Green Beans and Summer Dreams Page 12

  And I’m gripped with a sudden panic.

  How on earth could I have allowed this to happen?

  I’m so ashamed. I will never, ever live this down.

  I haven’t shaved my legs for weeks!

  I close my eyes, wondering if there’s time to run for the razor before he wakes up.

  But next minute he stirs beside me. ‘Morning, gorgeous.’

  He gives a massive stretch and pulls me closer. Then, kindly ignoring my surplus body hair, he spends the next half hour implementing a variety of energetic moves that work wonders to relieve me of my tension.

  Afterwards, he kisses me – long and lingeringly – then drifts back to sleep. And I lie there, totally blissed out, remembering how very un-demurely I behaved the night before.

  I didn’t put up even a token protest when he suggested moving from the sitting room floor to somewhere more comfortable. In a fit of giggles, I dragged him to the stairs and, after tripping over him half way up, it was a good while before we made it to the top.

  Cupid was unmasked in a very sensuous shower for two, although there are still flecks of that pesky gold paint everywhere.

  I should probably have been a bit more wary when he stepped down from that plinth and begged me to forgive him for not being in touch sooner. But for an apology, it was fairly dazzling. There aren’t many blokes who would stand on a station platform in November, freezing their balls off in a gold mini dress.

  I was hugely flattered.

  I snuggle closer to him as the next raft of memories arrive: lying on the sofa, talking for ages; laughing about stuff I can’t remember now; his hands on my back and my neck, pulling me on top of him so we could kiss for what could have been minutes but might well have been hours.

  I haven’t snogged so intensively since I was fifteen and Stephen Allsop was trying to persuade me into the back of his blue Morris Marina. There was one vital difference, though. Kissing Stephen Allsop had been experimental, more for the practice than anything else. But kissing Erik was not about the mechanics of lips and tongues and where they should go for best effect. Kissing Erik was a delicious, whole body experience that makes me wriggle with pleasure now just thinking about it.

  Everyone on the platform laughed and applauded when he drew me in and kissed me.

  Then he drove me home in his gleaming red Maserati. (I didn’t realise it was a Maserati until he told me, although I knew it was something very special.) He’d draped a sheet over his seat to stop the gold body paint rubbing off on his butter-soft upholstery.

  He told me about the ‘live statue’ work he was doing as part of his drama college course. When he’d bumped into Jess out shopping in Guildford that afternoon, he’d decided to surprise me. Jess had been in on the plan and had agreed to phone me to find out the arrival time of my train.

  ‘But how did you manage to get onto the platform dressed like that?’ I laughed.

  He winked. ‘I had to charm a few platform officials, naturally. I told them I’d met an amazing girl and I needed to do something extraordinary to show her I think she’s extraordinary.’

  I glanced at him shyly, my cheeks flushing with delight.

  ‘Luckily, one of them thought it was a really romantic gesture.’

  ‘I bet it was a female platform official.’

  He laughed. ‘How did you guess? Do you think my outfit had anything to do with it?’

  I looked at his burnished shoulders and gold-kissed thighs. ‘How could she resist a Greek god?’

  He took my hand and smiled. ‘Actually, Cupid is the Roman god of love. But thank you for that.’

  After our shower, he asked me to fetch his clothes from the car. But by the time I got dressed, he was wearing Jamie’s old navy dressing gown from the bathroom cupboard.

  He saw my face and immediately said, ‘Shall I take it off?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, it’s fine. Really.’

  And it was. Because the most surprising thing of all wasn’t that I thought Erik was a bit insensitive wearing it, but that actually, I really didn’t mind. In fact, I found myself thinking he looked good in it. Better than Jamie ever did.

  I felt like I’d passed an emotional milestone.

  After that, the evening got better and better.

  Erik made me laugh. All the time. So hard that I got a pain in my side pouring boiling water onto the pasta and had to sit down to get my breath back.

