For the first time she could remember she wished she wasn’t in her kitchen. She wished she could escape upstairs, hide away from this man and the dangerous effect he had on her. But she’d committed to help him and she wouldn’t go back on her word.
Things didn’t improve when she tried to explain the sauce. She’d hoped that a simple herb butter would be a good way for him to become familiar with the flavours of the different herbs from the kitchen garden behind the house. But his response when she suggested that he smelt and tasted each one was ‘nice’ or ‘fine’. And the increasing detachment in his gaze showed him retreating further from her with every prompt, shutting her out just a little bit tighter.
In the end, with her finger and her feelings hurting more than she wanted to admit, she decided she just wanted the day over with and gave up any pretence of trying to reach him. The sooner it was ready, the sooner they could eat, and then she could escape this stifling atmosphere that had invaded her home.
This wasn’t what her kitchen was for. She loved to share her passion with other people. Help them to discover a new talent, or develop a skill, or just eat chocolate pudding until they couldn’t move if that was what brought them pleasure. This room existed to make people happy, created the bliss that she needed to fend off the memories of her childhood. Or it had until this man had walked in here, all taciturn and cold, and brought her decades-old insecurities with him.
With a final addition of salt and pepper she decided that the food was as good as it was going to get, considering the mood of the chefs, and set it on warm plates. She and Will carried the food and a bottle of chilled white wine to the table outside, and Maya wondered how they were going to get through this dinner. Will had said barely five words since they’d left the sink, and if she allowed it to the silence would become unbearable.
But what could they talk about?
Maya wished that she’d thought this through before she’d agreed to run the course for him. She loved to talk about food. When people found out that she was a cook they always asked about her work, and she was happy to talk shop for as long as they would put up with her. But she suspected that food would not be high on Will’s list of favourite topics of conversation. In fact she wondered if he had ever had a conversation about food that hadn’t involved a consideration of gross profit.
Silence. It was definitely not golden. It was bad-tempered and it was awkward and it was the final insult for a much-abused meal.
She gazed out over the meadow beyond the garden, hoping that the view, which never normally failed to cheer her, would have its usual soothing effect. The shadows of the clouds chased over the ground, causing the colours of the wildflowers to shift and change, and the corners of her lips twitched upwards. She encouraged it into a full-blown smile as she let the beauty and serenity of her home topple her bad temper.
She’d fallen in love with the view, and this house, the moment that she’d first seen them. It was exactly what she’d needed: somewhere to escape from the slick city kitchens she had been working in until then, to get away from the constant client pitches, the networking events. And so she’d created a haven here—somewhere she could experience the intense colours and fresh scents of the natural world, could be completely creative. And she’d made herself part of the community. Here she understood what she needed to do, how to make people happy.
She’d thought she’d known what she was getting when she’d paid for the old stone house and its beautiful garden. And then the place had sprung a surprise on her.
The first cookery class she’d run had been a complete accident: she’d invited faithful clients to come for the weekend and sample her new menu, not long after having her professional kitchen installed. She’d been sure no one else would feel quite the same thrill she did at the sight of her new oven, but she’d wanted to show it off anyway.
Except once her guests had arrived they hadn’t been content just to sit and watch her cook for them. They had all wanted to muck in, despite the fact that not one of them had known how to chop an onion. They’d pushed her to let them help, and she’d realised that cooking wasn’t the only thing that could make her glow. Teaching was another way of sharing her food, and her love of food, with others. Before the weekend was over they’d practically written her business plan for her, and she’d found herself with a teaching business alongside her cooking.
And now Will was threatening that thrill as well. Every time he turned his nose up at her food he impugned her teaching as well as her cooking.
But the beautiful view boosted her. She’d bloomed when she’d come here from the city, when her world had shrunk and she’d finally found a place for herself. Maybe Will just needed a little of that magic. He’d charged her with teaching him, and she wasn’t going to give up just because of his bad temper.
As she gazed off into the distance she realised that putting space between her and Will, constantly pulling away from him, was going to doom their experiment from the start. How could she expect him to open up and appreciate what was around him if she was sitting there trying to pretend that he wasn’t there?
She drew her gaze back from the meadow and fixed it on Will’s face. The expression in his eyes was serious, focussed, and it intrigued her. She wondered what thoughts lay behind those silver-grey eyes, where he went when he retreated like this. Tracing her gaze over his features, she followed the line of his straight, narrow nose to lips that looked almost too full, too sumptuous, with his slim face and sharp features.
He slid his knife through the fish in neat, straight lines, carving it methodically. She watched, intrigued, his precise, emotionless approach, and fought down her instinct to look for approval. Her feelings when she served someone her food were always the same. Did they like it? Of course Will’s face gave her no hint. She had to force down the disappointment that he showed no pleasure in it. Tell herself that this was still early days. But she couldn’t stop herself hoping. Just a few small genuine words from him would soothe her fears, show her that they were on the right track. Ease the pain that the rejection of their first meeting had caused.
Will seemed to sense her staring at him, because he glanced up and held her gaze for a moment, before remembering what manners required of him.
‘This is nice, thank you.’
Maya sighed; they still had a lot of work to do—not least on thickening her skin. But they had to start somewhere, and if she wanted him to be open with her, to open himself to the joy that she hoped her food would bring, she would have to show him the way. She should see each barb as an opportunity—he had come to her for help, and each sting would tell her how much work they still had to do.
She glanced across at the meadow, letting the colours and the glory of the sunset sink into her skin and smooth away this latest hurt. Eventually she turned to Will, trying to reflect those rays of evening sun back to him.
‘So, Will, why don’t you tell me more about your work?’
He met her eyes again, and she watched his face for clues, signs that he was making progress. But all she saw was him bracing himself, hardening his eyes and fixing a neutral expression. All that for small talk, she thought, and wondered what pain lingered behind the façade to make it such a frightening prospect.
‘My company offers a range of financial services,’ he said, his voice flat and clipped. ‘At the moment I’m working on a project to raise funds for a health sector construction scheme.’ A frown creased his brow and he looked troubled...tired. ‘But I won’t bore you with the details.’
‘I’m not bored,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested. I’d like to understand more about your work. It’s a charity fundraiser, the dinner you want me to cater, isn’t it? Do you do a lot of work with charities?’
‘No.’
As she watched she could see him trying to distance himself further. He looked away, past her shoulder, and plucked his phone from his jacket pocket. She suspected he didn’t even realise that he’d done it. One-sided small talk was its own particular form of torture, and without his help she had no idea how