Marianne seems a bit clueless to me and horribly naïve. She’s almost begging for the handsome villain to walk all over her! But if being more like Marianne will bag me the man of my dreams, then it has to be worth a shot. And I know Jack would prefer it if I were softer and wore my heart on my sleeve (instead of so far up it that it’s lodged somewhere under my armpit).
So…in Marianne’s honour, I’m wearing the floaty floral pink dress and some cream kitten-heels of Mum’s, and I’ve styled my normally straightened hair into a mass of romantic curls. The freshly-washed scent is lovely, although I’m worried I might have gone a bit overboard with the wild, bouncing curls.
I glance in the hall mirror on the way to the front door.
The volume is amazing. But with my nervous expression, I look like I’m peering through a massive hedge, like a frightened vole or something.
Still, there’s no time to straighten it now…
When I open the door and he’s standing there, my heart gives a giant lurch and my voice emerges as a squeak. ‘Hi! Great to see you! Come on in.’
‘Um…hi!’ His eyes widen slightly for a second or two as he takes in my new look, then he smiles and steps over the threshold. ‘Thanks. For inviting me.’
Regretting my nervous, slightly hysterical welcome (there’s no way Marianne would have shrieked like that), I lower my voice and purr, ‘You’re very welcome,’ while casting a bashful sideways glance at him beneath my eyelashes.
He frowns. ‘Are you okay. Have you got a cold?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. You sounded a bit gravelly there.’
I laugh. ‘No, no. I’m just…nice and relaxed. And happy in my own skin.’
This seems to flummox him even more, although he hides it well with a nod and a smile, and I lead him down the hall. A wave of heat washes through me and when I glance into a passing mirror, I realise my face is bright red. It’s this fussy dress…it’s too warm for an ‘Indian summer’ night. I feel like the weird doll in my gran’s bathroom that hides the loo roll under her acres and acres of lacy skirts. Or maybe it’s being with Jack again that’s raising my temperature…
I lead him through to the kitchen, where the food of love is simmering on the hob.
‘You look…a bit different,’ he remarks, perching on a stool at the breakfast bar and studying me. ‘I like the hair.’
I swing it playfully around my shoulders, and a curl latches onto my nose. ‘Why, thank you. Can I get you a drink?’ Feeling a sneeze coming on, I brush the hair away and hold my breath to stop the explosion.
‘Actually, a glass of water first would be great,’ he says, removing his jacket. ‘I’m a bit parched.’
I breathe out with a whoosh, which sounds like a giant sigh.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes, yes. Perfect.’ Why is it feeling so awkward between us? I need a drink!
He’s wearing my favourite shirt. It’s cornflower blue and sets off his gorgeous amber eyes to perfection. My spirits rise. He chose it to wear tonight, knowing it’s my favourite. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
‘We’re having Beef Wellington for the main,’ I tell him, pouring water into a tall glass and then bending to check the oven.
Heat blasts out and I break into a sweat as I peer at the meat in its pastry parcel.
Is it cooked? Stupidly, I forgot to time it when I put it in the oven. (I was too distracted by Marianne in an empire-line dress and bonnet being driven off in a horse and trap by the handsome Willoughby, who definitely had a look of Jack.) But the pastry looks a lovely golden brown, so surely it must be ready.
I whip it out, then hand him the water, which he drinks down in one go.
‘More?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Yes, please.’
I refill his glass and keep up a flow of conversation while I mash the potatoes with butter and drain the vegetables. I feel weirdly self-conscious and could really do with a glass of something to relax me. But if Jack’s just drinking water, I don’t really want to crack open the wine. Maybe I can tempt him later…
The meal is disappointing.
We cut open the Beef Wellington at the same time and there’s a silence as my heart sinks. The pastry isn’t quite cooked. It’s still a bit doughy and squidgy.
‘Don’t eat it if you don’t fancy it,’ I tell him, but he shakes his head and takes a large mouthful.
‘No, no, it’s great. Really tasty.’ He smiles at me and gamely takes another huge bite. I think about fluttering my eyelashes at him, then I decide not to bother. I’d just look as if I had something in my eye. I wish I hadn’t worn this stupid dress. I’m expiring with the heat in the acres of fabric. It’s fairly clear I’d be no good as a romantic heroine in a Victorian novel!
Jack looks a bit hot as well, and when I suggest wine, he declines and takes another swig of water.
Time, I think, for dessert.
I make coffee and put it on a tray with the toffee apple cake, and usher him through to the living room. Heading for the sheepskin rug in front of the log burner, my temperature rises even further thinking he must know I have seduction in mind. I place the tray on a table nearby and smile at him in what I hope is a winsome way. ‘Shall we relax in front of the fire?’
He agrees immediately, which makes me feel happier, and we subside onto the rug, leaning back against the sofa, our shoulders touching, staring into the flames.
After a moment, he looks across at me. ‘This is nice.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I turn my head and my heart nearly stops seeing the look in his eyes. It’s almost as if we’ve never been apart. The feeling is still there. I know I’m not mistaken. The look in his eyes is the same as it used to be.
If I move just a fraction towards him, and he did the same, our lips would meet…
I prepare to make my move, but he interrupts the moment by shifting around a little, as if he’s suddenly uncomfortable. When he undoes a couple of buttons on his shirt, my heart leaps. Maybe tonight is the night, after all. I turn my whole body towards him with what I hope is an alluring smile. And he mutters, ‘God, I’m sweating. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s hot in here, isn’t it?’ He glances at the log burner.
‘I’ll…get you some more water?’
‘That would be great. And you should probably turn that thing off. It’s a bit of a waste on a warm night like this.’
‘You’re probably right.’ I get up and oblige, as my ridiculous dreams of a ‘romantic night’ with Jack, curled on the rug in front of the fire, go up in smoke – so to speak.
I hand him the water, thinking that he really doesn’t look well. Oh, God, maybe I’ve poisoned him with the uncooked pastry on the Beef Wellington.
‘Did you bake that specially?’ he asks, nodding at the toffee apple cake. ‘It looks nice.’
‘You can have a piece to take away with you.’
‘Can’t I have some now?’
I glance at him, worriedly. ‘Are you sure?’ I have a feeling he’s just being polite. I baked a cake for him, so being the lovely man he is, he feels he has to at least try it.
He grins, wiping a stray bead of sweat away with the back of his hand. ‘Yes. Definitely.’