  We brushed past each other deliberately as we moved around the kitchen and smiled when our hands met ‘accidentally’ in the cutlery drawer. I fed him pasta twists to check they were ready and brazenly kissed it better when he burned his mouth. The sexual tension wiped out my appetite, though. So while Erik ate heartily (why can men always pack it away, whatever else is happening?), I barely even touched my bowl of pasta carbonara. Although this morning’s headache is testament to my fine effort at redressing the calorie deficit – by downing white wine by the half pint.

  Gently, so as not to disturb him, I ease myself out of Erik’s hold and prop myself up on one elbow to have a good look at him. Stubbly jaw, ruffled hair and full lower lip that looks slightly sulky in sleep. Right now his eyes are veiled with blond lashes, but I had plenty of opportunity to study their gorgeous green depths last night.

  I smile through a yawn. I have never felt so cheerful on so little sleep.

  But I still can’t help the little whisper in my head that says if he fancies someone like me, there must be something wrong with him. Because I know for a fact he could take his pick of any number of stunning women.

  But I won’t think like that. We’re having a bit of fun, that’s all. And it feels like a breath of fresh air after Jamie.

  When he wakes up, we lie entwined, talking about nothing in particular and he tells me about a girl he knew who snored loud enough to wake the dead. ‘She was tiny. No more than seven stone. But she sounded like a twenty-stone trucker during the night.’

  ‘Do I snore?’ I ask, not wanting to hear about his previous conquests.

  He frowns. ‘Probably. You’re way heavier than her.’ He grabs my arms before I can punch him. This develops into an energetic tickling session and at one point my arm flies out and knocks the bedside clock onto the floor. Panting, I lean over to pick it up.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s eleven o’clock,’ I gasp. ‘I have to get moving. Banksy will have delivered the produce hours ago. I’ve got boxes to pack.’

  Erik tries to grab me but I leap out of bed and dive for the bathroom. ‘And deliveries to make!’ I shout as I turn on the shower. It’s only then that I remember the car. Erik drove me back to Farthing Cottage yesterday. My car is still sitting in Fieldstone Station car park and without it, not one of those deliveries is going to happen.

  While Erik showers, I clear away the remnants of last night’s meal and rescue my bra, which for some reason is dangling from a kitchen cabinet handle.

  Later, he drives me to the station. We pull up behind my car and he leaves his engine running.

  I’m finding it impossible to look at him so I rummage in my bag, pretending I can’t find my keys. I’m desperate to know what his plans are. But I can’t ask him because I’m afraid I might not like the answer. What if he just says, ‘See you around,’ or something equally non-committal?

  I pull out my keys.

  ‘See you, then,’ he says cheerfully, putting the car into first gear.

  I plaster a smile on my face. ‘Yes. See you.’

  I get out of the car and head for mine, not looking back. I have my pride, after all. But my hand shakes a little as I slide in the key and start the engine.

  I’m about to drive off when there’s a knock on the window.

  When I open it, Erik ducks down so he’s level with me. ‘Pepperoni or margherita?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Pizza. We’ll need fast food if we’re going to be packing and delivering boxes till all hours.’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ Relief washes through me. ‘Great id
ea. I’ll see you later.’

  I close my window but he stands there, grinning. Then I remember and wind down the window again. ‘Pepperoni,’ I tell him, unable to stop smiling.

  He bends closer. ‘I’ll nip back to my flat to collect some stuff and I’ll see you in an hour or so.’ Then he kisses me full on the mouth.

  As I pull away, I watch in my rear view mirror as he gets back into the Maserati. Then I punch on the radio and sing along tunelessly at the top of my voice, for once not caring what oncoming motorists might think.

  By the time Erik returns several hours later, bearing a large pizza box and a newspaper, I’ve already carted the trays of produce into the shed and started work.

  He plants a kiss on my neck as I weigh out a bag of mushrooms. ‘Sorry. I would have been back sooner but I had to wait for the pizza place to open.’

  I smile and chuck a mushroom at him. ‘Never mind. I’ve done half the boxes already.’

  I’m assuming he’ll help me finish but instead, he takes the bag of mushrooms from my hand, puts it in the tray and pulls me against him.

