A Matter of Taste: A cannibalistic meet-cute

By the time the man beside me began explaining my profession to me, I had decided to take my dessert in the kitchen.
“Restoration is essentially cleaning,” he said.
“Conservation.”
“Pardon?”
“My profession.”
He smiled with the patient generosity of someone preparing to forgive me for being correct.
“Well, whatever you call it. My wife had a painting cleaned last year. The difference was extraordinary.”
“How lovely.”
“They used some sort of solvent.”
“Several, I imagine.”
“You ought to speak to her.”
“About her painting?”
“About the process.”
Across the table, our host lowered his wineglass.
Until then, I had mostly noticed his hands.
This was partly professional. Hands told you things. The faint discoloration along my own cuticles told anyone observant that I had spent the afternoon removing sixty years of nicotine from a seventeenth-century saint.
His hands were clean. Long fingers. A narrow white scar at the base of his thumb.
He looked at me, then at the man beside me.
“Julian,” he said. “Your wife is looking for you.”
Julian turned toward the sitting room.
His wife was laughing with another woman beneath a painting I suspected neither of them knew was fake.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“I’ll try to manage.”
Our host’s mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
I waited until Julian reached the doorway, then collected my glass and escaped through the opposite one.
The kitchen was warm and quiet.
Copper pans hung above an island. Something dark and fragrant simmered on the stove. There were no dirty dishes, no abandoned packaging, none of the small disasters that usually accumulated behind a successful dinner party.
I was looking for somewhere to set my glass when a voice behind me said, “You’re welcome to hide here.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“No?”
“I was considering climbing out a window, but you have very impractical windows.”
“They don’t open.”
“That seems like a fire hazard.”
“It’s an old house.”
“And yet the plumbing survives. A miracle.”
This time, he smiled.
Up close, he was younger than I had first thought. Early forties, perhaps. Dark hair beginning to silver at the temples. A handsome face made more interesting by a nose that had once been broken and healed with a slight disagreement in it.
He set a folded towel beside the stove.
“Adrian Vale.”
“Nora.”
“I know.”
“Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Beatrice mentioned you were coming.”
Beatrice had invited me because she believed I worked too much and Adrian “collected interesting people.”
I had assumed she meant socially.
He lifted the lid from the pan.
“Please tell me you’re making something that’ll shut Julian up.”
The spoon stopped.
“Has he upset you?”
“He’s explained my job to me for twenty minutes. I’m considering a career in brain surgery.”
Adrian watched me for a moment.
Then he resumed stirring.
“An accessible transition.”
I laughed.
It surprised me enough that I took a drink.
He glanced at my glass.
“You don’t like the wine.”
“It’s very nice.”
“You made that expression when they poured it at dinner.”
“What expression?”
“The one you’re making now.”
I looked into my glass.
“It tastes like a wardrobe.”
He considered this.
“Cedar?”
“Moth.”
He took the glass from me.
Our fingers touched briefly.
“Let’s find you something else.”
“You won’t be offended?”
“I didn’t make the wine.”
He poured something pale into a clean glass and handed it over.
It tasted cold and sharp, with none of the damp furniture.
“Oh.”
“Better?”
“Considerably.”
He looked pleased, but not in the broad, expectant way men sometimes did when they wanted gratitude performed for them.
He simply turned back to the stove.
“What are you restoring?”
I leaned against the island.
“A Saint Catherine.”
“Which one?”
“Alexandria.”
“The wheel.”
“Among other indignities.”
“Is she salvageable?”
“Someone painted over her face in the nineteen-thirties. She’s spent ninety years looking like the donor’s wife.”
“That seems unnecessarily cruel.”
“The donor paid for the work.”
“Of course.”
I watched him lift the spoon and taste the sauce.
“You actually wanted to know,” I said.
He looked at me.
“About the painting.”
“Yes.”
“Most people ask so they can tell me about something expensive they own.”
“Would you prefer that?”
“No.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t.”
There was a small silence.
Comfortable, until I noticed how closely he was looking at me.
