Page 25 of Putting Down Roots

“Help yourself.”

“There are . . .” He looks puzzled. “Are you expecting anyone else tonight?”

“Oh, Anna always makes too much. Luckily, they’re delicious for breakfast as well, so please don’t feel polite that you have to eat everything.”

He looks devastatingly handsome in his shirt and trousers, which are just tight enough for me to see how good his body is underneath. It was all I could do to restrain myself from lurching at him when I opened the door. Holding the bottle of wine he brought was my saviour as it gave my hands something to do. Anna shoots me a wink as I pass her vodka to her. I glare back. It’s good natured, though she does have a reputation for meddling. I hope she’ll refrain tonight.

I feel bad that we’ve left our guest to eat canapés alone, so I reach for one. They’re all crostini, with a choice of goat’s cheese and balsamic shallots, caramelised mushrooms, or smoked salmon and dill cream cheese. They’re a staple of Anna’s dinner parties, and are delicious. I swear she could make these in her sleep. Me taking one breaks the spell of Jackson thinking it impolite if he’s the only one eating. I know he must be hungry—he always seems hungry—and I’ve seen him tackle huge sandwiches at lunchtime. Also, I want to see his face as he tries them. His reaction is perfect, and he mumbles, “delicious.” Anna just smiles like a serene cat who knows she’s good and is expecting praise.

She has one or two herself, but I know for Anna, the joy is in the creating, not the eating. She downs her vodka and rises, adorning herself with the apron again.

“Lu, can you come and get the wine for the first course?” I dutifully follow her to the kitchen, fetch the wine out of the fridge, and reach for the corkscrew.

“Doesn’t he scrub up well?” is her opening gambit.

“I guess.”

“C’mon, I saw the way you were looking at him. It’s a good job your trousers aren’t any tighter.”

“Of course he looks fantastic, the man is an adonis, but Anna, please don’t mess this up for me.” She smiles at me and shoos me out of the kitchen.

I head back to the lounge and tell Jackson that we’re allowed into the dining room now. The room is large and dominated by the table, which could easily seat twelve people. I’ve only seen it used to capacity a couple of times. Aunt Frances liked to entertain, but she usually liked her gatherings to be small. Annahad found a couple of candelabras, which I’d forgotten Aunt Frances owned. The best silver cutlery is out, and a beautiful dinner service which I’d only ever seen once before. It’s all very art déco and extremely elegant. Anna bought some flowers earlier and created a magnificent centrepiece on the table. Thankfully we aren’t all seated at opposite ends of the table—the places are set cosily together.

Jackson looks suitably awed.

“Anna is a designer—mostly of costumes, but she is multi-talented. The job she’s going to the States for is to work on the production of a major film.”

“Well deserved, I’d say,” Jackson replies. “Now, where would you like me to sit?”

“Anna has already claimed the head of the table herself, so either side is fine.” It’s usual for Anna to sit at the head of the table—she likes to keep her eye on the proceedings—but it means I’ll face Jackson. It’s going to be a tough time sitting so close to him. He chooses a seat and I fill his wine glass, then mine and Anna’s, with the Chardonnay she’s chosen to accompany the first course—pan-fried scallops with pancetta and watercress—which she brings in a moment later.

Jackson’s asking Anna about her work and new job, but I’m not really listening. I’m watching Jackson—watching him eat, and laugh at something Anna has said. I make sure I’m eating something though. Anna would tell me off if I didn’t, though I’m not really hungry—not for food, that is. What I want is sitting across the table from me.

“Luca. Luca!” It takes me a moment to realise that Anna’s calling me. I stare at her with a stupid look on my face.

“Really Luca, pay attention. Can you come and get the wine for the main course?” I shake my head slightly to try and get rid of the brain fog—Jackson gives me a little grin.

Fuck, I’m nearly done for.

I make it to the kitchen and back with the wine before Anna can open her big mouth. If she wants to say anything, she can wait until later—much later—like when she gets back from America later. Right now, I don’t want her opinions. Though, now I have to be alone with Jackson, and although I could argue that is what I want, I can’t think of a single thing to say to him. Luckily for me he seems comfortable to keep talking. It’s probably about the food or something, but my head’s too much of a mess to take it in.

Anna brings in the main course—harissa chicken with a giant couscous salad—and I pour the sauvignon blanc. I make more of an effort to eat. The last thing I want is the wine to go to my head, or I might do something I’ll regret.

Do what exactly?I know Jackson’s straight. Anna’s right that it doesn’t normally stop me, but usually, I don’t mind if I get the brush off. This time, the stakes are so much higher. I’ve spent a lot of time running through scenarios in my head, of how I can broach the subject with Jackson—or show him somehow that I’m interested—but all lead to embarrassment if he says no, and I’m not sure I can bear that. I don’t realise that I’ve wandered off into my own head again until I get nudged under the table. It’s Jackson, with his foot. That gets my attention instantly and I’m on high alert. Anna and Jackson share a secret smile.

Fuck, what did I miss?

“I was just saying, you should open the garden to the public.” Anna’s smooth, too smooth for my liking. I eye her warily.

What. The. Fuck. Did. I. Miss?

“I, err . . . I don’t know.” Whatever it is I’m prepared for, it isn’t this question. “Is it possible?” I direct this to Jackson.

“Everything’s possible with a bit of work.” He drops his eyes, chasing the last of his food round the plate.

What is that supposed to mean?I know he has a record of piling meaning onto seemingly innocent statements, but I’m not prepared for one now. I haven’t been paying attention. I decide that the only way out of it is to direct it back to what we should be talking about.

“The garden?” Jackson puts down his cutlery, raises his head, and smiles at me.

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