  ‘No!’ I protest, laughing but serious. ‘We need to get on!’

  Erik shrugs. ‘What difference will half an hour make? Everyone needs a tea break.’

  ‘Tea break. I’ve never heard it called that before,’ I say coyly, before suddenly wondering if he really does want a cup of tea.

  But the look in his eye has nothing to do with Earl Grey.

  ‘We’ll get through the work twice as fast afterwards,’ he promises, guiding me firmly out of the shed. Put like that, it sounds very logical. And even though the ‘tea break’ turns into more of a long lunch break, I’m definitely not complaining.

  Much later, when we start the deliveries, I find myself wondering what my customers will make of my new assistant.

  He wins them over easily, of course, just like he charmed the customers at Mrs P’s market stall that day. It’s probably too early in the relationship for me to be entitled to be proud of him – but I am anyway.

  It’s dark by the time we get back to Farthing Cottage. Leaving the recycled boxes in the car to unload in the morning, we go straight into the kitchen and I make a quick supper of beans on toast. Erik keeps referring to them as ‘des haricots sur pain grille’ in a funny French accent to make the meal sound more exotic. Then we snuggle on the sofa, watching a programme about supercars and I ask him about his Maserati.

  It turns out he received a big inheritance from his grandparents on his father’s side and decided to give up law and study drama instead. And splash out on the car of his dreams. I’m no skinflint, but when he tells me how much he paid for it, I go rigid with shock. It’s obviously top of the range. All that cash to get from A to B?

  He sees my expression and grins. ‘It’s just money. You can’t take it with you when you’re dead.’

  I smile at him. He has a point. I’m just being a killjoy.

  Cars are clearly his real passion. So why not?

  Apparently, he flew over to Italy and collected the car from the manufacturer in person, then drove it all the way back to England.

  The flamboyance of this really tickles me.

  I go up for a bath to wash off the day’s dust and when I come out, Erik is emerging from the main bathroom. He’s damp from the shower. The white towel against his tanned skin and the way he feels when he pulls me against him perks me up in no time.

  Sleep?

  Who the hell needs it?

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s after ten on a Friday morning and I’ve got thirty boxes to pack and deliver. But I’m finding it hard to get motivated with Erik here.

  He’s stayed at Farthing Cottage for the best part of a week now and I have never laughed so much in my life.

  He makes even supermarket shopping hilarious. He does this thing where he slips odd items into people’s trolleys when they aren’t looking. A pack of panty liners for the man in the business suit. A can of dog food for the woman busy weighing her pears. We never wait around for their reaction at the till. It’s funnier just to imagine the bafflement on their faces when they get to the check-out.

  Apart from the time he picked up clothes and other belongings from his flat in Guildford, we haven’t actually been apart since that afternoon at King’s Cross.

  I’m in my bedroom, on the phone to Anna, discussing when best to hold the summer fayre. The consensus seems to be June.

  Erik wanders into the room. He’s completely naked except for my purple polka dot scarf that for some reason he’s tied round his head, bandana-style. I giggle and Anna immediately demands to know what’s happening.

  ‘Nothing.’ I turn away to the window. ‘Sorry, Anna. What were you saying?’

  He always does this when I’m on the phone. Playing the fool and distracting me.

  ‘Is Erik there with you?’

  ‘Er, yes, he is.’ And any second now he’s going to start kissing the back of my neck or sliding his hand into my jeans so you’d better be quick and tell me what you want.

  ‘My God, he’s keen. Does he ever go home?’

  ‘Not so far.’ I skip nimbly out of his way as he advances towards me.

  ‘Well, how about a drink tomorrow night? At the Lazy Pheasant?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I pant, running into the study and hiding behind the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demands. ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  Erik’s hand reaches round the door.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeak, and throw the phone on the bed before he pins me to the wall.

  ‘Do we have to go to this pub tonight?’

  We’re lying in bed the following morning and I should have been up two hours ago.

  ‘Yes. We absolutely do,’ I tell him sternly.

