She didn’t want to talk about that. Not that she wasn’t grateful for his support – she knew how lucky she was to have him. It was more that she didn’t want to face the reality of going home.
It was like she’d been in rehab and now had to see if she could keep her sobriety back in the real world. It was scary.
‘That sounds good.’ She hoped he didn’t notice how quiet her voice was.
‘Are you OK?’ Of course he noticed. ‘I thought you’d be happier about that. My God, if you could write the way you did when you were eighteen, I can only imagine what you can produce now. All the emotion, the angst you’ve been through. It’s perfect training for a writer.’
‘I’m fine.’ She tried to sound resolute. ‘Honestly, you don’t need to worry about me.’ It was such a familiar refrain, but this time – for the first time in six years – it was true.
Hugh was quiet for a moment. She tried to picture him in his London apartment, sitting on one of his antique chairs. In her mind she could see rain pebbling against the window, obscuring the grey clouds outside. ‘Well, let me know when you’re ready to come home. I can arrange for you to be picked up at the airport. Do you know where you’re planning to live? I could clear out my spare bedroom.’
‘I’ll find somewhere,’ she said. ‘If the worst comes to the worst I can stay with my father for a few days. And you don’t need to pick me up, I can use the Underground. I can afford it now.’ Not for long, though. Not without a job or benefits.
‘Well, the offer’s always open. I’m looking forward to seeing you. And to reading your play.’
‘I’m looking forward to it, too.’ A tiny lie. Because she loved him, and at any other time it would be true.
When she arrived back at the villa, arms laden with food, Sam was waiting for her at the gate. He’d taken a chair out there and was editing her work in the sun, crossing through her words. He looked up when he heard her approaching, a smile breaking out on his face. She wanted him to lift his sunglasses, too, so she could see his eyes. She hated it when she couldn’t see them.
‘I hope you’re wearing sunscreen,’ she said, as he took the bags from her hands. ‘It’s almost midday.’
‘I hope you are, too,’ he said pointedly. ‘Especially with your pale skin.’
She looked down at her arms. ‘I’m not pale. Well, not any more, anyway.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Parts of you are.’ She sensed his gaze sweeping down over her body. Was it wrong that she liked his appreciation?
‘You don’t exactly have an all-over tan,’ she said, as they crunched their way along the gravelled driveway.
‘No I don’t.’ His smile was slow, but devastating. ‘But I don’t think sunbathing naked would do a whole lot for my public profile.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, I think you’re wrong. Imagine the girls’ reactions when they see how . . . um . . . impressive you are.’
Sam chuckled. ‘You think I’m impressive?’
How did she manage to get herself into these conversations? For a girl who was supposed to be good at words, she managed to get tied up in knots whenever she was talking to Sam.
‘As I told you, I don’t have that much experience.’ She grinned, running lightly up the steps to the front door.
The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘You did tell me that.’ Was it her imagination or had his voice become lower and thicker? Much like the atmosphere between them.
‘I wonder if it’s possible for us to talk without innuendos,’ Cesca said.
‘That would be very boring,’ he replied. ‘I like talking to you in innuendos.’
‘You do?’
He laughed again. Everything he did only heightened her attraction to him. She hated that. She loved it too.
‘It’d be boring if we just talked about the weather. And pretty unsexy if we used all the anatomical words. Innuendos seem like a good compromise to me.’
‘In that case, I found your, ah, flashlight very impressive.’
Sam spluttered. ‘My flashlight? Wow, I’m not sure if that’s an innuendo or just an insult.’
‘Is it too small?’ she asked. ‘Too big? Is there a better way of describing it?’
‘How about my cock?’