Playing at Home - 1
Friday
Another uneventful drive. I keep just to the legal side of the mythical margin of error. The Mini likes speed. I like to indulge it.
I get home, unpack the Mini. Load my dirty clothes into the washing machine.
I make a decent coffee. Sit at my kitchen table. Text Dan.
Home safe. Thanks for the weekend.
And so it starts.
Four weeks later. Early Friday evening. Dan is manoeuvring a company Land Rover Defender into the limited parking space beside my Mini.
I watch him from the head of the wrought iron staircase to my little rooftop patio garden. No scratching, Dan, I murmur under my breath. Save that for later.
Dan's good at stuff like that. Bloke stuff. It's somehow reassuring.
He takes a rather nice looking leather valise from the back seat. Locks the Defender remotely as he starts to ascend the stairs. There is a solid, metallic ring to his tread.
Dan is forty-five. He should look faintly ridiculous in battered Timberland boots, faded blue jeans, a blue and white Fatface Airlie top.
He doesn't. Not at all.
I welcome him to my domain. We embrace. We - weirdly - air kiss, cheek to cheek, left and right. And then we kiss.
It's still too cold, too grey, to hang about outside. I usher him into my grand entrance kitchen. Have we, the two of us, ever occupied a space so small? The lift at his London place, perhaps?
"Hi, it's good to see you."
What else do you say? There's only room for him, me and the truth.
"Yeah, you too, Olivia."
He never calls me anything else. No lapses. I didn't have to ask him. I like that.
"Coffee? How was the drive?"
And we are off.
I give Dan the tour. Living space. Bedroom. Show him the drawers, the half wardrobe, I have cleared for him. He quickly unpacks his valise. He travels light, I see. Not too much imprint.
I like that, too.
I show Dan the bathroom. The intimate shower cubicle, a contrast to his expansive wet room. But I know there is room for two.
"Hungry?"
As I lead him back to the kitchen.
"Ravenous! I skipped lunch so that I could get away a bit earlier."
"Good."
I hand Dan a bottle of Barolo. A corkscrew.
"Those who work, eat."
He laughs. Cuts the foil. Pulls the cork.
I point him to a pair of long stem wine glasses on the table.
"Pour, please."
I fire up the gas under a cauldron of water. Salty as the Mediterranean. The fresh penne will take no more than five minutes boiling.
I heat some olive oil and salted butter in a thick bottomed frying pan. Throw in some chopped spring onions. When these have softened, I add a dozen small mushrooms and a teaspoon of whole black peppercorns.
I sauté these for a couple of minutes, then lower the heat to a minimum. I stir in some double cream, let it heat gently. Meanwhile, I tip the fresh penne into the boiling cauldron.
I have chopped four slices of smoked salmon into 1cm strips. I stir this into the creamy sauce and let it heat up. At the last moment, I chuck in half a dozen cooked king prawns, giving them just enough heat to avoid them turning rubbery.
I drain the pasta and add it to the sauce. Stir to combine the ingredients. Ladle it out into two heated bowls.
Throughout this process, Dan and I have been comparing notes on our weeks. Talking about our plans. Playing house.
We sit at my table. Opposite one another. Eat, drink. Talk earnestly about frivolous topics. Lightly about serious ones. I think about putting on some background music. But it never stays in the background. And there are no embarrassing gaps, no silences, to cover.
We make our own music. We finish the food. Then we finish the wine. Neither of us wants coffee.
"Would you like a shower while I clear up here?"
Dan offers to help. I explain, I am just going to load up the dishwasher.
"There are towels on the bed. Everything works normally."
He gets up from the table. Kisses me.
"Don't be long."
I hear him in my bedroom. Then from my bathroom. The shower running. I rinse the bowls and frying pan. The cutlery and cooking implements. The glasses. Carefully stack the dishwasher. Set it to wash overnight.
I check my watch. It isn't late. It already feels like tomorrow.
The noise from the shower has stopped.
I go through my pre-bed security routine. Doors and windows locked. Gas taps off. Alarm set. I kill the lights.
I walk to my bedroom door. Hesitate a moment. No noise. I open the door gently.
Something I have never seen before. A man in my room. In this bed.
I smile at Dan. Start to undress. I feel like I am going to give up my virginity all over again.
