He steps away, glancing down at his groin area before adjusting himself. ‘I have to face a sweet old lady with this, and it’s entirely your fault.’ He lifts almost mischievous eyes to mine, throwing me off course again. It’s another expression from Miller Hart that’s alien to me. ‘Ready?’ he asks, sliding his palm around my neck and turning me towards the kitchen.
No, I don’t think I am ready, but I say yes anyway, knowing what I’m going to find in the kitchen. And I’m right on the money. Nan is smiling smugly and George’s eyes have just popped out of his head at the sight of Miller guiding me. I gesture to my nan’s long-suffering male companion. ‘Miller, this is George, my nan’s friend.’
‘Pleasure.’ Miller offloads the flowers and bag, rather than letting go of me, and accepts George’s hand, giving it a firm, manly shake. ‘That’s a rather dashing shirt you have on there, George.’ Miller nods at George’s striped chest genuinely.
‘You know, I think so, too,’ George agrees, stroking down his front.
I don’t know why I didn’t notice this before. George is in his Sunday best, usually reserved for bingo or church. Nan really is a conniving old bat. I cast my eyes over to her, noticing her floating, floral, button-up dress, also usually reserved for Sunday best. Looking down at myself, I note that I am far from practically dressed in my creased tea dress and hot-pink Converse, and suddenly uncomfortable with that, I pipe up.
‘I’m just going to use the bathroom.’ I’m not going anywhere until Miller releases me from his grasp, but he doesn’t seem in much of a hurry to do so.
Instead, he picks up the bouquet, a mass of yellow roses, and hands them to Nan, followed by the Harrods bag. ‘Just a few things to say thank you for your hospitality.’
‘Oohh!’ Nan shoves her nose into the bouquet, then her face into the bag. ‘Oh my, caviar! Oh, George, look!’ She drops the roses on the table and presents George with the tiniest jar. ‘Seventy pounds for that little thing,’ she whispers, but I don’t know why because we’re standing mere feet away and can hear her perfectly. I’m horrified. The plum is a distant memory and so is her decorum.
‘Seventy quid?’ George chokes. ‘For fish eggs? Well, slap me sideways!’
I sag under Miller’s hold, and then feel him start to massage my nape over my hair. ‘I’m going to use the bathroom,’ I repeat, twisting myself out from his grip.
‘Miller, you shouldn’t have.’ Nan removes a bottle of Dom Pérignon and flashes it at George with a gaping mouth.
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Miller replies.
‘Livy.’ Nan pulls my attention back to the table. ‘Have you offered to take Miller’s jacket?’
Turning tired eyes onto him, I smile, sickeningly sweetly. ‘Can I take your jacket, sir?’ I resist curtsying, and detect an amused glint in his eyes.
‘You may.’ He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to me, while I marvel at his shirt and waistcoat-covered chest. He knows that I’m staring at him, picturing his na**d chest. He leans in, dropping his mouth to my ear. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Livy,’ he warns. ‘I can barely contain myself as it is.’
‘I can’t help it.’ I’m honest in my quiet reply as I leave the kitchen, fanning my face before neatly draping his jacket over mine on the coat stand. I smooth it down and take the stairs, falling into my bedroom and darting around like a woman possessed, stripping, spraying, re-dressing and freshening my make-up. Glancing in the mirror, I think about how far removed I am from Miller’s business associate. But this is me. If it goes with my Converse, then it’s a contender, and my white shirt dress, scattered with red rosebuds, matches my cherry-red Converse perfectly. There’s another woman and what’s worrying is my ability to ignore the obviousness of the situation. I want him. Not only has he fractured my sensibility, he’s also chased away my conscience.
Giving myself a mental stinger of a slap, I ruffle my mass of blond and hurry downstairs, suddenly worried by what Nan and George might be saying to Miller.
They’re not in the kitchen. I backtrack, heading for the lounge, but that’s empty too. I hear chatter coming from the dining room – the dining room that’s only used on very special occasions. The last time we ate in the dining room was on my twenty-first birthday, over three years ago. That’s how special we’re talking. I make my way to the oak-stained door and peer in, seeing the huge mahogany table that dominates the room is beautifully laid, using all of Nan’s Royal Doulton crockery, cut crystal wine glasses and silver cutlery.
And she’s put my heart’s nemesis at the head of the table, where nobody has had the pleasure ever before. That was my granddad’s place at the table, and not even George has been allowed the honour.
‘Here she is.’ Miller stands and pulls out the empty chair to his left. ‘Come, sit.’
I walk slowly and thoughtfully over, ignoring Nan’s beaming face, and take my seat. ‘Thank you,’ I say as he tucks me under the table before resuming position next to me.
‘You’ve changed,’ he observes, turning the plate at his setting a few millimetres clockwise.