Maame(33)

Jo considers me. “You’re going on a date with a rich man,” she says. “Isn’t sexy what you want to go for?”

At seventeen, I lived in trainers, jeans, and plain tops for summer, then layered one of James’s jumpers on for winter. My makeup routine extended as far as cheap mascara and lip gloss too pink for my skin tone.

I take the boots from Jo. Maybe sexy would be a nice change.



* * *



But only under a long black coat, I decide, before heading out on Saturday night.

When I’m out of the train station (because Uber had the audacity to try to charge me thirty-five pounds for the one-way trip) and on Ben’s road, I pull my coat closed.

“This is how the other half live,” I whisper. And it’s very different.

I walk under tall lampposts and pass men with jumpers around their necks and women on runs. Ben lives in a row of houses with actual stone pillars, polished door knockers, and sleek cars parked outside. When I reach his stone steps, I trip on my heel—on Jo’s fucking heel—and stand at his large black door. I can hear soft jazz music coming from behind it.

“Okay, Maddie,” I say under my breath. “Just be cool. Remember what you practiced. ‘Hi, Ben. Hi, Maddie.’ You ask how he is, then he’ll ask you and you tell him you had a chilled afternoon watching TV because both your flatmates were out. That’ll lead nicely onto, ‘Oh, tell me about your flatmates’ and—”

On second thought, is that a bit sad? Then Ben will know that if it weren’t for this date, I’d have no Saturday plans. Should I lie? What else can I say I was up to? Brunch? Yes, I went out to brunch with Cam and Jo.

I knock on his front door.

Actually, no, say you had brunch with Nia and Shu—widen your social circle.

When Ben opens the door, I freeze. I’d almost forgotten what he looks like and that night at the theater comes rushing back. In this lighting, his hair, brushed back by his fingers, interchanges between brown and black and his blue eyes intensify with the latter. And, yup, there are those stretched dimples.

“Maddie, I’m so glad you could make it.”

My mind blanks when I step inside and Ben turns me around by the waist to take off my coat. He’s dressed in gray trousers and a navy-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I tug on my dress because it really is short.

“You look amazing,” he says.

Say something about brunch. “Someone knows I’m here!” Fuck.

Thankfully, Ben laughs. “Maddie, I assure you, my intentions are not of an indecent kind. I promise I’m just making you dinner. Here,” and he offers me his arm, “let me take you to the kitchen.”

Tonight I discover that it doesn’t take much to placate me—I make a mental note to work on that.

Ben’s house is as fancy as his postcode. It’s on two floors and stretches far enough for me to see into his garden at the other end. His hallway floor is silver-gray wood and on the wall beside the staircase is a gold-framed mirror beside a dark oak coat stand. He leads me into a large open-plan space where two-thirds make up a kitchen of marble countertops with padded barstools and navy-blue cupboards. The remaining third is a dining area where, under hanging lights, is a table covered in linen and topped with place mats, cutlery, and glasses.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says. “Come and sit with me as I cook. You can be my taster.” He pulls a barstool from the other side of the counter so I’m sat inches away as he attends to various pans. There is something vulnerable about sitting on a barstool, and I think it’s down to the lack of armrests. If you’re not entirely centered, you can catch yourself mid-swivel. I try not to shuffle too much since Ben is so poised over his pots and pans and oven trays.

The music playing—I can’t see from where—travels enough to allow comfortable silence and I watch Ben as he cooks. Dating is a weird concept, isn’t it? I hardly know this man, he barely knows me, yet here I am, in his house, sat on his barstool watching him make dinner. But that’s fine because it’s a date?

He’s buttoned his shirt high enough that I didn’t think anything of it when I first saw him, but now, when he stretches forward, I can see the hair on his chest. I suffer from an overwhelming need to touch him, somewhere or anywhere. It’s so sudden, I have to breathe out slowly.

“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.”