Page 20 of A Touch of Magic at the Comfort Food Café
He slows down as a small, furry creature scurries across the road, and waits until it is safely on the other side. I see him smiling as he watches it go, his face lit up by the dashboard lights.
‘Fox cub,’ he says. ‘Or juvenile, I suppose, at this time of year.’
‘Really? Why this time of year?’
‘Because they’re born around March, and tend to get kicked out into the big wide world about seven months later. That was a young animal, possibly on his first foray into independence.’
‘Poor thing,’ I reply, staring off into the field behind the hedgerow but seeing no sign of it. ‘How do you know so much about foxes? Can I tell the café ladies that you’re a werefox?’
‘You can if you like,’ he replies, pulling up outside an old pub with a thatched roof and a sign that tells us it’s called the Blue Bottle. ‘As long as they don’t expect to see my bushy tail.’
I let out a deeply attractive snort of laughter at that, and he winks at me before turning the engine off.
The pub is all dark wood and cosy corners, a fire blazing in the hearth. It’s busy, but we find a corner table, and settle down with our drinks. A ginger beer for him, and a cranberry juice for me. We are wild and crazy folk, and no mistake.
‘I’m not drinking because I have to drive,’ he says. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I’m worried that if I have a gin and tonic, I might end up at a karaoke bar doing my trademark version of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”.’
‘Really?’
‘No,’ I say, laughing gently at how absurd an idea it is. ‘I’ve never done karaoke in my life. I’m too shy. I’ve just got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’
Plus, I think but don’t say, I do not want to be the drunk woman to his sober man. It’s all very well telling myself that I’m old enough to be his mother, but I still can’t deny how attractive he is. Getting tipsy communally with the ladies is one thing. This is entirely another.
‘What do you do? For work?’
‘I’m a writer,’ I reply, which is my standard answer. Sometimes people leave it at that, because it covers a multitude of sins. It could be anything from writing the warnings that go on the back of bleach bottles through to technical manuals for Skodas.
‘A writer of what?’ he persists. Damn him.
‘Books, actually. You might not have ever seen one at your age. They’re made of paper, with words printed on them. Very popular before information was downloaded directly into your brain.’
He tilts his head to one side and gives me a knowing smile. ‘You’re really keen on stressing this age difference thing, aren’t you? Why? What are you scared of? We’re just two strangers, new in town, having a drink…’
I meet his eyes, but quickly glance away. They’re too bright, and I get the feeling they see too much. I’m suddenly very hot, and tug at the neck of my sweater. What am I scared of? Good question. Pretty much everything, as it turns out. I wish I was more like Sally. She’d take one look at Aidan and devour him verbally. She would flirt him to within an inch of his life.
‘How are you finding it?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘Life in Budbury? It’s got to be very different from New York.’
‘It is, and that is precisely why I love it. My mom is British, my dad American. I grew up in New York and worked there for most of my adult life.’
‘And your work was?’
‘Finance,’ he says simply. There’s a slight smile flickering on his wide lips, and I realise he’s played me at my own game. Finance. That could mean anything from processing loan applications through to running Goldman Sachs. I’m curious, of course I am, but I refuse to be drawn. I just nod, and sip my drink, and wait to see if he has anything to add. He doesn’t, at least not about that.
‘And as for how I’m finding life here… well, so far I love it. My nearest neighbour is four miles away. Nobody pukes on the street or tries to steal your watch. The views are stunning, the air is clear, and this really interesting new chick just moved into the neighbourhood…’
I widen my eyes. ‘Really? You should probably be having a drink with her then, instead of me. I’m very, very dull.’
His eyes roam my face, his smile slowly grows, and my cheeks redden in a way that seems to delight him. FFS, as my nieces might say.
‘Somehow, I don’t believe that for a second, Sarah. What kind of books do you write?’
I’m half tempted to say erotica, or steamy Regency romance, but he’d undoubtedly love that a bit too much. ‘Books about the dark side of life,’ I say simply. ‘Crime, a hint of the strange. Mysteries, basically.’
‘Right. Maybe you can set something around the hill. There’s definitely a mystical quality to the place, isn’t there? It feels like the whole area is so old. Makes you aware that we’re just visitors, temporary blinks of an eye intruding on the landscape. Nature is in charge here.’
I nod, because he has explained it perfectly. In big cities like London and New York, you can forget that– you can be fooled by the tall buildings and clever technology and the rumbling sound of underground trains running through tunnels boredinto the earth. There, it feels like we’ve wrangled the world into a shape we like. Out here, it’s very different.
