round it and a lion's head for a knocker. I felt I was about step into a book – my mum would have loved it, it was very Enid Blyton. Sam rapped on the door, it immediately opened and a young girl in a black waitress uniform welcomed us with a smile and took our ‘outer garments', as she put it.

As Sam shrugged off her cloak, I said ‘Wow' for the second time that evening. She was clearly ready for any ‘heat' coming her way. Bits of her body she'd spent hours toning and honing were all out on show. Shoulders, triceps, biceps, racehorse legs, firm calves, non-saggy knees. Haunches like steel. She was wearing a short, tight silver dress. Black suede knee high boots with Pocahontas fringing and extremely high heels. She looked amazing, but I couldn't ever be jealous of her because I loved her so much, and I'd never honed or toned anything in my life.

‘You look incredible,' I said.

‘Oh, I don't know about that,' she said. She was all breathless. She tried to yank her dress down a bit. ‘This dress is a bit too short.'

‘Stops have been pulled out,' I said. ‘If anyone deserves to meet a man tonight, it's you.' My non-honed body was stuffed into my clothes as usual, and my bottom felt enormous in my now-regulation pencil skirt; I was sure it was growing daily. I'd taken a chance on really high heels, too. We'd be sitting down most of the night, wouldn't we? I flipping well hoped so.

‘Thank you, Daryl. I did two DVDs back to back for this; my glutes are killing me.'

We waited in a red, womb-like hallway while the girl disappeared with our coats. When she re-appeared, she gestured to the yellow glow of an archway at the end of the cobbled, pale stone hallway. We could hear the odd swell of laughter over a low tide of polite murmuring.

The floor got more and more uneven as we walked. By the time we reached the doorway to the kitchen, we were all over the place and we literally skittered through it, in our ridiculous footwear. To add insult to near-injury, the kitchen floor was quarry tiled and horribly slippery (health and safety, anyone?) and we had to hang onto each like a pair of marauding ice skaters. As we rounded the corner, watched by a room full of already-seated people, Sam was hanging off my shoulder and almost going into a swan dive.

‘Bloody heels!' she muttered, then plastered a huge, un-bothered smile on her face as she looked up and faced our bemused-looking audience.

The kitchen was huge. It had beams and three fireplaces and saucepans suspended from metal racks; bunches of herbs hanging from antique hooks, and a bank of cream wooden cabinets. It had a low, beamed ceiling, a massive cream Aga with a huge steel range next to it, and a giant silver, retro-looking fridge. I half expected Hugh Fearnley-Wotsit to come in from the kitchen garden with a bunch of earth-
dripping radishes in his hand, or some eco-friendly, sustainable cod wrapped in brown paper, or Nigel Slater to be washing up at a butler sink.

‘Quite an entrance, ladies!' said a broad Liverpudlian voice. Standing at the head of an enormous marble-topped island in the centre of the room was what could only be described as a very portly chef. He was enormous. Long hair, swept back. Dazzling blue eyes. An apron that could probably wrap round Sam six times, and twice round the gasworks, as Mum always said. He was not quite the Italian dish I had hoped for but he looked friendly and twinkly and I was sure he was going to be good fun. ‘Please join us.'

There were two empty places at the long, oblong island. It was boy, girl, boy, girl. Of course it was – we were here for boy-girl action. I could tell at a rapid glance that everyone was forties or over, again. One of the women, sitting at the furthest end of the island and already eyeing us suspiciously, was a severe-looking creature with a neck like Audrey Hepburn's. She was wearing a cobalt blue blouse and her hair was piled up on top of her head in a tribute to Elnett. The other woman, opposite her, had rosy cheeks, wild curly hair and both arms presented before her on the marble, palms down, so she resembled a sphinx.

But enough about them.

Oh good lord.

It's not often I am stopped in my tracks by a man. There'd been a couple of occasions where I'd seen a man for the first time who had really stirred my senses, but they were usually passing men on the street I would never see again. I'd also found Will instantly attractive, when we first met, of course, and since, but he was a man so far out of bounds there may as well be police tape wrapped around him, cordoning him off. This man ahead of me… wow. Something about him announced ‘available' and ‘entirely up for it' and ‘wahey' and ‘woo hoo!' There was something quite immediately and gutturally
sexual
about him. He not only stopped me in my tracks but had me somersaulting on them, whooping and clapping and crying out ‘yes please!' He had it all going on. He was gorgeous. His face was handsome. But not just that, he had one of those faces that simply said, with a kind of shrugging, un-self-conscious insouciance: ‘Yes, I've got it all – charm, cheekiness and personality. Come and get it.'

Blimey. What a man. My heart did a joyful little pirouette – like a giddy ballerina I was far too old to be. Oh flip! He was
sublime.
He had short hair – yes, that salt and pepper thing going on. I loved condiment hair. Eyes – blue? Yes, blue – that could fell a woman at twenty paces. Eyes that took in the whole of me, in a second. He was looking right at me. I did that thing that I always did, when I looked behind me, convinced there must be a more attractive person standing there, but there was no one. Sam was hovering next to me, close to my left. Behind me was just a wall, with hooks and herbs.

