fridge, the fresh contents that were in it. Then he took a longer look in all the cupboards and he checked out the freezer and he wondered to himself, was I really that much of a slovenly old dog? And he thought perhaps he had been. And he wondered, why did she do it? Doesn't she have anything better to do? And he thought perhaps she doesn't which, for his ends, was no bad thing. He thought back to Mrs Dunn. He'd made the right decision – for the old place. He wondered if Tess felt the same – it continued to strike him as odd that a young woman should move from the liveliness and opportunities of the capital city to keep house for a sometimes snide bloke in a sleepy seaside town in the North.
‘I could throw a pasta dish together,’ he told Tess when she arrived back soon after. ‘The cupboard fairy appears to have updated my herb rack.’
Tess smiled a little shyly; aware of the peace offering. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I bought olive oil and balsamic vinegar – they're only small bottles but it was a twin pack, on special offer in Real Foods. I reorganized your wines in that cupboard. White on the upper shelf, red beneath. I hope that's OK.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It is OK,’ he said. ‘Say, eight-ish?’
So she repeated eight-ish and they nodded at each other, appeased.
Joe went to his study, shutting his door, leaving Tess to fill the rest of the afternoon doing whatever it was she finds to do in this old house of his.
Do I dress for dinner? Tess wonders while popping the snap-fastenings on Em's night-time babygro. ‘Shall I?’ She pauses. ‘Stop it.’ She pauses again. ‘Not you, Em – me. We'd probably be in the kitchen preparing our supper at the same time anyway. It's just convenience.’ She snuffles Em's tummy much to the baby's delight, scoops the child up and watches their reflection in the window. She often gazes at the sight of herself holding her child in this particular embrace; it is an image that cannot be bettered.
I love you, little girl. I love you. You and me, my baby, you and me.
She puts Em down in the cot, switches on the night-light, winds up the music box, watches her a while longer, then tiptoes from the room.
She hasn't many clothes but she does want to change. There's her denim skirt, a skinny black polo – a total makeover from the bagginess of her daytime garb. There's an unopened pair of black tights too. No suitable footwear really, only trainers. She'll go shoeless – she's noted that Joe never wears shoes inside, just chunky socks with or without his well-worn moccasin slippers. The latter are usually at the say-so of Wolf, who likes to take them tenderly to bed with him.
She puts on a little mascara for the first time since London and sits at the mirror having a look. You are a bit mad, she says to herself. Dressing for dinner with a man you don't know in a house you're treating as your own, you deluded thing.
It has just gone eight. She waits until ten past – indulging in a woman's prerogative to be late-ish when the plan was eight-ish.
But he isn't in the kitchen and there's nothing on the stove and the herbs are still in the cupboard and there are no sounds of life coming from the study. She stands there a while, furious that she should feel dejected, for feeling suddenly self-conscious in a stupid skirt. And brand bloody new, black bloody tights. Don't even mention the mascara. The stone floor is cold; through the soles of her feet she can feel the chill snaking an insidious path up her body. She is just wondering whether to add socks to her ensemble or change outfits completely when the back door opens and Joe appears, followed by Wolf who bounds to her in a skitter of muddy affection.
‘Bloody hell, Wolf,’ Joe says, ‘it's only been a couple of hours.’ He looks at Tess. ‘It must be love.’ He looks at the kitchen clock. ‘Shit. Sorry.’ He looks at Tess again. She looks different. She's in a skirt. Good legs. Something about her eyes. Nice though. Shame Wolf has left his mark. ‘Are you hungry?’
She nods.
‘Thirsty?’
She smiles as she nods.
‘Wine? Water?’
She looks a little embarrassed.
‘Wine?’ Joe helps.
‘Please – I mean, if you're having.’
‘Red or white?’
Again, she looks self-conscious.
‘This is a nice red,’ Joe says and they chink glasses and sip quietly.
‘Many hands make light work?’ Joe says as he plucks up an onion and throws it underarm to Tess. She catches it, much to Wolf's chagrin, who has been sitting quietly focused at her side.
‘Slice?’ she asks. ‘Dice?’
‘Finely chop, please.’
‘Is this for a secret recipe?’
‘It's my “if-you've-got-it, chuck-it-in” speciality,’ he says and once she's done the onion, he sets her to work on the tomatoes. Bolstered by the wine, it is a genial and industrious atmosphere and, when they aren't working their knives or humming to themselves, they talk lightly about their time apart. Joe finds out what she's been up to whilst he's been gone and Tess discovers he's off again, to London, then possibly straight on to France.
‘This smells good, don't you think?’ ‘It smells lovely. A welcome change from toast and Marmite.’
‘Is that what you live on?’ Joe gives her a stern but theatrical frown. He stirs the sauce and proffers the wooden spoon towards her lips. She would have preferred to take it off him but, a little self-consciously, she comes closer and sips straight from his spoon. She licks her lips and hums approval. He is looking at her intently and for a suspended moment they lock eyes before Tess turns away; calls herself crazy, tells herself she's been too long without male company, that it's ridiculous to melt just a little just because he's spooned sauce into her mouth. Joe notes the reddening to her cheeks and, when she turns away, he is left looking at the nape of her neck and he can't deny that it is all rather Thomas Hardy again. He's doing an Alec D'Urberville – albeit feeding this Tess sauce off a spoon instead of a strawberry by hand. He can see that she feels awkward and actually this quite stirs him. Also, he can see that she is unaware how this emotion affects her looks and actually, he likes the look of her. And he liked the look of her lips parting for his spoon, the feel of her mouth against it, the closeness of her body. The nape of her neck.
‘I'd better check on Em,’ she's saying and while she is upstairs, she takes off her mascara, looks at herself in the mirror and thinks she looks worse which, bizarrely, makes her feel better.
The pasta is in bowls on the table when she returns.
‘Seasoned with tarragon and sage,’ Joe announces, not actually noting any difference in barefaced Tess. ‘I like the labels you drew – very artistic.’
Tess has no complaints about toast and Marmite but Joe's pasta really does taste good. As it warms her, it thaws her awkwardness. ‘That Everything Shop is a treasure trove.’
Joe laughs, he knows exactly which shop she's referring to. ‘That's why I have a tab there.’
Tess stops chewing.
‘If you need anything for the house, just stick it on my tab,’ he clarifies.
She
