‘Understood.’
He lifts the lid on the platter, revealing a mound of hot food. French toast, crispy bacon, tomatoes, scrambled egg.
‘Would you look at that? Shall I be mother?’
‘Go ahead.’
Picking up the serving spoons, he shovels a pile of bacon onto my plate.
‘Well done on the exhibition, by the way. You were a star last night. Gordon told me all about it.’
Oh God, the interview.
‘Everything?’ I ask.
‘Everything.’
So, maybe that’s why he veered away from pain last night. No spanking. No biting. Now that I’ve confirmed the whole lack of self-esteem thing, perhaps we’re going pain-free forever. I can only hope I’m wrong. Picking up a fork, I watch as a dollop of scrambled egg joins the bacon and sense an unwanted slump of disappointment. It’s partly down to the threatened cutback on mild masochism, but more to do with a realisation I’ve just had. Suddenly, it’s clear. What I thought I’d achieved myself was simply part of the ruse.
‘You were behind it all.’ I prod the bacon. ‘The exhibition. I thought I’d done it off my own back.’
He slides a tomato onto my plate and pauses, holding the spoons in mid-air.
‘You did,’ he reassures me. ‘Gordon wouldn’t have agreed to showing the triptych if he didn’t think it was brilliant.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He goes back to dishing out the food, adding a couple of slices of French toast onto my meal before he begins on his own. ‘He’s willing to help but he’s got his limits. The truth is he’s smitten with your work. All the attention you had last night, all the admiration – you earned it all. I couldn’t have set that up if I tried.’
I look out of the window. More snow is falling now, smothering the park. It’s freezing outside, but try as it might, the cold can’t reach me. Even without high-end double-glazing and a state-of-the-art heating system, I’d still be glowing with warmth. It’s true. None of those people would have faked their admiration for my work, and Gordon wouldn’t risk his reputation as a favour for Dan. A smile creeps across my face. Maya Scotton, the artist, has finally made her mark.
And she needs to apologise.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Being a difficult arse.’
‘You’re just being yourself.’ Satisfied with his own massive plateful of food, he lays down the spoons. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, I can be difficult too.’
‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
He glances at my side plate, chews at his bottom lip.
‘When you’re the big I-am in the art world, and I’m an art gallery-owning ex-CEO of a building company, will you still love me?’
‘How could I ever stop?’
He hesitates.
‘Tell me something,’ he says, picking up his knife and fork. ‘When we first met and I behaved like a total prick, making one mistake after another, you stuck with me. Why did you do that?’
‘I must have seen the possibilities. It’s like when people go and look at a house, when they’re thinking of buying it.’
His forehead creases. He’s clearly not following.
‘Some people can’t see past the furnishing and decoration,’ I explain further. ‘Other people see the potential. They see what’s at the heart of it.’
‘And that’s you?’
‘I think so.’
‘So, I’m some shabby old house?’
‘Very badly decorated, complete with appalling furniture, shag pile carpets and a disgusting avocado bathroom suite.’
‘I think you’ve extended that metaphor far enough.’
He looks at me some more, totally relaxed now, and a hint of devilry creeps into his eyes. Shaking himself into action, he cuts a slice of French toast.
‘Eat,’ he orders.
I pick at a piece of bacon and slip it into my mouth.
He tuts, pointing his knife at my plate.
‘Use the napkin.’
‘I’m alright.’ I munch on, happily.
‘I said use your napkin.’
Well, this is weird. After all this time, Daniel Foster’s finally decided to reveal he’s a stickler for good habits at the table? Well, if he has, then he’s on a hiding to nothing. I’ll eat my own way.
‘I’m really not a napkin kind of girl.’
His face straightens. His eyes steel over. He speaks again, his tone low and determined, emphasising each word.
‘Use … your … napkin.’
‘Stop being so bloody bossy.’
‘Use the sodding napkin.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
With a huff, I pick up the napkin, hear the clink of metal and immediately catch sight of a ring on the side dish. My heartbeat triples.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, waving my napkin over the ring.
‘Uh?’ As if nothing out of the ordinary’s going on, he tucks into his scrambled egg.
‘This?’ Holding the napkin in one hand, I point at the ring with the other.
‘Oh, that?’ He leans forward, squinting at my side plate. ‘Looks like a ring.’ With another shrug, he shovels up a second forkful of egg.
‘What’s it doing here?’
The egg disappears into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and licks his lips.
‘Dunno.’
‘Dan?’
With a sigh, he puts down his knife and fork, and picks up the ring.
‘Maybe it’s the maid’s,’ he suggests, turning it in the light.
‘Of course it is.’ We’re playing another game of silly buggers, and I’m definitely going to win. ‘But it’s expensive. She’s a careless woman leaving it here.’
‘Definitely a careless woman,’ he muses, examining the ring as if he’s never seen it before. ‘I’d say it’s made of platinum. Perfect for the woman who prefers silver to gold but deserves to be treated to something really special.’
‘The maid’s a lucky woman.’
‘And careless to boot. That’s a diamond in the setting.’ He squints again. ‘In fact, I’d say this is a one carat
