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wait for my answer, not that anything springs immediately to mind. “And I’ve seen for myself how talented you are. Your academic accomplishments are obvious, your credentials impeccable. A successful academic career as far as I can tell, at some of the best universities in the country.” He stops again, glancing at me, waits a moment before continuing, as though expecting me to interrupt. No way that’s happening. He shrugs. “And as if that’s not enough, you’re beautiful too, sexy, fun to be around. You’ve got it all going on, girl.” And now I know he’s kidding. Taking the piss. Or got me mixed up with some other sub…
    “So, with all that going for you, how come you’re scratching out a living temping as a music tutor? How come you’ll drive for God knows how many hours in enough rain to drown Noah, arriving in the middle of the fucking night at a perfect stranger’s home, to take up a crappy job teaching a little kid to play the violin? And even after I wreck your car and treat you like something I found under my shoe, you still want to stay? In fact, you’re desperate to stay. What’s all that about, Eva?”
    What indeed? The silence stretches between us as I do my usual rabbit-in-headlights impersonation. In truth, there’s no explanation I’m prepared to offer. If I understood myself, if I had any real way of coping with the stress of my old life, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. His gaze is steady, his words deceptively gentle. I am in no doubt about the steel beneath and I dread the pressure he could exert if he chose. But on this occasion he’s content, it would seem, to let all that lie for now. It’s registered, recorded. To be continued. He sips his coffee, regarding me intently over the rim.
    “Your coffee’s going cold.” He shoves my paper cup towards me and I pick it up obediently. The subject’s safely dropped and we can both enjoy our coffee, back to companionable silence again.
    Then, “So, car crash, is it? What did you crash in to Eva?”
    Whoa! Where did that come from? Caught off balance again I splash hot coffee onto my hand. Taking my palm in both of his he blows on my skin to cool it, then kisses each of my fingers gently, in turn. “Tell me, Eva. What’s in that pile of wreckage of yours?”
    Sensing I won’t be let off the hook this time, I retreat immediately into my default position of defensiveness and denial. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know where to start. Lots of things. Nothing important. It can wait.” I’m reluctant, shy suddenly, and desperate to hide. I don’t want to spoil this lovely evening, burst my happiness bubble, intrude on it with talk of my screwed up past.
    “All right. Shall I start then?” At my look of surprise he smiles, goes on. “Shall I tell you what I know about you already? What I’ve seen? You can tell me if I’m right. Okay?”
    I nod. “Okay,” I whisper, grateful that he’s still holding my hand, stroking it lightly. I can concentrate on watching his hands on mine and not have to meet his eyes.
    “I think you like to be looked after, pampered. You like having your hair dried, or your back washed in the shower, but I think you’re not used to it. Am I right so far?”
    That’s not what I expected him to home in on, but it seems safe enough, I’ve got worse secrets. I nod. He goes on. My sense of safety evaporates. Precision bombing.
    “But you jumped two feet in the air when I wrapped the towel round your hair, that first morning, in Grace’s kitchen. I thought you were going to bolt. I forced you back into your chair. Do you remember?”
    Christ, yes!
    He continues, his tone deceptively low as his words hit their target. Dead centre. “You were—scared? Were you scared of me even then, Eva?”
    I can only stare at our hands, my mind whirling as I desperately grope around for words, for an answer, any response that might deflect him. He’s not having it. Gently squeezing my hand he lifts it again, kisses