The Secret Mother(50)

‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Want me to bring anything?’

‘Just you.’

I shower and change, deciding not to go overboard, opting for jeans, a pale blue wool jumper and a pair of navy suede ankle boots with spike heels – my one concession to the fact that it’s a Saturday night. Is this a date? I wonder.

There’s no way I’m walking over there in these heels, so I decide to make use of the hire car. I check myself in the hall mirror – my hair’s still a bit damp, but it’ll be fine. My face could do with a bit of help, though. I root around in my bag for a lipstick, find one rolling around the bottom and take off the lid. Pale pink, that’ll do. I smear it on lightly and press my lips together. Okay. I’m ready, I think. No, I am. One last glance in the mirror, and I leave the house and walk down the pathway onto the gloriously empty pavement.



* * *



The drive over to Moretti’s only takes five minutes. I spend those minutes trying to analyse how I feel about Ben. He’s a great employer. He’s a nice guy. He’s good-looking, maybe even handsome. Yes, definitely handsome. Going to his house for dinner has to be a date, doesn’t it? I realise I’m nervous – as in butterflies-in-the-stomach nervous. Which is ridiculous, given that it’s just Ben. But maybe that’s because he’s never been on my radar as anything other than a boss and a friend. I’ve only known him since I started working at Moretti’s, but we clicked straight away – same sense of humour, I guess. I need to keep it that way – strictly platonic. I can’t afford to lose my job, and I don’t have the mental energy for a relationship. There’s too much other crap going on in my life right now.

Suddenly assailed by a flurry of doubts, I use the back of my hand to wipe off my lipstick. Don’t want to send out the wrong signals. I’m regretting wearing heels, too. Oh, for God’s sake, Tess. Pull yourself together. I could hardly have turned up in my work fleece.

Ben welcomes me into his hallway and takes my coat. ‘You look lovely,’ he says.

I mumble a thank-you. He looks incredible in dark jeans and a bottle-green open-necked shirt, his dark hair flopping forward over one eye. Even in heels, I still only come up to his shoulder. As we lean forward to kiss on the cheek, I realise he smells good, too – citrusy and masculine. Damn, I need to get a grip.

‘Really sorry,’ I say. ‘I should’ve brought some wine. I feel awful that I didn’t get you anything.’

‘You offered. I told you not to,’ he says with a smile.

‘Well, I know. It still feels rude to arrive empty-handed.’ I follow him into the kitchen, where he turns and places a glass of red wine in my hand.

‘There,’ he says. ‘You’re not empty-handed any more.’

‘Thanks, but I’m driving.’

‘No problem. I’ll call you a cab later.’

I pause, take a sip. ‘This is delicious.’

He grins and pours a glass for himself. ‘Saluti,’ he says, clinking my glass.

‘Saluti,’ I reply, feeling like a fraud. The extent of my Italian is ciao and spaghetti.

‘You sit there and talk to me for a minute,’ he says, gesturing to a chair at the rustic kitchen table. ‘I need to check on my sauce.’

‘Smells gorgeous,’ I say, sitting down, my mouth beginning to water. I take another sip of wine. ‘What are you cooking?’

‘Ravioli capresi,’ he says, standing at the range and flinging a tea towel over one shoulder. ‘My mum’s recipe. Be ready in about five minutes.’

A cream jug sits in the centre of the table filled with winter daffodils. I try to imagine Scott cooking Italian food for me and filling a vase with flowers. The closest he’d have come to that would’ve been a takeaway pizza and wilting carnations from the local garage. But I know I’m being uncharitable – Scott doesn’t own a garden centre or have Italian parents. Maybe thinking mean things about him is my way of coping with him leaving me behind.

‘Can I help at all?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s all under control. Can’t have anyone messing up my perfectly orchestrated menu.’ Ben narrows his eyes, then grins, and we chat about mundane things – work and the weather and such – until he brings over two terracotta bowls of ravioli garnished with basil and Parmesan. He places one of the bowls in front of me, and then sits so we’re at right angles to one another. Strangely, this feels more intimate than sitting opposite him, his arm now only a hand’s width from mine.

‘I’m famished,’ I say.

‘Good. Oh, hang on, I forgot the salad.’ He goes to the fridge, brings a bowl of red and green leaves to the table.

‘From the garden?’ I ask.

‘Where else? Help yourself to dressing.’

‘Oh my God, this is like eating sunshine,’ I say through a mouthful of creamy pasta and tomato sauce.

‘Glad you like it.’

We eat in silence for a few moments. It’s a little awkward, but not painfully so. I try to push all the other stuff out of my head, but it’s hard to be in the moment when so much is crowding my mind.

‘Not out partying on a Saturday night, then?’ I ask.

‘Nah. I’m not twenty-two any more.’

‘No, but you’re not ninety-two either.’