  Erik heaves a sigh. ‘Remind me what it’s called? The Work-shy Weasel? The Skiving Stoat? The Bollock Idle Badger?’

  My yawn turns into a giggle. I roll onto my side, hook my leg over his, and push myself up on one elbow. ‘It’s called the Lazy Pheasant. And anyway, I thought you wanted to meet Anna and Jess.’

  ‘I do. We’ll probably have a lot in common.’

  ‘What? Big thighs and a hairy chest?’

  ‘Funny,’ he says, tweaking my nipple. ‘No, I just mean they love you and I love you.’

  ‘Oh.’ I lie back down and nestle into his shoulder.

  I love you.

  Gosh.

  Does he mean it?

  Isn’t it a bit too soon to start saying stuff like that?

  But perhaps he meant ‘I love you’ in a general way. As in ‘I love Italy’ or ‘I love the crispy bits left in the pan when I fry bacon’.

  ‘So don’t you love me, then?’ He turns on his side and adopts a pre-tickling pose.

  I burst out laughing and he pounces, his fingers on the sensitive zones at the side of my waist.

  ‘Get off!’ I shriek.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘You know what!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’

  His fingers are moving disturbingly close to my feet. ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, yes. Unless you want me to carry on.’

  ‘OK, OK, I love you!’

  The tickling stops abruptly. ‘That’s better. Now, I’m willing to share you with your friends at the Lazy Pheasant tonight on one condition.’

  I giggle. ‘What’s that?’

  The condition turns out to be more sex. Immediately.

  I’ve only just got down to fulfilling my end of the deal when the doorbell rings.

  My dressing gown is nowhere in sight so I grab the towel Erik flung on the floor last night after his shower and run downstairs. Opening the front door, I peer round, flushed and happy.

  My smile vanishes.

  Dan Parsons.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  ‘Hi?’ I look at him quizzically, then remember I’m sem
i-naked and flush bright red.

  Oh God, maybe he’s come to warn me he’s started home deliveries in the area. I swallow hard. If that happens, my little business doesn’t stand a chance.

  He gives my bare legs a cursory glance. ‘I’ve brought a van.’

  ‘A van?’ I hold the towel with one hand and try to tame my mad hair with the other.

  He looks over his shoulder. ‘It’s old but reliable. Selling it would be more bother than it’s worth.’

  I stare up at him. He looks different today. Maybe it’s the formal clothes he’s wearing. Dark suit, white shirt and a loosened tie. He still looks as if he hasn’t slept in weeks.

  Then I realise. It’s the hair. It’s grown a little. He no longer looks like he’s had a run-in with a lawn mower.

  ‘It has six months’ MOT and road tax,’ he’s saying, and I look at him in confusion.

  Why is he here, telling me about his mode of transport? I peer round him at the van in question, and the towel slips a little.

  For a fraction of a second, Dan Parsons’ eyes slip, too.

  ‘Sorry, am I interrupting something?’ he asks suddenly.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I say airily. ‘I’ve been in the shower.’ And just in case he thinks I’m the type of woman who entertains lovers during the day and grievously neglects her business, I add, ‘I’m quite alone, actually.’

  Right on cue, a toilet flushes upstairs and Erik emerges from the bathroom belting out a very masculine version of ‘Amarillo’.

  I grin stupidly.

  Dan Parsons’ look would freeze an erupting volcano.

  ‘Well, since I obviously am interrupting something, I won’t keep you.’ He turns away. ‘Give me a ring if you want to use it.’

  ‘The Iceman Cometh,’ I mutter darkly as I close the door behind him.

  It’s only as I’m climbing the stairs that I realise the Iceman had Cometh to offer his van to me.

  The Lazy Pheasant is an old-fashioned pub in a rambling mellow stone building on the outskirts of Fieldhorn. It seems an odd choice of Anna’s for a night out, I think, as Erik turns into the car park. It’s known for its real ale and regulars. Not at all like the chic places Anna schmoozes her clients, where the women in tiny, tan-revealing dresses are as effervescent as the flutes of champagne.