‘I mean, I’m not on any dating apps. My friend is. She showed me.’
‘And what did you think?’ He’s playing with me now.
‘You sound interesting. Had many takers?’
‘A few.’ His face is a little red, but perhaps it’s from the sun. ‘Hungry?’
‘Starving.’
While he goes inside, I guzzle the rest of the mojito. I’m not at all hungry. If anything, I feel sick. Why is this so difficult? A moment later, he’s back with a bowl of olives. He tops up our drinks from a jug and lights the barbecue.
‘Do you fancy giving it a go?’ he asks as he sits back down.
‘What?’
‘Paddle boarding.’ He smiles, one eye screwed up against the sun.
‘Oh.’ I laugh. ‘I don’t know. How likely am I to fall in?’
‘I guarantee it.’
‘Hmm.’
He chuckles. ‘I can tell you’re tempted.’
‘I like the idea of the standing up part, not the falling in part.’
‘You should try it,’ he says. ‘It’s a lot of fun once you get the hang of it.’
I think about my new ‘get a life’ motto. ‘Maybe I will.’
‘I’ll get the food going.’ He gets up and heads inside.
‘Can I help?’ I call after him.
‘No, relax.’
I need to take his advice. I lift my chin to the sun and exhale.
We chat while he cooks. He’s easy to talk to. Insects buzz around us, parakeets chatter in a neighbour’s tree. The mojitos are dissolving the tension in my shoulders and the smell of honey and garlic chicken grilling revives my appetite. By the time he’s done, the little table is overflowing with chicken skewers, garlic prawns, flat bread, couscous, and salad.
‘This is delicious,’ I say.
‘I love cooking, but I can’t be bothered when it’s just me. Flo’s too fussy, there’s no point cooking when she’s here; it’s all chicken nuggets and macaroni cheese.’
‘Well, you won’t be getting an invitation to my place now.’
‘Why not?’ He’s mock-exasperated.
‘I can’t compete with all this.’ I wave a speared prawn. ‘Besides, my specialities are chicken nuggets and macaroni cheese.’
After we’ve eaten, I excuse myself and follow his directions to the bathroom. The first door at the top of the stairs is open, the bedside lamps on, although it’s not yet dark. He knew I would see this room, decorated in shades of grey with an abstract painting in copper colours hanging over the bed.
I find the bathroom at the end of the landing. After washing my hands, I can’t stop myself from peeking inside the mirrored cabinet above the sink. It contains all the things you’d expect: a razor, shaving foam, moisturiser, floss. My reflection swings back in front of me as I close the cabinet. He’s too good to be true. He cooks, he flosses, and hemoisturises, for God’s sake. There’s probably a dead body in his wardrobe.
On the landing, I take a final glance at his bedroom.
‘What areyoudoing here, Miss Lawrence?’