Page 63 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘I hope my sneaky twist is as good.’

‘It’s pretty good,’ I acknowledge.

We slip into silence, but it’s a companionable, easy silence. Every so often I glance at Charles, who’s gazing into the fire, seemingly deep in thought. I love being here with him, but I have to ask myself what on earth is going on between us. He’s an older, divorced man, and in a million years I would never have imagined myself sitting in my living room with someone like him. I’m wondering what he’s thinking about me. How is he framing the relationship, if relationship is even the right word, between us? Has he called over for some festive sex, as a quid pro quo for the watch? Is that it? I nibble on the end of my nail and then whip it out of my mouth, because I had them shellacked for Christmas and I don’t want to ruin them. (They’re a glittery gold. I love them.)

‘What are you thinking?’ Charles breaks the silence.

‘It’s usually women who ask that question.’

‘Ah, but I’m a man in touch with the emotions that women feel. That’s a quote from The Times,’ he adds. ‘So I’m allowed to ask.’

‘I was wondering about us,’ I say.

‘Us?’ He looks surprised.

‘If there even is an us,’ I say. ‘Which I feel there might be. And yet I don’t know.’

‘Of course there’s an us,’ says Charles.

‘And what are we?’

‘Two people who care for each other?’

‘OK . . .’

‘What do you want, Iseult?’

When my parents call me Iseult, I feel like I did when I was a little girl and in trouble over something. When Charles does, I feel like a proper grown-up.

‘I thought we were a holiday romance, but now you’re saying we care for each other and I don’t know what that really means. Don’t panic, though,’ I add. ‘There’s no pressure. I don’t want anything from you.’

‘I want you,’ says Charles. ‘You make me feel . . . inspired. Renewed. Spirited. Wholehearted. Actually, wholehearted is best,’ he continues. ‘You make me feel wholehearted about my life and about my work. You unblocked me.’

‘You’re making me sound like Dyno-Rod.’

‘Are you always this . . . this down-to-earth?’ he asks.

‘Yes. I’m sorry if that’s not spiritual enough for you.’

‘Spiritual?’ He laughs.

‘Um . . . I don’t know the right word. But you’re all creative and whatever. Your first thought when you heard my name was that I was named after a poet. But I’m not creative and I’m not poetic and I’m not really your sort of person at all.’

‘Are we having our first row?’ asks Charles.

I don’t say anything.

He gets up from the chair and puts his arm around me.

‘Don’t overthink it,’ he says. ‘I like you just the way you are.’

I recognise that line. I can’t imagine Charles has read Bridget Jones’s Diary, though.

I lean my head on his shoulder. He puts his fingers beneath my chin and tilts it so that we’re face to face.

‘I never expected to meet anyone like you,’ he says. ‘You’ve completely knocked me out of my groove. But I love it.’

I love it too.

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