They started the meal with salt and pepper squid with aioli that melted in the mouth.
“Oh my God, I’m so ready for this,” said Annie.
“That’s called the munchies,” said Paul, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
“I am a chef, you know,” said Annie. “I don’t need to be stoned to appreciate good food.”
“No,” said Paul. “But maybe it takes your appreciation to another level.”
Annie wanted to argue but she was too busy eating to speak. Paul chose beer-battered Dover sole and thrice-fried chips for his main, and Annie had pan-fried plaice with Hasselback potatoes and samphire. She would have dearly liked to sample Aiden’s famous tiramisu, but in the event of the evening taking the turn she hoped it would, she didn’t want to be too full of mascarpone to enjoy it.
The thronelike wooden benches on which they sat had high backs, and floral motifs had been cut out of the wood so that the light filtered through them and danced patterns on the table. Annie ran her hand idly over the undulating wood. She saw Paul watching her.
“You made these,” she said.
He smiled. Not his cocksure grin but a softer smile.
“I did,” he said. “The benches and the bar. They’re all me.”
“They’re beautiful,” said Annie. “You’re an artist.”
Paul’s smile widened and he looked down at his plate.
“I’d best get you drunk before you start to find flaws in my work,” he said.
Annie laughed. “I didn’t have you down for modesty.”
“First impressions can be deceiving,” said Paul.
Annie felt a warm feeling that was more than weed and wine. The evening passed in a pleasant haze. The folk band played the right amount of wistfulness and hope to fill the atmosphere with positively charged pheromones. The flames danced in the hearths, and the regulars, merry with hooch and warm of feeling, danced on the flagstone floor. Annie danced with Paul, her bashfulness soon unwoven as the music plucked at the stitches that bound her. His arms felt nice wrapped around her, the heat from his palms splayed out across her back.
* * *
—
“Thank you for a lovely tour,” said Annie, as they meandered back through the quiet, dark streets.
“You’re welcome,” said Paul.
The cold night nipped at Annie’s fingers, but her body felt warm and the air between them was thick with expectation. They had reached the end of the path by which they must decide whether to continue the date or end it on a delicious good night. Annie’s heart was racing. She wasn’t sure which outcome she was hoping for, but she felt giddy with the excitement.
“Would you like to come back for a coffee?” Paul asked.
“Yes,” said Annie, and the decision was made.
Chapter 29
Annie lay very still. She hoped Paul was still asleep. She had woken after a fitful snooze and lain awake thereafter, pondering as the black slash of night between the curtains was slowly diluted by the encroaching dawn. She had a crick in her neck from sleeping on the small sofa in Paul’s bedroom. Things had not gone as she’d hoped.
She had expected a night of passion but instead ended up playing multiple games of pool downstairs in Paul’s games room until the early hours of the morning. Whereupon rather the worse for wear, she had collapsed onto the sofa among Paul’s discarded clothes and fallen asleep. What had begun as a night full of anticipation and sexual sparks had ended as a snogging shipwreck.
The gray morning light draped itself across the slow-breathing mound beneath the black-and-white-striped duvet cover in the bed. Annie rubbed her sore neck and tried to sigh quietly. The thing about having puckered up with the same person for half your life is that you know instinctively what type of kiss you’re getting into: which way they’re going to lean, for example, or the ratio of lip to tongue action; your methods are tried and tested. By contrast, locking lips with someone new, while exciting, was not without its hazards.
The portents were there from the very beginning, when they both tilted their heads in the same direction, banging noses so hard that it brought tears to Annie’s eyes. On the second attempt, Paul thrust his tongue so deep into Annie’s mouth the moment that their lips met that she actually squeaked with surprise and bit it. Keeping faith in the old third time lucky adage, they went for it again, with gusto, to try and kickstart the nonexistent pizzazz, which resulted in their teeth cracking together so violently that the crown on Paul’s front tooth snapped off, and Annie almost swallowed it. She had expected to fizz with passion in all the right places when their lips met, but to her disappointment nothing stirred; it was, she mused, a bit like kissing her own knee.