He lowered his gaze first.
“Would you like to try?”
He took a clean spoon from a drawer and dipped it into the pan.
“Careful. It’s hot.”
I stepped closer.
He could have handed me the spoon.
Instead, he held it while I tasted.
The sauce was rich and dark, the meat soft enough to give beneath my tongue. Wine, perhaps. Juniper. Something I couldn’t place.
“Well?” he asked.
“That’s unfair.”
“What is?”
“Being able to cook like that.”
His attention dropped briefly to my mouth.
I felt it with embarrassing precision.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A variation on an old recipe.”
“Family?”
“Something like that.”
The kitchen door opened.
Beatrice stood in the doorway, earrings swinging.
“There you are.”
“Unfortunately,” I said.
Her gaze moved between us.
“Oh.”
“Don’t,” I told her.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’ve said an entire paragraph.”
Adrian set down the spoon.
“Dessert in ten minutes.”
Beatrice lingered just long enough to be unbearable, then left.
I stepped away from the stove.
“Thank you for the asylum.”
“Temporary, I’m afraid.”
“Still. Much appreciated.”
He reached past me for my abandoned wineglass.
Close enough that I caught the clean scent of his shirt beneath the warmth of the kitchen.
“Nora.”
“Yes?”
“Would you have dinner with me?”
I glanced toward the door.
“I think we’re already doing that.”
“Under better circumstances.”
“Without Julian?”
“That was my intention.”
I looked at his hands again.
Then his face.
“Yes,” I said.
The following Thursday, a photograph of a missing man appeared in my news feed between an advertisement for linen bedding and a video of a dog refusing to get out of a swimming pool.
Graham Mercer, fifty-six. Art dealer. Last seen leaving his office the previous Friday.
I knew Graham.
Not well.
Well enough.
I opened the article.
There was no suggestion of foul play. His passport was missing. His wife said he had been under considerable pressure.
I read that sentence twice.
Then I closed the page.
Adrian had sent me a message that morning.
Saturday. Eight o’clock.
No dietary restrictions?
I looked at the message for a long time before answering.
None that have inconvenienced a dinner party yet.
His reply came a minute later.
How considerate of you.
I arrived at seven fifty-eight with a bottle I had chosen by asking the man in the shop for something that didn’t taste like furniture.
Adrian opened the door before I knocked a second time.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
His sleeves were rolled to the forearms again.
I had dressed with those forearms in mind, which seemed a poor foundation for an evening.
“Very punctual,” he said.
“I considered being fashionably late, but you mentioned dinner.”
“So I did.”
He stepped aside.
The house felt different without people in it.
Larger.
The dinner party had filled the rooms with conversation and moving bodies. Now I could hear a clock somewhere beyond the hall. The soft click of the door closing behind me.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
He took the bottle, read the label, and smiled.
“No moths?”
“I’ve been assured.”
“I’ll get glasses.”
I followed him into the sitting room.
A fire burned low in the grate. Two places had been laid at a small table near the window.
No candles.
For some reason, that made it more intimate.
“May I?”
He was looking at my coat.
I turned.
His hands settled briefly on my shoulders before he eased the fabric away.
I had been touched more intimately by men who made me feel considerably less naked.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Not especially.”
He hung my coat.
On the wall beside him was a small oil painting in a gilt frame.
A woman peeling an apple. The curled skin fell from her knife in one unbroken ribbon.
I knew the painting.
More specifically, I knew the repair beneath her left hand.
I had made it.
“Where did you get that?”
Adrian followed my gaze.
“Do you know it?”
“I worked on it.”
“How fortunate.”
“Graham Mercer brought it to the studio.”
“Yes. I bought it from him.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
Entirely plausible.
I moved closer to the painting.
The old varnish had been yellow enough to make the apple look rotten. Underneath, it was a bright, almost indecent red.
“You did beautiful work,” Adrian said.
“Most people say they can’t see what I’ve done.”
“Isn’t that the idea?”
“Yes.”
He handed me a glass.
I took it.
“Do you know Graham well?”
