“Oh,” he says and I lean back. When had I moved closer? “Let me get you something to drink,” he says. He briefly touches my thigh. My dress is definitely too short because I think he meant to go for my knee. “White or red?”
I stare at him; I think he’s freshly shaven. Maddie, pick a wine. “Red, please.” You hate red wine.
“Good choice,” he says. “I know the exact red to go for.” He pulls out a bottle from a well-stocked wine rack and pours two glasses. He hands me one, then holds his up to clink against mine. He doesn’t break eye contact. I forget the wine when the tightness in my stomach returns. He smiles and says, “You’re quiet this evening.”
I remember my wine and drink. “Hmmm.” Actual words, maybe?
“Shall I tell you what’s for dinner?”
I nod, slowly swallowing the bitter wine, and wave toward the cooker. “It looks extensive.”
“As you already know, I love to cook,” he says. Is his voice deeper than before? “So devising this three-course menu has been a pleasure.”
Three courses? Shit. I’ve never had a three-course meal before. I’ve eaten three different things in a row, but I don’t think that’s the same thing.
“For starters we have roasted aubergine, feta, and tabbouleh.”
“Sounds delicious.” What’s tabbouleh?
“Then for mains we have a mushroom risotto.”
At least you know that’s rice.
“And finally, for dessert we have…” He looks away, suddenly shy. “You might think it’s childish.”
Can I get away with touching his cheek or is that too much, too weird, and too soon? I keep my hand around my wineglass. “Try me.”
“For dessert, ice-cream sundaes.” He shrugs as if to say, So there’s my secret. I smile with him, but really I’d like to make him laugh.
“Ben?”
“Yes, Maddie?”
“Why are you single?”
When I laugh loudly, my instinct is to cover my mouth in case I’m showing too much gum or tongue. Whereas Ben laughs with confidence, perhaps because he knows he can.
“I could ask you the same question.”
I don’t answer because I wouldn’t know where to begin. “Your three-course meal sounds impressive. You’re a real grown-up.”
“Well, I am thirty-four.”
I sit straight. “Really?”
“Really.” Ben looks at me. “Too old?”
Yes?
“No.” When I’d first seen him, I’d guessed late twenties, so this is quite the age gap. How should I feel about this? Would Mum approve or would she want someone closer to my age? It’s not just that. Thirty-four means experience, and so far, Ben is proving to have a lot of it. I realize I’m nervous not just because I like Ben and want him to like me, but because he’s so calm, to the point where he can stir risotto with one hand and drink from his wineglass with the other, whilst I’m furiously trying not to swivel or slouch on my barstool.
I’m nervous because I’m out of my depth. I’m trying to remember Lisa’s four rules but instead I look around and take in Ben’s silver, double-door fridge and pantry. I’ve never been in a kitchen like this, I’ve never been handed a glass of wine specifically selected for the night, and the last person to cook for me was my mother.
“So how old are you?” Ben asks.
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Oh, great,” he says. “Would you mind stirring this for just a second?”
“Sure.” I put down my wine and lean over to take the wooden spoon for the risotto.
“Thanks.” He then cradles his face with his hands. “Fuck.”
I laugh but keep stirring. “Too young?”
He takes the spoon back, and I can see his cheeks are pink. “Nine years’ difference is … You’re very young and potentially have more wild oats to sow.”
I never considered this. Ben is my first proper date in my adult life; do I expect many more to follow him? How many men is too many men when you factor in my mother, God’s wrath, and my reluctance to contract an STI?
“How old did you think I was when we met?”
“I knew you were young,” he answers, “but I couldn’t help myself when I saw you, so I’d hoped to push at twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight.”
I blink. “You couldn’t help yourself?”
He considers me. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those women who are obviously beautiful but pretend not to be.”
I drop my head. Obviously beautiful. No one has ever called me “obviously beautiful.” Does he mean it? How can I be so beautiful he had to stop and talk to me?
I’ve been silent for so long that Ben uses his finger to lift my chin. I wish I could look him in the eye, maybe shrug, and say, “I’ve heard it a few times,” but that would be a lie.
“Has no one said that to you before?” he asks quietly. “I find that hard to believe.” He gently strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I finally look at him. I’m breathing heavily and my chest makes it visible. He smiles slowly and takes my face with both hands and the warmth of his skin makes me close my eyes.
His lips are soft on mine and my skin tingles. He inhales as I lean deeper in. When we pull away, I tell him, “That was nice, Ben.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t just me.” He squeezes my thigh. “Let’s have dinner.”
* * *
At the table, he tops up my wine and pours me a glass of water before putting our starters on top of what I already thought was my plate. （I later google it to find it’s what’s called a “charger” plate, intended to “add to the visual effect of your table.” Again, fancy.） The tabbouleh tastes like rice but lighter and fresher.
“Ben, this is delicious!”
He smiles. “You think so?”
I pile on another forkful. “I really do.” Slow down, Maddie. Try not to go from smooth kiss to grains falling out of your mouth. “I haven’t had anything like it.”
“Do you cook much?”
“When I lived at home with my dad, I’d batch cook on the weekend. Meals that weren’t too complicated but varied enough so we weren’t eating the same thing all week.”
“You cooked for your dad?”
Careful, Maddie. I put my wineglass down.
“You must be the best daughter ever.”
I try to smile, but there’s a sudden burning in my chest because I haven’t thought much about Dad this week. I should call, just to check in.
“Now I’ve moved out, I’d maybe like to experiment a bit more. Especially if this starter is a possible outcome!” I hope I don’t sound too manic and like someone desperate to change the subject.
“In that case…” Ben leaves the table and pulls out a drawer next to the fridge. Inside are rows of cookery books featuring the likes of Yotam Ottolenghi, Tom Kerridge, Sabrina Ghayour, and Jamie Oliver. He pulls one out titled Simple Dinners and hands it to me before retaking his seat.
I start flicking through its modest layout, short ingredients lists, and bright photographs. It’s neat, undemanding, and my kind of cookbook.