‘Jasper, don’t.’ I couldn’t help giggling at his self-identification, regardless. ‘You are the prince. You’re my prince. You’re my king. I want you and I don’t want anybody else, but I need to know you inside and out before I can –’
‘Love me?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. God, this is all coming out all wrong.’
‘I just wanted to make you feel cared for, Sarah. I’m laying my cards on the table. Just in case, after what we did in the alley, you were thinking I only saw you as a … ugh. Forget it.’ He sighed and stuffed a forkful of veal in his mouth.
‘Don’t be pissy with me,’ I entreated. ‘I’m so happy with you. I’m worried that I’m infatuated or obsessed or addicted, though. I’m trying to be sensible.’
‘Well, then, there’s your problem,’ he said with the air of Einstein proving a theorem. ‘You should never be sensible. Take off the safety catch, love. Surrender to me.’
He said the last in a fruity, over-dramatic way that made it sound like a joke, but I didn’t think he was really joking. The word ‘surrender’ stuck in my mind and looped around it for the rest of the meal. What would it mean to really surrender to him?
‘My heart says yes,’ I told him, determined to be honest and frank. ‘But my heart doesn’t always make the best decisions.’
‘On the contrary, your heart is a sage,’ said Jasper. ‘You should show it more respect.’
‘Do you respect me?’ I asked, really needing to know.
‘I only brutally subjugate women I have the utmost respect for,’ he said.
‘Please don’t … it’s a serious question.’
He pushed his plate away and held my eyes for a heart-stopping minute.
‘That was a serious answer,’ he replied. ‘Now, are we on or off?’
‘On, of course. God. We are, aren’t we?’
‘Entirely up to you, my love,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to force you. Like I said at the very start, if you want it, you’ll get it. If you don’t, you won’t.’
‘I want it,’ I said, reaching for his hands.
He gave them, linking his fingers with mine.
‘Good. Let’s stop talking in circles, then, and get on with things.’
Our main courses arrived – Cornish cod for me, roasted quail for him – and the mood lightened with them.
‘What’s this proposition then, if it’s not going to one of Miss Frost’s parties?’
‘Ah,’ he said, chewing, then swallowing. ‘Yes. My proposition.’ He laid down his knife and fork and leant forwards. ‘How would you like to be in the movies?’
A strand of samphire clogged in my throat and I succumbed to a coughing fit.
‘You what?’ I struggled to say, picking up my glass and drinking its contents down.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘I want you to be in my film.’
‘I’m not an actor! I can’t act. I failed the audition for the university DramSoc’s production of Lady Windermere’s Fan. I’m hardly Hollywood material.’
‘You can act. You’re very good, in fact. That’s why I’m asking. But perhaps you’re one of those people who thinks acting is saying lines in a stagey voice.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘The other night, when you were being Walters … darling, you were Walters. You gave your all to that part. I could almost see your mind ticking away, working out what would be the most Walters-like thing to say or do. And you found the answers, unerringly.’
‘But … well, that was role-play.’