“Socially.”
“He’s missing.”
“So I understand.”
His voice didn’t change.
Neither did his face.
“His wife must be worried,” I said.
Adrian looked at me over the rim of his glass.
“Must she?”
“I once heard him correct her pronunciation of a word she had already pronounced correctly.”
Adrian made a face.
“Dinner’s nearly ready.”
The first course was pear, bitter leaves, and something soft and salty that he told me was cheese before I had to ask.
I nearly laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“An unusually cheerful nothing.”
“I’m nervous.”
That seemed to interest him.
“About me?”
“Should I be?”
“I was hoping not.”
He sat opposite me.
For the first twenty minutes, he was an excellent date.
That was the difficulty.
He asked about my work and remembered the answers. He told me enough about himself that I didn’t feel interrogated. He had spent several years abroad. He translated medical texts, among other things. He disliked having music on during dinner because people raised their voices to compete with it.
He made me laugh twice.
Then he asked, “How did your disagreement with Graham end?”
I set down my fork.
“What disagreement?”
“The painting he wanted you to authenticate.”
“That’s a remarkably specific question.”
“He complained about you.”
“Did he?”
“He said you were difficult.”
“He wanted me to sign a report I knew was false.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Adrian took a drink.
“Did he mention what happened afterward?”
“He threatened your position.”
“He called my director. Then two clients. Then he suggested I might find it difficult to work in London.”
“Would you?”
“Have found it difficult?”
“Yes.”
“For a while.”
“But you refused him.”
“Yes.”
His gaze stayed on mine.
“Good.”
There was something in the way he said it that made the room contract.
I looked down.
Beside his plate lay a small silver object.
I hadn’t noticed him put it there.
A cufflink.
An enamel fox with a red eye.
Graham had worn them to every meeting. Once, while waiting for me to reconsider my report, he had tapped one against the edge of my desk until I asked him to stop.
Adrian followed my gaze.
“Do you recognize it?”
The clock in the hall ticked.
I looked back at him.
“Yes.”
He waited.
“Why do you have that?”
“Graham left it here.”
“When?”
“The Friday before the party.”
The night he disappeared.
I could hear the fire settling behind me.
“Did he come here that night?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Adrian rested his hands on either side of his plate.
The scar at his thumb looked very white.
“Nora. Before we go further, I need you to understand that I didn’t invite you here because of Graham.”
“You’ve put his cufflink beside your dinner.”
“I thought you should see it before the next course.”
For a moment, the sentence was only strange.
Then I remembered the kitchen.
The spoon.
The soft, rich meat.
I looked toward the door.
Adrian didn’t move.
“What did you feed me?”
He said nothing.
I put my napkin on the table.
Very carefully.
“What did you feed me?”
Adrian looked at the cufflink.
“Graham.”
I sat back.
For a moment, I could only look at him.
Then I thought of Graham leaning across my desk, telling me how unfortunate it would be if a woman with my talent developed a reputation for dishonesty.
I began to laugh.
It wasn’t loud. I wasn’t sure it was particularly attractive.
But once I started, I found it difficult to stop.
Adrian watched me without moving.
“I’m sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t.
I pressed my fingers to my mouth.
Graham.
Of all people.
“You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve spent rather a lot of time imagining him dead.”
“That isn’t usually enough to make this conversation easier.”
“No?”
“No.”
I lowered my hand.
His expression had scarcely changed, but something in his posture had. The fingers beside his plate were no longer quite so relaxed.
I wondered what he had expected.
Probably not this.
“Was his wife eating it too?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
She had asked for seconds. I remembered Beatrice teasing her about it.
Something about finally finding a man who could cook.
I laughed again.
Adrian’s gaze sharpened.
“You’re not upset.”
“About Graham?”
“About what you ate.”
“No.”
The room was very quiet.
I picked up my glass, then paused with it halfway to my mouth.
“Were you hoping I would be?”
“No.”
“But you expected it.”
“Yes.”
I took a drink.
He watched me swallow.
