Page 47 of Swiping Right (and other disasters)

“This is not coffee and pastry,” said Kiera when she walked into Seymour’s flat. She could smell the aroma of something delicious and spicy, a gentle smokiness in the air suggesting it had been on the hob for some time.

“Lamb tagine,” said Seymour. “My speciality.”

“Well,” said Kiera, “I’m delighted to be worthy of it.”

“I think you are,” said Seymour, looking up at Kiera, only briefly making eye contact.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you acting shy.”

Seymour flushed at Kiera’s words.

“No, don’t be embarrassed,” Kiera said, reaching out her hand to touch Seymour’s arm. “I’ve just not seen this side to you. It makes me feel like I’m getting to know more of you. That’s a good thing. Here, put down that wooden spoon.” Kiera gathered Seymour into her arms and kissed her.

“Well,” said Seymour a moment later. “I’ve never seen you acting so confidently. New sides to us both, I guess. And, FYI,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck with her hand, “it’s hot.” She sniggered. “And there you are, your turn to be shy.”

Kiera giggled at her own red cheeks. “I think we need some wine. I brought a rioja, as you suggested.”

“Excellent,” said Seymour.

They sat together in Seymour’s tiny kitchen-diner, eating dinner, talking about places they’d visited, things they enjoyed, food they loved – and hated. Kiera took in the knick-knacks adorning the shelves lining the room, including a colourful egg cup collection.

“They are my inheritance,” said Seymour, watching the path of Kiera’s eyes. “My aunt collected hundreds of them and her whole kitchen was full of them. She used to go to jumble sales and flea markets and collect any that she liked the look of. When she died, she left me a note saying I should choose my favourites.”

“They are beautiful and kitsch and brilliant,” said Kiera. “Tell me about them.”

“Really?” Kiera nodded.

Seymour got up and picked up two examples from the shelf. The first was one decorated with Picasso-style shapes and colours. It was lurid and old and attached to a plate onto which soldiers would presumably be placed.

“She loved travelling around Europe.” Kiera traced the curves of the egg cup with a finger. “She found this one in Madrid in the seventies and brought it home. Pamela. My mum’s sister. She never married. She told me she nearly joined a convent once. But instead she was around for me and Jack. She was like an extra parent, really.”

“It must have been hard when she died.” Kiera reached out her hand and placed it on Seymour’s.

“It was.” She turned to the other egg cup. “This one has Peter Rabbit on it.”

“Oh, I had one like that when I was little,” said Kiera, smiling at the memory. “It came with a matching bowl, plate and cup. So cute.”

“It is, isn’t it? I remember liking it when I was little. She would boil me an egg and make me soldiers and then let me choose whichever egg cup I wanted. I almost always chose this one. It used to drive Mum mad because I would never eat eggs for her. But for Auntie Pamela, I always did.”

“Do you eat them now?”

“Ha, yes I do, much to my mum’s annoyance.”

“It must be nice to have part of Pamela here with you.”

“It is. And it’s nice to share that with you,” said Seymour, “if that doesn’t sound too trite.”

“It sounds really lovely. I don’t really care if it’s trite or not,” Kiera replied. There was a warmth and an ease to their conversation. Perhaps even an intimacy.

“Pudding?”

“Yes, please, although it will have to be small. I’m 70% cous-cous right now.”

“How about an affogato?”

They both laughed. “It would be rude not to, although I’d like to state for the record that this date is going very well and it isn’t a cry for help,” said Kiera. Her cheeks were warmed by the wine, and as she looked at Seymour she found herself wondering again why she hadn’t noticed her properly before.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear that,” said Seymour. “I quite agree. I honestly thought you were done with all the dating stuff when you went to Barcelona. You changed, somehow. It was like you stopped needing anyone.” She walked over to the tiny espresso machine in the corner of her kitchen. “Don’t get me wrong, it was great. It only made you more attractive, to be honest. I just thought my efforts to be supportive and helpful had been for nothing.”

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