‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ Eric shouts back. ‘It’s just Ben Lawson, you know who he is.’
There’s a sudden moment of quiet as everyone looks at Ben before Terry announces the start of the quiz for the third, and hopefully final time. All eyes turn down towards the answer papers, except mine as I look over at Ben and crinkle my brow in a question, trying to ask him how Eric knows him without the use of words. Ben shakes his head and looks away, taking another swig from his pint glass.
Once the quiz begins there is no time to talk or chat. Terry’s questions are quickfire and relentless with barely time to write the answer down, let alone confer with team members. Whenever Terry comes into The Two Teas he always drinks English breakfast, but his rapid questioning style makes me wonder if he’s actually gunpowder tea. I’ve never had the nerve to ask him though.
The Teacups have to trust each other as we write answers in the appropriate boxes on the answer sheet and try to keep up with Terry, hoping we’ve got at least a few right. Ben, it turns out, is good at both sport and politics as well as music and books. I look over at him as he writes his answers down and get that fizzing feeling in my stomach again. His writing is neat and meticulous, just like him, and I notice he’s left-handed. He’s wearing a dark green pullover over a red and white checked shirt and he hasn’t shaved since the last time I saw him. When he looks over at me I let my eyes slide away. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.
‘And the final question,’ Terry announces dramatically. I hate Terry’s final questions, they make no sense to me and they are not even questions. ‘Damp fog solves nothing.’
I groan and Sascha rolls her eyes and throws down her pencil in disgust.
‘I’ll repeat that one,’ Terry says. ‘Damp fog solves nothing.’
‘I have no idea what he’s talking about,’ I say.
But Ben grins and pulls the answer sheet towards him and writes “moist” carefully in the box. Sascha and I stare at him.
‘Well done,’ my uncle James says to Ben slapping him on the back. ‘The Teacups never get those final questions.’
‘Maybe we’re in with a chance tonight, eh Ellie?’ Miranda says winking at me.
‘Let me get you another pint, Ben,’ James says. ‘What about you, Ellie, another glass of wine?’
I nod and everyone gives my uncle their drinks orders.
‘So how do you know Eric?’ Miranda asks the question that’s been on my lips all evening.
Ben looks down into his empty pint glass and I see his cheekbones colour slightly before he looks up again.
‘I know quite a few people in here tonight actually,’ he says. ‘Well I used to know them anyway. I used to live in Sanderson Bay when I was a kid, but I haven’t been back for nearly fifteen years.’
He used to live here? Why hadn’t he said that when he was drinking Russian caravan tea in my café two days ago? I catch his eye and raise my eyebrows at him, but he looks away again. He’s definitely hiding something.
‘Before our time,’ Miranda says. ‘We moved here fourteen years ago. We used to own the café before we sold it to Ellie.’ She reaches over and takes my hand. ‘She’s made a much better job of it than we ever did.’
‘That’s not true,’ I protest, glancing over at Ben who is blushing again. Is he embarrassed? Or just self-conscious at being the centre of attention? ‘The café isn’t better now, it’s just different,’ I go on.
‘The whole town is completely different,’ Ben says quietly.
‘It must seem it if you haven’t been back for fifteen years,’ Miranda says.
‘You know we were visited by a Broadway star and since then we’ve really had to up our game,’ Sascha interrupts.
‘Karol Bergenstein,’ Ben says as my uncle comes back with the drinks. ‘I saw it in the paper.’
‘So where did you used to live, Ben?’ my aunt asks as she picks up her glass of wine, and I see his face colour again.
‘Um, just outside of town,’ he says. ‘Near the cliffs and the… um… lifeboat station.’ He’s staring into his pint again as though he doesn’t want to talk about this.
Miranda nods. ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘That little row of cottages. They’re lovely.’
Ben doesn’t say anything.
‘Why did you leave?’ my aunt ploughs on, clearly unable to sense his discomfort.
‘I went to university,’ he says. ‘And Mum moved away around the same time.’
‘And your father?’
I watch Ben go pale at the question. My aunt is wonderful and I owe her so much but she is so nosy. It’s why she loves it here in Sanderson Bay – everyone here is fantastic but they do love to be part of each other’s business. If you’re shy or introverted or private or anxious it can be difficult sometimes. I know this because I’m all of those things – running a café has pushed me way out of my comfort zone – and I suspect that Ben is at least two of them. I can’t let him suffer under Miranda’s inquisition anymore.
‘How the hell did you know that final quiz question?’ I ask. ‘Nobody ever gets those!’
He smiles at me and a flash of something that looks like gratitude crosses his face.
‘Cryptic crosswords,’ he says. ‘It was a cryptic crossword clue.’
‘Those things make no sense to me either.’ I laugh. ‘Explains why I’ve never been able to get what Terry is waffling on about though.’
‘It’s just patterns,’ Ben goes on. ‘Patterns in words and letters. They’re easy to spot if you practise, if you know what to look for.’
Sascha and I exchange a doubtful glance. ‘Easy for you maybe,’ she says.
He holds his hands up. ‘I’ve always just been able to see patterns in things,’ he says.
‘Do you do cryptic crosswords?’ I ask. ‘I’ve always been impressed by anyone who can make any sense of those!’
He smiles at me again now and it’s not smug or reluctant. It’s lazy and genuine and oh so sexy. I can feel the goose bumps springing up on my arms. ‘I’ve done them for years,’ he says.
‘So how did you get the answer to this one?’ I ask.
‘Here look, I’ll show you.’ He gets up and walks over to my side of the table, squeezing on to the bench beside me, and pulls the pencil and paper towards him. His arm is pressing against mine and I’m very aware of the feel of him next to me. I take a shaky breath and hope he doesn’t notice how his close proximity is making me feel.
‘So first of all, what’s another word for fog?’ he asks.
‘Um, mist?’
‘Excellent,’ he says and writes “mist” on the paper. ‘And what’s the symbol for nothing?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, feeling stupid.
‘OK, another word for nothing then?’
‘Nought,’ I say. ‘Or zero.’
He writes a “0” on the paper.
‘And mist plus O is…’
‘Moist!’ Sascha and I shout out at the same time.
‘That’s a really simple one to be honest,’ he says.