ChapterThirty-Eight
‘We’re late,’Lexie said, standing with hands on hips, glaring across the room at Owen, who, it seemed, would have to be surgically removed from his laptop.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Just this line. This one last line.’ Inwardly, he smiled grimly at the thought that this was the very first time in his life writing had become a displacement activity.
They had risen later than intended after some early morning cosiness had evolved into energetic sex. A quick shower together, and Lexie had gone out for a jog. He’d been invited but said he must finish the corrections to the chapter he was working on before he went anywhere. What he wanted was to forget where they were going later, and if he couldn’t use a large whisky for the purpose, then the next best thing was to throw himself into the fictitious world of Judge Maureen Macy.
Fifteen minutes after Lexie’s footsteps had echoed down the stairs, Owen rose from the laptop and contentedly padded barefoot into the kitchen. He switched the oven on to heat, ready to warm some croissants. Then tipped organic Arabica into the funnel on the coffeemaker, filled the reservoir with water, and flicked the switch. The machine would soon make homely gurgling and sucking noises, rather like an especially noisy suckling baby, before the kitchen would fill with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Only six days living here, but it already felt like home to Owen. He took plates from a cupboard and knives from a drawer, placed them on a tray and retrieved apricot conserve from the fridge. Everything prepared, on standby for Lexie’s return. He went back to the laptop, where Lexie found him when she burst into the room ten minutes later.
‘You’ve not changed,’ she said. ‘Is that coffee I can smell?’
‘No, I haven’t, and yes, it is,’ Owen said, rising from his seat. ‘I’ll put the croissants in the oven to warm.’
‘Hold on for five minutes …. I need a shower.’
Ten minutes later, Lexie had reappeared in her bathrobe, her skin pink and glowing, hair darkened, damp from washing.
Owen emerged from the kitchen, carrying their breakfast.
‘You look good. Pity we’ve got to go out.’ He grinned.
‘You’ve still not changed.’
His smile fell away, and he looked down at himself (regular Sunday apparel – jeans and sweatshirt). ‘Won’t this do? You didn’t say there was a dress code.’
Lexie hesitated. She knew her brother would probably turn up in jeans and a sweater. Kate would wear one of her classic little dresses, the sort that made her figure look like Betty Boop. For herself, the usual choice would have been something similar to her brother, but today she thought it might be better if she were a little dressy. Perhaps she would wear her woollen shift … it was smart without being too formal, and the weather was cold enough to warrant it.
Answering Owen’s question, she said, ‘There isn’t a dress code, but I thought we should look smart today.’
‘But I thought we were going to be route marched over the Downs after lunch by your father.’
‘We are, probably.’
‘So, my Savile row three-piece won’t be suitable.’
‘Do you own such a thing?’
‘Yes,’ Owen replied defensively. ‘Does that surprise you?’
* * *
They locked eyes.Was this the start of an argument? Their first, if you discounted the misunderstandings in the early days of working together. This, though, felt like a proper row brewing. The sort that starts over something trivial and ends with both parties saying regrettable things. She was nagging; he was snappy, and she would lay money he was trying to delay visiting her family. Lexie recognised displacement activity when she saw it.
Silently, Owen put the tray down and left the room.
Lexie stared at the breakfast Owen had prepared, and she wanted to cry. Their first Sunday together in her flat as a proper couple should have been happy. They’d woken warm and comfortable in each other’s arms. They’d snuggled together, flirted and chatted about nothing in particular. They’d had brilliant sex. As thoughtful as ever, he had made a lovely breakfast while she was out jogging. It had been perfect until now.
Owen returned. He’d swapped his jeans for a pair of fawn chinos, teamed with a mostly navy plaid shirt of heavy fabric and a lightweight, possibly cashmere, navy v-neck pullover. His feet were still bare, so it was anyone’s guess what he planned for them, but the rest of him looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Burberry advert if you ignored the fact that the shirt needed ironing.
‘Will this do?’ he asked, challengingly.
‘Perfect.’ Lexie poured a coffee and handed it to him.
‘Thanks.’
They sat on the sofa side by side, not quite touching, and ate their breakfast, mostly in silence.
‘I’ll clear away while you get dressed.’ Owen stood up, and Lexie headed for the bedroom and her woollen shift, biting her lip to prevent herself from asking what shoes Owen intended wearing. When she returned fifteen minutes later, he was back at his laptop, scowling at the screen and typing furiously.
