at his confession that I’ve somehow disturbed him too. I’m delighted. I want to kiss him again. Kiss him and never stop.
‘But now I’m ravenous,’ I admit.
‘Got just the thing for that.’
Scott nips into the back room where we do all our paperwork and make cups of tea. The room is not much larger than the average woman’s wardrobe, and in terms of sustenance the best he can hope to rustle up is a couple of mouldy custard creams. The Saturday girl will have polished off the chocolate Hobnobs yesterday, as she does every week.
Scott returns carrying a tray laden with breakfast goodies: a flask of coffee, enormous croissants, orange juice with bits floating (suggesting freshly squeezed – rather than past its sell-by date, which is what floaty bits would suggest in our flat). There’s a bowl of Greek yogurt, a small jug of honey and an enormous bowl of plump, ripe strawberries.
I think of Adam’s tray of toast and coco pops – limp by comparison.
‘Just a little something I prepared earlier,’ he grins, self-consciously. ‘Fern, tell me, am I trying too hard?’ He glances around the shop, stuffed full of my favourite flowers. My eyes meet his searing green ones as he gives a cheeky wink.
‘Yeah, you are,’ I giggle.
‘Coming on a bit too strong?’
‘Yeah,’ I laugh now. ‘It’s really off-putting,’ I joke.
‘Not the moment to pull out a wedding ring then? Or reveal the vicar I’ve hidden behind the foliage, come to that?’ he asks.
I know he’s just messing around. But my heart literally leaps into my mouth and I find it impossible to swallow. Oh God, the horrible irony of that. Imagine if I were to choke to death on my own happiness in this, my perfect moment.
I get a chance to pull myself together as he sets the tray on the floor. He produces (seemingly from nowhere, but actually from the trunk of the Merc) a beige cashmere picnic rug and matching scatter cushions. We flop on to them. I lie on my back and he feeds me strawberries and I know with every single fibre of my body that life will never be sweeter.
25. Fern
By the time the croissants and strawberries have been eaten and the coffee has gone cold, neither of us is wearing much. Quelle surprise. He’s in jeans, but once again he’s revealing his tip-top chest, and I’m in just bra and knickers (revealing my best-if-I-breathe-in-and-lie-at-a-funny-angle bod). Our clothes didn’t come off in a mad passionate frenzy but – a little like when we were playing poker – we indulged in a slow, tantalizing striptease.
I barely noticed him undo the buttons on my shirt and I hardly registered the soft slither of fabric as my skirt fell down my legs. It was almost as if when his fingers fluttered across my shoulders and neck the buttons sprang open of their own accord. And, as he gently stroked my back, my shirt pretty much spontaneously combusted. As he touched my waist and dwelt on my thighs my skirt ran for the hills. It’s odd; while I know he’s practised in the art of disrobing women, the experience still feels completely individual and mine.
While it’s very lovely that he doesn’t rush the disrobing, truthfully my knickers are doing a full all-singing-and-dancing routine of their own and I am more than willing to fling caution to the wind if he’d fling me to the wall (or the floor or behind a big bunch of peonies – I’m happy to be flung anywhere really). I’m keen to seal the deal, he’s the one who wants to loiter and withhold gratification. Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying every lingering, luxurious second, but I’ve never been a patient girl and I’m fighting a growing anxiety that this will all vanish at the drop of a hat. Disaster. Particularly if I haven’t dropped my knickers. There’s a serious possibility that I’m dreaming and I might wake up without getting to the really good bit. Because doesn’t that usually happen? Nothing has ever been safe since Bobby Ewing emerged from the shower in May 1986 and revealed that Pam had dreamt the previous Dallas series. I was knee-high to a grasshopper when all of this occurred (or more accurately didn’t occur) but I remember the effect it had on my mum (still in shock, she burnt the toast at breakfast the next morning). You can’t just invalidate an entire season of the country’s most popular show and not expect some