I had enjoyed his attention before. Now that I knew what lay behind it, I found myself wanting more of it.
That was going to be inconvenient.
“Why tell me?”
Adrian glanced at the cufflink.
“I thought you suspected.”
“Because I asked about the painting?”
“And Graham.”
“He’s missing. I was making conversation.”
“You asked me when I bought it.”
“That’s a perfectly reasonable question.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
He looked faintly displeased with himself.
“You’d already decided I knew,” I said.
“I thought it was possible.”
“And rather than let me finish dinner, you decided to put that beside your plate.”
His eyes met mine.
“I wanted to know whether you’d stay.”
I let that sit between us.
He hadn’t offered an explanation about justice. Hadn’t told me Graham had forced his hand or that some terrible childhood had made him this way.
He had shown me something ugly and waited.
I could appreciate the nerve, even if I questioned the judgment.
“You could have asked.”
“Would you have told me?”
“No.”
His mouth curved slightly.
I looked down at the little silver fox.
“I thought it tasted familiar.”
The smile faded.
I turned the cufflink with one finger.
“The sauce made it difficult to be certain.”
Adrian said nothing.
For the first time since I had met him, I had his complete attention without his appearing to know what to do with it.
I rather liked that.
“You’ve gone quiet,” I said.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Nora.”
I looked up.
“Have you eaten it before?”
“Yes.”
“Knowingly?”
I held his gaze.
“Yes.”
There it was. The thing I had never said across a dinner table.
Until then, I could still have left him with an unpleasant story about a woman who had laughed in the wrong place. Now I had given him something of mine.
I waited to discover whether I would wish I hadn’t.
He drew a slow breath.
It was such a small thing.
I felt it anyway.
Outside, someone laughed on the pavement.
A woman’s voice. Another answering her.
The sound passed beneath the window and continued down the street.
Inside, Adrian looked at me as though I had changed while he was watching.
I hadn’t.
That was the part I wanted him to understand.
I was still the woman who had spent her afternoon bent over a painting, who disliked his wine, who had changed her earrings three times before leaving the house.
I reached for my fork.
“Is there more?”
His eyes dropped to my plate.
“Another course?”
“Yes.”
“I’d hate for it to go cold.”
For a moment, he stayed where he was.
Then he stood and collected our plates.
When he reached for mine, his fingers brushed my wrist.
I looked up.
He was close enough that I could see the pulse at the base of his throat.
Earlier, I had wanted him to touch me again.
Now I wondered whether he was thinking about it too.
“What are we having?” I asked.
He gave me a small, knowing smile.
Then he took the plates into the kitchen.
I sat back and listened to him moving beyond the doorway.
A cupboard opened. Porcelain touched the counter.
The familiar domestic sounds were almost indecent.
I had imagined meeting someone like him.
Occasionally.
Usually after a disappointing date.
I had never imagined how difficult it would be to sit still once I did.
When Adrian returned, I had moved the cufflink to the far edge of the table.
He noticed.
“Did it bother you?”
“Graham spent enough time interrupting me while he was alive.”
Adrian set my dinner in front of me.
Then his own.
He sat.
I waited until he picked up his fork before reaching for mine.
“Do you always do this?” I asked.
“What?”
“Watch people eat.”
“Sometimes.”
“Does anyone notice?”
“Occasionally.”
“What do they think?”
“That I’m concerned about the food.”
I glanced at him.
“And are you?”
“With you, yes.”
There was nothing teasing in his voice.
I cut a small piece.
He watched without pretending otherwise.
The first taste brought back the kitchen with startling clarity. The warmth of the stove. His hand holding the spoon. The way he had looked at my mouth afterward.
I understood that look rather better now.
I swallowed.
Adrian waited.
“You’re very good at this.”
His gaze stayed on mine.
“Thank you.”
I took another bite.
He finally began to eat.
“Does anyone know?” he asked eventually.
“No.”
“Not anyone?”
I shook my head.
He looked at me for a moment longer.
“And you?” I asked.
“No.”
I had expected that answer.