I tore my eyes away. There were three other men here – I really should have a look at them, however cursory. I flicked quickly between them all, but they were all
bland
. I saw some grey heads, some navy and grey jumpers, some striped blue shirts, a pair of glasses, a floppy head of blond hair. Whatever.

When I looked back, he was still looking at me. With amusement, with a kind of ‘Well, there you are' look. I was certain sparks were flying from him to me and crackling through the air and I was surprised no one could hear them. They could have been caught in a coal scuttle and used to light the Aga. I'd never been so brazenly undressed by someone's eyes before. This was the first time a man had disrobed me in just one look. I felt hot and excited, exposed. I was naked, with just a spatula sparing my modesty…

What was happening to me?

‘Would you like to take a seat, ladies?' said the portly chef.

‘Yes, absolutely,' I said.

Condiment Man was sitting next to Audrey Hepburn, but there was an empty space to his left. He patted the chair. Sam and I looked at each other and she gave me a signal with her eyes which I knew meant ‘go ahead'. I didn't need telling twice.

‘Hi,' I breathed, as I sat down.

‘Well, hello,' he said. And he leaned straight into me, putting his warm mouth right up close to my ear and whispered, ‘Thank god for you. I was beginning to think this evening was going to a complete waste of time.'

Good lord, he was straight in there with the flirty banter. I wasn't expecting it so soon. The air was immediately charged. He smelled of lemon and spices and warmth and maleness and I was intoxicated. He sat back again and I had a really good look at him. He was fifty-something, I reckoned. Early fifties. His face was mischievous, like a naughty boy's. That he had ‘that look in his eye' was an understatement – he had that look all over his face. I knew I would have no trouble spending the evening just staring at his mouth. I also knew, from his face and his very first words to me, exactly who this man was: he was charm, he was fun, and he could be downright dirty. I never thought such a man would have such an instant, raw appeal to me; I was wrong.

And actually I was relieved. I'd been worried that any flame I may have once had (yes,
sexual
flame), had been extinguished long ago – simmering, as it had been, on a low, uninspiring heat with Jeff for a long, long time, and then being completely put out when he stamped on my heart so terribly… I'd also been worried that my rather insipid encounter with Ben, which I'd been trying to ratchet up to something more, was partly due to
me
, not him, being a bit of a damp squib. Now I knew better. I still had it in me; my flame had not been extinguished but was flickering
very
merrily round my body (mostly in my lower regions). I'd still got it – I was on
fire
.

I quickly checked out his clothes. Gorgeous teal jumper. The collar of a white shirt underneath, unbuttoned. Nice jeans, nice shoes. Fab. He'd do. He'd do
very
nicely. There were two identical wine glasses in front of me. Both were already filled. One with white wine, one with water. I lifted the glass full of white wine and took a deep draught. I could feel my cheeks were hot and hoped it would cool them down. I wanted to press the glass to them but thought that would look silly. ‘Thank god for you.' Wow.

He was looking me up and down, head to toe, and I liked it.

‘You missed the formal introductions,' he said. ‘I'm Dex, pleased to meet you.' And he held out a hand to me which when I touched it was firm and warm and full of sensual promise. It sent a gorgeous heat straight to all parts of me. ‘Dex'! I was already swooning at his name.
Dex
! It suited him perfectly. I remembered Dex Dexter from
Dynasty
. Didn't everyone? My cheeks felt hotter than ever. Dex Dexter had been quite a dish, hadn't he? Joan Collins had certainly liked him. And this man was quite a dish, too. A dish served
hot
.

Before I could introduce myself in return, the Liverpudlian chef, still standing at the head of the table, started talking. Dex released my hand and I returned it reluctantly to my lap.

‘My name is Johnny,' he boomed, ‘and I'll be your Head Chef of Love tonight.' I could tell this was scripted and that he was cringing. I wondered if Nigel Smith-Fortescue was the owner of this company, too. Scowly Audrey Hepburn rolled her eyes. Cherub-faced Sphinx Lady giggled and rattled her jewellery. ‘We're going to take the cooking very seriously, but your experience tonight is all about forming connections, making love matches…' – the cringe factor on his face was palpable; Dex turned to me and winked, sending more heat round my body – ‘… and making great food. So, without further ado, for the first course, we're going to prepare scallops with pancetta and garlic. Please examine the recipe cards in front of you.'

‘I can't cook to save my life,' whispered the sexy man to the right. ‘You might have to help me. Would you like some champagne?'

There was a bottle on the island. He poured me a glass, into an empty champagne flute. ‘Thank you,' I said. ‘And I'll try.' I wasn't a brilliant cook; I'd tried my best when I was with Jeff, sometimes rather unsuccessfully, and these days I didn't even have to utilise the scant skills I possessed – it was all beans on toast and jacket potatoes with cheese when I was catering for one. Perhaps Dex and I could be hopeless together. He looked like he hoped so too; he was smiling at me, delight in his bright blue eyes. As the rest of the group picked up their recipe cards and read them, he didn't take his eyes off me, and my week so far just fluttered away on the wind, without a backwards glance.