up a notch as she was handed a wine list as long as her arm, the offerings mostly in French. ‘But I don’t know anything about wine.’
‘Let me pick that,’ Mark said. ‘Just focus on the food.’
‘Oh, right,’ Cat said, ‘OK.’ She felt a burst of anger that he was taking charge, that he’d brought her to a place where she couldn’t be in control of her choices. But then, was that his fault? It was Jessica who’d suggested this place, and the reminder of that didn’t make her feel any better. She glanced over the menu, her eyes widening at the descriptions: Seared, hand-dived scallops; Beetroot with nuts, seaweed and chocolate.
‘This place is something else,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
She tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but Mark looked up, a hint of a frown lowering his brows. ‘We just need to pick what we like the look of, identify some ingredients we know. Beetroot and chocolate?’
Cat screwed her face up.
‘You’ve never had chocolate beetroot cake?’
Cat shook her head. ‘You have?’
‘No,’ Mark said, grinning. ‘It sounds disgusting. Jessica’s really outdone herself here,’ he said, eyes scanning the menu again. ‘One of them looks like it might be a steak, if you ignore the fancy bits. Do you like steak?’
Cat smiled, loosening up a little; Mark’s cheeky good humour was starting to infiltrate her tense mood. ‘Love it. And I think that starter is pâté and toast, even though it says galantine de canard with organic olive crostini and champagne jam.’
‘What a waste of champagne.’ Mark shook his head. ‘But that’s two courses we’ve deciphered. Let’s leave the pudding and be spontaneous, pick the one that makes the least sense.’
‘And the wine?’ Cat held up the wine list.
‘We could make up for the jam and have champagne.’
‘But you’re driving.’
‘I can have one glass.’
‘No, wait—’ but Mark had already called the waiter over, and Cat didn’t want to hiss at him to stop, so she focused on the orange glow of the sun as it sank over the horizon. If she lived somewhere with a view like this then she’d give up on life. She’d sit in a chair, slowly fusing with the fabric as she watched the changing sea and sky, the clouds, the sun, birds and boats passing her …
‘Cat?’
‘Sorry.’ She turned back and smiled. The lights in the restaurant had dimmed, a candle in a tarnished silver holder flickering between them, and Mark was looking at her with his dark, smiling eyes. Cat felt the butterflies low down in her stomach.
‘If I’d known this place was going to be quite so pretentious, I would have taken you somewhere else.’
‘It’s definitely impressive. And the view is stunning.’
‘I was going for special, not incomprehensible.’
Cat shook her head. ‘I’m sure the food will be delicious, even if the descriptions are a bit over the top. Mark, you’ve brought me to a beautiful restaurant for dinner. There’s nothing to apologize for.’ She felt that maybe, after her initial awkwardness and nerves, things were changing. He was apologizing – she’d never seen him anything but entirely confident up until now – so perhaps she was about to see beyond his charm and flippancy, and discover more of the real him? This was what she’d been waiting for, and she wasn’t about to let the chance slip by. ‘Tell me about your films. I want to know everything.’
‘Everything?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not about the disaster.’ ‘Especially the disaster.’
She listened intently, pausing only when the waiter interrupted them with the champagne, as Mark told her about writing the screenplays, about the challenge of finding someone to make them, the shooting process, artistic differences, location nightmares. His films sounded like the gritty British horrors that Cat would find late at night on BBC2 and turn off, because she couldn’t bear the thought of going to bed alone afterwards. Not Hollywood slashers, full of glamorous people and too much unrealistic blood, but dark corners on dingy estates, things lurking where they shouldn’t, scenarios on the edge of being possible.
Since they’d met, Mark had been smooth and over-confident, but now he was self-deprecating, telling Cat about mistakes he’d made, personality clashes, upsetting one lead actress by mistaking her for the make-up assistant. He made Cat laugh, and he seemed entirely focused on her, the candlelight flickering along his handsome jawline. It was still smug, but now that smugness seemed somewhat justified.
Mark topped up her glass as their empty plates – which had contained excellent pâté and toast – were cleared away.
‘It’s another world,’ Cat said. ‘It sounds impossible, juggling all the different elements, making sure everything works and the film gets made. And everyone swallows them up in an hour and a half and then forgets about them.’
‘Or not,’ Mark said. ‘Like everything creative, some films stay with people for a long time. That’s all I’m trying to do, make a film that matters to some people.’
‘You know, you don’t look like a horror-film writer.’
‘And what’s a horror-film writer supposed to look like?’ Mark narrowed his eyes, and Cat could see that he was intrigued, wanting to know what she thought of him.
‘Grungy,’ Cat said. ‘You’re so polished, and…effortless. You’re not dressed in a Marilyn Manson T-shirt, sitting in a dark corner, scribbling madly and watching Hammer Horror reruns.’
‘How do you know I don’t do that? That’s exactly what I do when I’m writing.’
‘Come on, Mark.’
‘Have you studied horror writers?’
Cat shook her head. ‘You think I should have done some research for tonight?’
Mark laughed. ‘I would have been touched, and perhaps a little disturbed, if you had. But you should google some famous horror writers. Sam Raimi, of Evil Dead fame, could pass as a mild-mannered businessman. And if you’re after polished, take a look at a photo of Wes Craven.’
‘The Scream films?’
‘And A Nightmare on Elm Street. Good smile, nice suits. You don’t have to look like a freak to want to write about freakish things, but I do get obsessed when I’m in the middle of a story, neglecting everything else. It’s a good thing I have Chips to remind me when it’s food time, or I’d slowly starve to death.
‘And if we’re talking stereotypes, what about you? You’re not a typical dog walker. I think of middle-aged, fleece-wearing women with scrappy ponytails, unbranded trainers and an inability to converse with anything that has less than four legs. You’re none of those things.’
‘That’s what I’m gearing up for,’ Cat said. ‘Give me a few years…’ She grinned. ‘Do you want to leave now?’