Hearing it was different.
There were things I could have asked. How long. How often. Whether Graham had been chosen before or after Adrian learned about me.
Instead, I found myself wanting to know whether he read in bed.
Whether he was difficult in the mornings.
Whether the careful way he touched things extended to everything.
“Do you live here alone?” I asked.
He looked mildly surprised.
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“For several years.”
“Do you like it?”
“Usually.”
“And when you don’t?”
His eyes moved briefly to the empty chair beside mine.
“I invite someone to dinner.”
I smiled before I could help it.
“Has that ever worked?”
“I’ll let you know.”
We lingered over the wine after we finished eating.
Adrian had stopped looking at me quite so cautiously.
That should have made things easier.
Instead, I became increasingly aware of the distance across the table.
His hand rested beside his glass. I noticed a faint burn near his wrist that I hadn’t seen before.
“You’ve hurt yourself.”
He followed my gaze.
“Yesterday.”
“Cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see.”
He held out his hand.
I took it.
There was no sensible reason to keep holding it once I had looked at the burn.
I did anyway.
His palm was warm. The narrow scar near his thumb felt smoother than the skin around it.
I ran my finger over it.
“What happened here?”
“A broken glass.”
“Your own?”
“Yes.”
“How ordinary.”
“Would you prefer another answer?”
“Only if it’s true.”
His fingers shifted beneath mine.
Then closed.
I looked up.
He wasn’t smiling now.
Neither was I.
For a few seconds, I forgot about the food entirely.
Then his thumb moved against my hand, and I remembered everything at once.
“I wondered whether you’d come,” he said.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You took some time to answer.”
“I was choosing a dress.”
His gaze lowered.
I let him look.
“Was it worth the trouble?” I asked.
“Yes.”
He said it quietly.
The answer stayed with me long after he released my hand.
I excused myself a little later and went to the bathroom on the left, where Beatrice had cornered me at the party to ask whether I thought Adrian was attractive.
I had told her he seemed very nice.
It had been easier than admitting I had barely heard her question because I was watching his reflection in the hall mirror.
Now I stood in front of another mirror and repaired my lipstick.
I looked like a woman having a good evening.
I pressed my lips together.
Then smiled.
Adrian was in the kitchen when I returned.
Our plates stood beside the sink. Two small bowls waited on the counter.
He looked up as I entered.
“I was about to bring these through.”
“I thought you might need help.”
“Do you cook?”
“I manage.”
“That sounds evasive.”
“It was.”
He smiled and turned back to the counter.
I came to stand beside him.
Chocolate. Cream. Something red scattered over the top.
I picked up a small piece.
“May I?”
“You’ve already taken it.”
“I’m being polite.”
“Of course.”
It was tart enough to make me close my eyes.
When I opened them, he was watching.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a poor liar.”
“Only this evening.”
I leaned against the counter.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The kitchen was just as orderly as it had been on Sunday. The same copper pans. The same folded towel.
I remembered thinking there was something reassuring about a man who cleaned as he worked.
I still thought so.
Adrian set down the spoon.
“Are you going to regret telling me?”
The question caught me off guard.
I considered giving him something light. Something that would let us go on looking at each other without having to acknowledge why it mattered.
Instead, I said, “I don’t know.”
He nodded.
“Neither do I.”
I liked that answer more than reassurance.
“Although,” I added, “you did put jewelry on the table. I was rather forced to participate.”
“That was badly done.”
“It was theatrical.”
“I’ll try to improve.”
“Don’t improve too much.”
He looked at me.
I reached for the towel beside him and wiped a drop of water from my fingers.
He waited while I folded it.
Then, when I put it down, he took my hand.
It was a simple movement.
Confident enough that I felt it in my knees.
He drew me a little closer.
I went willingly.
“Is this all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His free hand settled against my jaw.
For once, I had nothing to say about his manners.
He kissed me slowly.
I had expected him to be more certain.
Instead, there was a moment when he seemed to be waiting for something, and I realized he was letting me decide how close to come.
I caught the front of his shirt.
