He was sitting at a large wooden table, round and earthy
looking, like something out of River Cottage. A tasteful room, rosy and
cluttered, with its ingredients carefully sourced and never from catalogues. It
was 4am when she fell through the door, horribly drunk and mildly stoned on top
of it, and feeling like the fucking world was about to collapse into darkness,
her young heart experiencing the first tugs of adolescent turmoil. Black,
gritty wells on her cheeks - 30% tears, 70% Maybelline – but the sobs had
stopped and she’d reached the quiet, subtle and dangerous phase of drunken
despair. The point when the tears dry only as the mind starts to whirr,
engorged and stupid with the drink, flitting between various plots of
self-destruction. She didn’t see him as she tripped
heavily over the cat’s water bowl, cursing herself and Percy the tabby for his
utter lack of consideration and tact...
He was undoubtedly the most
attractive 50 year old on the planet, with beautiful green eyes the colour of
moss, almond-shaped and slightly angled, giving him the strangely arousing
appearance of a clever cat.
