Page 28 of Playing the Field
Determined not to let him win, I try to calculate exactly how much I need to rein in my next throw, but I probably should have just trusted my instincts instead of overthinking it. My ball comes up a good two feet short this time.
‘Ooh, scallops wrapped in pancetta for the starter I reckon,’ Ben says, licking his lips then pulling off another near-perfect throw.
I’m not deterred. For my third and final attempt I take a deep breath, let my shoulder drop and bend my knees so I can use my whole body to direct the ball. And it works! Not only does it land within striking distance of the marker but it rolls right up to it until they’re touching.
‘I take my steak medium rare,’ I fire back at Ben.
He laughs merrily at this. ‘You know I thrive under pressure, right?’
‘Sweet potato wedges, hold the fries,’ I reply.
But he jammily throws his last ball so well it knocks the marker away from my ball and towards his. But is it far enough? We both run over to check.
‘We might have to call it a draw,’ he says, looking down at the final scatter pattern.
I’m about to suggest we play to the best of three when he says, ‘How about we park it there and go and grab something to eat? All that food talk has made me hungry. To be continued?’
I can’t say I need another meal after Dad’s burgers, but I don’t want the afternoon to end yet, so I tell him that suits me. As for the suggestion that we’re going to do this again at some point, I’m secretly delighted, even if there are myriad reasons why I shouldn’t be.
On the way to the car, Ben says he’s got some steak back at his place that he can chuck on the barbecue if I do fancy steak and chips– and if I don’t mind two barbecues in the same day. And my first thought is:Back to his? We all know what that means.
But even though he’s probably used this line a hundred times before, I find I want to go anyway. After all, everyone’s got a history, and it’s not like I haven’t started thinking about getting more intimately acquainted with him myself. So I tell him I’d love to see his house in Redmarsh.
It’s hard not to feel intimidated when we pull into the driveway. When he said he had a place there, what he really meant was on the road lined with mansions that leads from Redmarsh into Surrey. Not that Dad’s house is small, but Ben’s makes it look like a cottage. It must have at least six bedrooms.
I listen to our shoes crunching on the gravel as we approach the front door of the huge white building, half expecting a butler to open it and welcome us. But Ben produces a key.
‘Welcome,’ he says, holding the door open.
There’s a chandelier hanging in the huge white hallway, and a row of trainers lined up along one wall. ‘I never got round to buying a shoe rack,’ he explains.
I follow him into the open-plan lounge and kitchen, which is another sea of white, from the marble worktops to the eight-seater sofa. I don’t know what I expected but it certainly wasn’t this. ‘You like the minimal look then?’
He laughs. ‘The joys of not spending much time in your own home. I haven’t had time to put my stamp on it. I’m at a bit of a loss on where to start, if I’m honest. When I bought it I never really thought about all the extras.’
That’s when I notice the pool in the garden, with loungers on one side, a cluster of pot plants off to one corner and a covered dining area at the other end. I walk over to the bifold doors for a closer look. ‘I think this counts as a pretty good extra.’
He laughs again. ‘That part I did put some thought into. I’ll give you a quick tour of the rest of the house then we can get out there and get the barbecue going.’
A home gym occupies most of the rest of the ground floor. It has every machine you could think of– and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the garden. Upstairs there are just the four bedrooms, rather than six, but four bathrooms too. They’re all decked out in white as well and three look like they’ve never been slept in.
‘It’s a bit over the top,’ Ben says, sounding almost embarrassed. But I don’t think he should apologise for being successful.
‘It’s not ridiculous, it’s just...’ I try to think of the right word to describe it. ‘It’s just soclean.’
‘Exactly the look I was going for. Come on, let’s get back downstairs and enjoy the best bit.’
It’s only when I follow him out on to the terrace that I spot the outdoor table tennis set up at the bottom of the garden. ‘Yeah, sorry about that– I probably should have said,’ he apologises.
‘I’ll get you back,’ I assure him. ‘Maybe next time we’ll do Scrabble, Boggle and Articulate.’
He grins. ‘You’re on.’
With the barbecue warming up and a tray of chips in the oven, we settle on the pool loungers to soak up the early evening sun. The surface of the water glistens in the beams of orange light as we chat about everything that happened before Ben got to the park.
‘It looks so inviting,’ I think aloud.
‘You’re welcome to jump in for a quick dip before dinner.’