That answered him.
His hand moved to my waist, and I felt the warmth of him through the thin fabric of my dress.
The counter pressed against my back.
I had been thinking about this since Sunday.
That seemed suddenly obvious in the way I was holding him.
When he drew back, it was only far enough to look at me.
His thumb rested against my cheek.
I smoothed the small crease I had made in his shirt.
“You should come to mine next time,” I said.
“I’d like that.”
“Thursday?”
“Yes.”
I kissed him again.
He tasted faintly of the wine I had brought.
By Tuesday, I had decided what to serve.
I called Adrian from the studio.
He answered on the second ring.
“Bad time?” I asked.
“No.”
In the background, something clicked against a hard surface.
“I’ve been thinking about Thursday.”
“So have I.”
“I thought we might have someone else.”
Silence.
I looked through the glass partition at the man waiting in reception.
He was examining a framed photograph of the studio’s founder with the proprietary interest of someone who expected to recognize him.
“Nora?”
“Yes?”
“Did you have someone in mind?”
The man turned.
I smiled and lifted one finger to show I wouldn’t be long.
“Julian.”
Adrian said nothing for a moment.
Then, “From the party.”
“Yes.”
“He’s at your studio?”
“His wife sent him with the painting.”
Through the glass, Julian checked his watch.
A wedding anniversary was engraved on the back. He had shown me while explaining that his wife had bought it in Zurich, where watches were apparently made with unusual competence.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think,” Adrian said, “I’d like to cook with you.”
Julian arrived on Thursday carrying flowers.
For one ridiculous moment, I thought they were for me.
“From Caroline,” he said, handing them over. “She said to thank you for taking an interest.”
“How thoughtful.”
“She’d have come herself, but our daughter’s staying with us. First grandchild. Any day now.”
He smiled.
It changed his face.
At the party, I had mostly noticed his mouth when he was using it to annoy me. Now I saw the resemblance to someone’s father.
I took the flowers.
“Come in.”
He followed me down the hall.
Adrian was waiting in the sitting room.
Julian stopped.
“Ah. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“We met at the party,” I said.
“Yes, of course.”
Adrian came forward and offered his hand.
Julian shook it.
I watched their fingers close.
“Drink?” Adrian asked.
“Just one. I promised I wouldn’t be late.”
“Of course.”
I took the flowers into the kitchen.
Caroline had chosen white tulips.
The stems were wrapped in wet paper, and there was a little card tucked beneath the ribbon.
Thank you for rescuing her.
I looked at it for a moment before realizing she meant the woman in the painting.
Then I found a vase.
Julian had brought photographs of the damaged canvas.
We spent twenty minutes looking at them.
I told him the dark patches were old retouching, that the varnish had discolored, that his wife was right to want the work examined.
He listened more than he had at the party.
Occasionally, he glanced at Adrian.
I wondered whether he was conscious of doing it.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said eventually. “I was a bit of a bore on Sunday.”
I looked up.
“Caroline told me.”
Adrian sat quietly beside the fire.
“She said I’d spent half the evening telling an expert how to do her job.”
“You were enthusiastic.”
“That’s a generous way of putting it.”
He smiled at me.
I returned it.
His phone rang.
The sound was surprisingly loud.
He looked at the screen, then at us.
“Sorry. Caroline.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
He answered.
“Hello, love.”
I watched Adrian while Julian listened.
A brief change in his expression made me look back.
“Now?”
Julian stood.
“Oh, God. Right. Is she all right?”
He listened again.
Then laughed, one breathless, disbelieving sound.
“Yes. I’m leaving now.”
He ended the call.
“Our daughter. They’re taking her in.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Not yet. But thank you. Sorry to rush off.”
He began gathering the photographs.
One slid from the table onto the rug.
I bent to retrieve it.
His hand landed beside mine.
Up close, I could see a small crescent of blue paint beneath his thumbnail.
“Nursery,” he said, noticing me notice. “I’m still finding it everywhere.”
I handed him the photograph.
He thanked me.
