He opens up the oven. Blasted by the heat, he jumps back, and I wonder how often he really cooks. But soon, he brings the steaming dishes to the table and, placing them down carefully, he catches my eye, and we both smile affectionately. I want to ask him if the woman in the photograph is his ex. I want to know when he tried to scribble her out, and if he’s over it like he says he is. I also want to ask if he could ever see himself loving another person. Like me. But instead of these big, important questions, I talk about nothing that really matters.
‘It looks delicious,’ I say, and ask if I can help, but he won’t hear of it.
When he eventually sits down, all he seems to care about is that I’m enjoying the food, that I have wine and water, and that I’m happy. I notice his forehead’s shiny with sweat, and I can see by his face when he asks, ‘Is it okay?’ that this means a lot to him. He needs for me to like what he’s put before me. I’m grateful that he cares, and willing to oblige.
‘This is absolutely wonderful,’ I say. The tasty lamb with chickpeas and fragrant spices warms me to my bones, as does his smile across the table.
‘I’m so glad. Like I said, I got the recipe from a friend at work. She makes this a lot and I always love it, so I decided to make it for you.’
I smile through an irrational wave of jealousy at the very thought of him dining with another woman.
‘She’s obviously very talented,’ I say, trying hard not to imagine this ‘friend’.
We chat some more, and Alex refills our wine. It’s warm and comfortable, he’s amusing and makes me feel very relaxed, so relaxed that I eat and drink until I can’t eat or drink any more.
‘Don’t forget I made your favourite ice cream,’ he reminds me.
‘Lovely! I feel so spoiled.’ Despite being full I don’t want to disappoint him after he’s gone to so much effort, and I can always make room for pistachio ice cream.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet.’
I laugh. ‘Is this another of your friend’s recipes?’ I ask, subtly digging.
Alex doesn’t answer me, but gets up and goes to the freezer, lifts out a Tupperware container, holding it aloft with both hands like a priceless ancient artefact.
‘This has been a labour of love.’ He sighs as he begins scooping out the pale-green, creamy confection.
‘Ahh, that’s so sweet of you to go to all that trouble for me,’ I say, touched at the way he’s placing the ice cream in two glass bowls, painstakingly adding extra pistachios to the top. Just for me.
‘Home-made pistachio ice cream,’ he says, walking to the table and putting a bowl down in front of me. ‘I just hope it tastes okay.’
I can’t resist the soft, creamy ice cream topped with crunchy, salty pistachios. ‘This is wonderful,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe you made it yourself, I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Well, it’s true, I did.’ He leans towards me. ‘Do you like it, honestly?’
‘Yes, yes I love it.’
‘It took me ages, I wanted it to be perfect – I want everything to be perfect for you, Hannah.’ He’s looking at me intently as if all that matters is my happiness, and it’s both amazing and a little unnerving because I’ve never had this kind of attention in my life.
My earlier doubts after finding the photo disappear. I figure he may have even forgotten it’s in there, because certainly right now he doesn’t seem to be thinking about anything else other than me and making me happy. And it’s working because I haven’t felt this happy for a long time.
As I finish off the ice cream, savouring every spoonful, Alex opens the wine I brought, and I realise if he drinks more, he won’t be able to drive me home like he offered. But right now I feel utterly comfortable with Alex, so why not see where the night takes us? I can always call a taxi. And anyway, it’s been a long time since I did anything spontaneous.
He fills my glass and, moving the carrier bag containing Harry’s sweets, he looks inside. ‘I love Smarties,’ he says, like an excited little boy. ‘My mum always bought them for me when I was little, and this,’ he says, holding the round Father Christmas container up