What? Of course not. No!” His eyes scan my face warily as he seems to realize his error. “This looks amazing,” he emphasizes, gesturing at the tagine. “I was just…No. Anyway. Can I help lay the table?” he adds, hastily moving the subject on.
I show Matt where the cutlery lives, and as he’s gathering knives and forks, I take a few deep breaths. Then I ask, in the most super-casual tones I can muster, “So, Matt…do you think you could ever be vegetarian?”
My stomach is clenched as I wait for him to answer. I mean, this isn’t a deal-breaker or anything like that. God, no. I don’t even believe in deal-breakers, so how could it be?
But on the other hand…I’m interested in his answer. Put it like that. I’m simply interested.
“Me?” His eyes have widened. “No. I don’t think— I know we should all eat less meat, but give it up completely?” He catches my expression. “But…whatever,” he backtracks. “Maybe. Never say never.”
Already my stomach has relaxed. There we are. It’s all fine! Never say never. That’s all I needed to know. I can see that I’ve overreacted; in fact, it’s all very clear to me. I’ll convert him! The vegetarian gods have sent him to me for this very purpose!
“What should I do with this?” Matt adds, nodding at a pile of papers, and I click my tongue. I intended to tidy that away earlier.
“Er…put it on the bench under the windowsill. It’s my stuff for my course.”
“Right.” He nods. “The aromatherapy.”
“Different course, actually,” I say, chopping fresh coriander. “Career coaching. I want to take that up part-time.”
“You have a lot of interests.” He raises his eyebrows. “When will you finish your aromatherapy qualification?”
“Not sure,” I say, slightly defensive, because don’t people realize how hard it is to fit everything in? “Anyway! The food’s nearly ready. Have a crisp.”
I pass him a bowl of posh crisps which I bought especially for tonight, and Matt takes a couple. But before they can get to his mouth, Harold appears from nowhere, adeptly leaps onto the bench, removes the crisps from Matt’s hand, and crunches them. He jumps down and scoots quickly away while I try not to laugh, and Matt gazes at him in astonishment.
“Did he just take that out of my hand? I didn’t even notice him.”
“He’s pretty deft.” I grin. “You have to hold food at chest level or else. Vamoose.”
I’m expecting Matt to laugh, but he still looks astonished. Even…disapproving?
“You allow him?”
“Well, no, obviously, I don’t allow him,” I say, feeling caught out. I turn to Harold and say, a bit self-consciously, “Harold, darling, Matt is our friend and we don’t steal food from friends. OK?” As Harold buries his nose in my hands, I rub his head. “No stealing food!”
I kiss him on the head, then look up to see Matt watching me with a flummoxed expression.
“What?” I say.
“No. Nothing. I…” He stops himself. “No.”
“You were going to say something.” I stare at him, my eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Nothing!” He shakes his head. “Really. Let’s…have another drink.”
I don’t believe him, but nor do I want to force the issue. So in bright tones I say, “Glass of wine?” and fetch a bottle I bought in Italy.
Just the glug-glug-glug sound soothes away whatever tension was in the air. We clink our glasses and smile at each other, and as I taste my first sip, it’s Pavlovian. Or do I mean Proustian? Whatever it is, I could be back there, in Puglia, in the courtyard with the herbs and the agapanthus and the birds silhouetted in the sky.
“The last time we had this wine we were at the monastery,” I say, and Matt’s brow relaxes.
“Seems an age away already.”
“I know.”
He’s leaning against the counter and I come to join him. I lean into his broad chest, inhaling him, remembering him as he was then. Dutch. My Dutch.
“It’s good to see you,” I say softly. “Missed you.”
“You too.”
There’s a moment of silence, then Matt puts down his wineglass and I put down mine. And the moment we’re kissing, I can’t think why we’ve waited this long. I’m devouring him, remembering him, wanting him more desperately than ever.
“I haven’t thought about anything except you,” I whisper into his ear.
“Yesterday, all I could think about was you,” returns Matt, his stubble pressed against my neck.
“I never even asked you how your meeting was,” I say, with sudden self-reproach.
“I don’t want to think about my meeting,” he growls back. “Fuck that.”