Then he looked past my shoulder.
Adrian had risen.
Something in his face made Julian stop smiling.
At first, Julian thought it was a misunderstanding.
He gave a small, embarrassed laugh.
Then he looked at me.
“Nora?”
I took the photographs from his hand.
“Put those down,” I told Adrian.
He was still holding the empty glasses.
For a moment, he looked almost startled.
Then he set them on the table.
Julian’s gaze moved between us.
“I need to go.”
“I know,” I said.
He started toward the hall.
Adrian stepped in front of him.
There was nothing elegant about what followed.
Julian was larger than he looked sitting down. He struck the wall hard enough to shake the framed prints, and one of them fell. The sound of breaking glass seemed to surprise all three of us.
He shouted.
I caught his arm.
He turned toward me so quickly that I lost my balance, and for a moment I was pressed against him, close enough to smell rain in his coat.
“Help me,” he said.
He had mistaken my grip for assistance.
I tightened it.
Understanding moved across his face.
The precise moment he stopped looking for someone else in the room.
Adrian said my name.
I looked at him.
He was waiting for me.
His gaze dropped to my hand around Julian’s arm, then returned to my face.
I could let go.
Julian was watching me too. He understood, before I had quite admitted it to myself, whose answer mattered.
I nodded.
Afterward, Julian lay partly across the rug with one shoe caught beneath the edge.
His phone began ringing again.
None of us moved.
The cheerful little tune filled the room.
Then stopped.
I looked down at my hand.
There was blood beneath my ring.
Adrian knelt beside Julian.
He stayed there a while.
When he stood, his breathing was uneven.
So was mine.
A broken piece of frame lay between us.
I stepped over it.
He reached for me, then stopped at the sight of his hands.
I took them anyway.
For a moment, we stood like that in my sitting room.
Then I brought his knuckles to my mouth.
His eyes closed.
The flowers were in the kitchen when we went through.
I had forgotten them.
Adrian looked at the white tulips, then at me.
“From his wife,” I said.
He touched one of the leaves.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
I put on an apron.
Then I took another from the drawer and handed it to him.
He smiled faintly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Adrian.”
He looked down at the apron.
“No one’s ever bought one for me before.”
“I didn’t buy it for you.”
“I know.”
But he put it on with such care that I decided I might let him keep it.
We ate late.
The candles had burned low by the time we sat down, and I was too tired to find fresh ones.
Adrian poured the wine.
I had been saving it for a special occasion.
Across the table, his sleeve was rolled higher than usual. There was a bruise forming near his wrist.
I touched it.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not much.”
I turned his hand over and kissed the unmarked skin of his palm.
He caught my fingers before I could withdraw.
We stayed that way for a moment.
Then he lifted his fork.
I watched him taste.
For the first time, I understood why he had found it so difficult to look away.
“Well?” I asked.
He swallowed.
Then smiled at me.
I had worried, briefly, that doing this together might make the evening awkward.
Instead, I found myself telling him about my day.
The Saint Catherine was almost finished. A client had sent me an atrocious frame. The woman in the studio next door had acquired a puppy and seemed determined to conduct every meeting around its schedule.
Adrian listened.
Really listened.
“And the client with the frame?” he asked.
“What about him?”
“Will he be collecting it?”
“Next week. Why?”
Adrian took a drink.
“I was wondering whether you’d like to have dinner at mine.”
I looked at him.
“He’s perfectly pleasant.”
“Then we’ll give him his frame.”
“And if he weren’t?”
Adrian set down his glass.
“I thought we might decide together.”
“Does this mean I get a say in the menu?”
“I’d rather hoped you would.”
I considered him across the table.
“There is someone,” I said.
Adrian leaned forward slightly.
“Tell me.”
Under the table, his foot rested against mine.
When my phone lit up beside my plate, I glanced down.
Beatrice.
Well? How’s it going with Adrian? 👀
I looked across at him.
He was waiting for me to continue.
I typed one-handed.
I think we’re very well suited.
Then I put the phone away and asked him to stay.