walked in relaxed silence to the parade of shops round the corner. ‘Red or white?’ Becky asked.
‘Either.’
She opted for both: a fruity New Zealand sauvignon blanc and a rioja.
He hailed a taxi, gave the driver his address, and insisted on paying the fare at the other end. ‘No arguments, this time,’ he told Becky.
His house was a Victorian terrace, set in a leafy, tree-lined road. The kind of house she would’ve loved—the kind she and Michael had planned to move to. Except his price had been too high, one she just hadn’t been prepared to pay. Especially after all the dreams had come crashing down round her. And there was no way she could afford a house on her own, so after the divorce she’d gone back to renting.
‘Nice house,’ she said as he ushered her inside. The décor didn’t give much away—the colour scheme was neutral and there weren’t any prints on the wall—but if he’d only just moved in he probably hadn’t had time to change it to suit his tastes.
‘That’s what I thought when I looked around. I need to check with the agency if I can put anything on the walls, but in the meantime I can live with it.’
So it was rented rather than his own. Not that it was so surprising. Even if he planned to buy a house, it would take time to sort out.
‘Let me get you a drink. Would you like a glass of wine, or would you prefer coffee for now?’
‘I’d love a coffee, actually. Thank you.’
‘De res.’ Her confusion must have been obvious, because he smiled. ‘That’s “You’re welcome”.’
She smiled back. ‘So you’re going to teach me some Catalan?’
‘Sure. But let’s eat first, yes?’
She followed him into the kitchen.
‘Would you rather eat here or in the dining room?’ he asked.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Here, then.’ He gestured to the chair and switched the kettle on. ‘How do you take your coffee?’
‘A little milk, no sugar, please.’ And most of the time, at work, it was cold.
‘Are you OK with chicken?’ he asked.
‘Lovely. Anything I can do to help?’
‘No, it’s fine. Do you mind if I put some music on? I prefer cooking to music.’
‘Sure.’ Though Becky really, really hoped he didn’t like the kind of dance music they’d been playing at the party. She liked the kind of music you could sing along to, something with a tune.
It seemed that Leandro preferred classical—she didn’t recognise the soft, gentle guitar piece, but liked what she heard. ‘That’s pretty. What is it?’
‘One of Mozart’s divertimenti. One of my favourites for chilling out.’
‘So the music at the party really wasn’t your sort of thing.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I must be getting old.’
Hardly. She felt the same. ‘You don’t look older than your early thirties.’
‘I’m thirty-five. And I do like contemporary music…just not the stuff they were playing.’ He handed her a mug of coffee: just as she liked it, strong with just a splash of milk. So he’d been listening to what she’d said. That, in her experience, made a very pleasant change.
‘Gràcies,’ she said.
He looked pleased that she’d tried to use his own language. ‘De res,’ he said, and started preparing their meal. He worked swiftly and accurately, she noticed, slicing and chopping. ‘Are you a chef?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘No. I just enjoy cooking. It relaxes me—that, and good music.’
He didn’t venture any information about what he did for a living, and Becky wasn’t in the mood for being pushy. She’d been pushed too hard herself over the last few days, and right now she just wanted to relax and unwind and not have to think about anything at all. She sipped her coffee and enjoyed listening to the music and watching him sizzle chicken in a pan.
‘That smells gorgeous,’ she said.
‘Twenty minutes, and it’ll be done.’ He rummaged in the fridge, arranged a few things on a plate, and brought it over to the little kitchen table.
‘Tapas?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Though strictly speaking it’s tapes in Catalan. I’m sorry, this is a bit scrappy because I wasn’t planning to entertain—just some Manzanilla olives, chorizo and cheese. But it’ll keep us going until the chicken is done.’ He took two wineglasses from the cupboard. ‘Red or white?’
‘Either.’
‘Red, then.’ He opened the bottle of rioja. ‘Nice choice,’ he said, pouring them both a glass, and sat down opposite her. ‘Well. Salut.’ He raised his glass.
She did likewise. ‘Cheers.’
It was easy to relax with Leandro—he kept the conversation light and didn’t push past her personal boundaries. By the time he brought over their main course, Becky was thoroughly relaxed.
‘This looks gorgeous.’
‘Pollastre romesco—chicken with romesco sauce. It’s a mixture of almonds, tomato, garlic and vinegar. And this is espinacas a la Catalana—spinach with raisins and pine nuts,’ he added, gesturing to the green vegetable. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any potatoes. But would you like some bread with your meal?’
‘No, this is fine, thanks.’ She tasted a mouthful. ‘Wow. You’re a fantastic cook.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled. ‘Spanish food and drink isn’t just paella and sherry, you know.’
‘It sounds as if you’re sick of being stereotyped.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘So many people think that Spain is all about bullfights and guitars and waiters called Manuel. And there’s much more to it than that.’
‘Tell me,’ she invited. And when he described the buildings and the festivals and the fireworks and the human ‘towers’ of acrobats reaching up nine storeys, his eyes glittering with enthusiasm for his native city, she could just imagine herself there.
For dessert, Leandro offered her nectarines, and then he made more coffee and brought out a box of chocolates. Really, really good chocolates. Ones she adored but almost never bought for herself because she couldn’t justify the indulgence except on her birthday or at Christmas.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is perfect. A million times better than what was on offer at Joe’s.’
‘So how come