Another uneventful drive. I keep just to the legal side of the mythical margin of error. The Mini likes speed. I like to indulge it.
I get home, unpack the Mini. Load my dirty clothes into the washing machine.
I make a decent coffee. Sit at my kitchen table. Text Dan.
Home safe. Thanks for the weekend.
And so it starts.
Four weeks later. Early Friday evening. Dan is manoeuvring a company Land Rover Defender into the limited parking space beside my Mini.
I watch him from the head of the wrought iron staircase to my little rooftop patio garden. No scratching, Dan, I murmur under my breath. Save that for later.
Dan's good at stuff like that. Bloke stuff. It's somehow reassuring.
He takes a rather nice looking leather valise from the back seat. Locks the Defender remotely as he starts to ascend the stairs. There is a solid, metallic ring to his tread.
Dan is forty-five. He should look faintly ridiculous in battered Timberland boots, faded blue jeans, a blue and white Fatface Airlie top.
He doesn't. Not at all.
I welcome him to my domain. We embrace. We - weirdly - air kiss, cheek to cheek, left and right. And then we kiss.
It's still too cold, too grey, to hang about outside. I usher him into my grand entrance kitchen. Have we, the two of us, ever occupied a space so small? The lift at his London place, perhaps?
"Hi, it's good to see you."
What else do you say? There's only room for him, me and the truth.
"Yeah, you too, Olivia."
He never calls me anything else. No lapses. I didn't have to ask him. I like that.
"Coffee? How was the drive?"
And we are off.
I give Dan the tour. Living space. Bedroom. Show him the drawers, the half wardrobe, I have cleared for him. He quickly unpacks his valise. He travels light, I see. Not too much imprint.
I like that, too.
I show Dan the bathroom. The intimate shower cubicle, a contrast to his expansive wet room. But I know there is room for two.
"Hungry?"
As I lead him back to the kitchen.
"Ravenous! I skipped lunch so that I could get away a bit earlier."
"Good."
I hand Dan a bottle of Barolo. A corkscrew.
"Those who work, eat."
He laughs. Cuts the foil. Pulls the cork.
I point him to a pair of long stem wine glasses on the table.
"Pour, please."
I fire up the gas under a cauldron of water. Salty as the Mediterranean. The fresh penne will take no more than five minutes boiling.
I heat some olive oil and salted butter in a thick bottomed frying pan. Throw in some chopped spring onions. When these have softened, I add a dozen small mushrooms and a teaspoon of whole black peppercorns.
I sauté these for a couple of minutes, then lower the heat to a minimum. I stir in some double cream, let it heat gently. Meanwhile, I tip the fresh penne into the boiling cauldron.
I have chopped four slices of smoked salmon into 1cm strips. I stir this into the creamy sauce and let it heat up. At the last moment, I chuck in half a dozen cooked king prawns, giving them just enough heat to avoid them turning rubbery.
I drain the pasta and add it to the sauce. Stir to combine the ingredients. Ladle it out into two heated bowls.
Throughout this process, Dan and I have been comparing notes on our weeks. Talking about our plans. Playing house.
We sit at my table. Opposite one another. Eat, drink. Talk earnestly about frivolous topics. Lightly about serious ones. I think about putting on some background music. But it never stays in the background. And there are no embarrassing gaps, no silences, to cover.
We make our own music. We finish the food. Then we finish the wine. Neither of us wants coffee.
"Would you like a shower while I clear up here?"
Dan offers to help. I explain, I am just going to load up the dishwasher.
"There are towels on the bed. Everything works normally."
He gets up from the table. Kisses me.
"Don't be long."
I hear him in my bedroom. Then from my bathroom. The shower running. I rinse the bowls and frying pan. The cutlery and cooking implements. The glasses. Carefully stack the dishwasher. Set it to wash overnight.
I check my watch. It isn't late. It already feels like tomorrow.
The noise from the shower has stopped.
I go through my pre-bed security routine. Doors and windows locked. Gas taps off. Alarm set. I kill the lights.
I walk to my bedroom door. Hesitate a moment. No noise. I open the door gently.
Something I have never seen before. A man in my room. In this bed.
I smile at Dan. Start to undress. I feel like I am going to give up my virginity all over again.
