looking surprised, and just a little defensive. Like people do sometimes, if you mention hunting; for reasons that go beyond the prey and are more to do with class and exclusivity. I thought of Polly and Sparks and Grant but couldn’t be bothered to argue.
‘Not any more,’ I told him. ‘How come you’re not at work?’
‘Got a day’s holiday,’ he said, lightly touching my shoulder, kissing me hello. Mr Fish, deadheading roses in his front garden, nodded across at us.
‘Has he tossed you off, then, love?’
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Thumper.
‘Oh, no, Mr Fish, I just got a bit muddy,’ I called. Then to Luke, in an undertone: ‘Can’t move in this place. And frankly, I’ve had a bit of a day of it. Could do with a very large drink. Will you join me?’
‘I’d love to, but I’ve got to teach in five minutes.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘Teach?’
He looked sheepish. ‘Oh, yeah I got talked into it. I give a few piano lessons in the village. Sylvia and Angus’s granddaughter, for one.’ He scratched his head bashfully, and for some reason this endeared him to me tenfold. How sweet. He didn’t need the money. He was in the City, in insurance, a flourishing business, yet out of the kindness of his heart … And I liked the idea of him sitting patiently by a piano listening to scales, a small child’s faltering rendition of ‘Für Elise’. Encouraging, enthusing. Not charging around in a pink coat on an enormous horse, glaring at people.
‘I just called by to see if supper was still on. You know you said you’d ring me? I didn’t want to pressurize you into having it here, though, so my sister said she’d babysit. We could go out if you like?’
He’d coloured up by the end of this. Softened? I’d melted. He’d lined up a sitter for me. How many men would do that? And, having suggested my place, in retrospect he’d felt uneasy about compromising me in the snugness of my own home – sofas, soft lighting, double bed upstairs, albeit horribly close to the children. I looked into his anxious face, those frank blue eyes. Suddenly I stepped forward, reached up and curled my hand around the back of his neck, gently bringing his lips down to mine.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ I murmured when we’d kissed. ‘Yes, please, to your sister. But let’s make it your place.’
His eyes didn’t so much light up as blaze like a fruit machine that’s landed a row of pears. Melons, perhaps. Because desire was there, certainly.
‘Oh, Poppy,’ he breathed as he gazed down at me.
Oh, Poppy. You see? That was all it took.
Feeling in control for the very first time that day, I said goodbye and went up my path.
‘See you then,’ he called.
‘Yes, see you,’ I assured him over my shoulder as he went off to teach, a definite spring in his step.
As I went inside it occurred to me that I’d kissed him in full view of the village. Mr Fish was certainly standing at his gate, mouth agape, secateurs limp in his hand, as I turned to shut the front door. It was as good as putting an announcement in the local paper. But, actually, that was fine. Because Luke was a very nice man. In fact he was lovely. And with him by my side, I reckoned I could face anything. Face the music, face the terrifying women of the hunt – men too: all those who’d gladly have my guts for tail bandages.
Italy might be better, though, I thought, as I went slowly upstairs to run a bath. I poured the bubbles in, and as they foamed the idea took shape. Yes, Luke and I doing up a crumbling house in Tuscany, at the top of a hill dotted with cypress trees. Luke and I – a paint brush apiece, me in dungarees and two plaits – pausing to kiss occasionally, or playfully blob paint on each other’s noses. The children running barefoot around an olive grove. Goats. Baby ones. And let’s face it, being an enigma was all very well, but it might get pretty lonely. I wouldn’t have much idea how to run a chocolate shop, either. I peeled off my filthy clothes and put a weary toe in the bath.
Later that evening, when I was putting the children to bed, the telephone rang. The answering machine was on so I carried on with