The Awakening of Poppy Edwards Read Online Free PDF Page B

came from my own little collection of herbs, which I grew in pots out by the pool. It’s one of my favourite dishes. I know what you’re thinking, it’s so obvious, but I didn’t see it that way. He had a business proposal. I was just cooking dinner. Why not make him my favourite meal in my own kitchen? Why not wear one of my favourite dresses, which isn’t a dressy dress at all, and certainly not the kind of dress I’d wear to entice a man, but floaty and cool and deceptively simple in the way all Lanvin’s dresses are. Daisy and I, we both love Lanvin. Clothes are one of the things we can still talk about.
    When he rang the doorbell, my heart started to pound just a bit. I was excited to see what Lewis was going to say, because once I’d got over that really strange encounter in my dressing room earlier, I’d decided it was going to be good news.
    He was dressed deceptively casually too, and he looked—well, there’s no denying he looked good. Open-necked shirt. A suit in a soft brown colour. I hadn’t noticed how tanned he was last night. ‘For you,’ he said, handing over a beautiful bunch of roses. Pale pink. ‘I know this is business, but I saw them and I thought of you.’
    ‘An English rose?’ The studio gives me flowers all the time, and Randolph has someone send them to me regularly, but no one—no, that makes me sound pathetic. I’m not pathetic. Hearts and flowers, I don’t need them. Did I say that already? ‘Come in,’ I said, not telling Lewis after all how lovely the roses were.
    ‘Something smells good.’
    I shrugged. ‘It’s nothing special.’
    I’d led him through to the kitchen, because that was the way out to the garden, and it’s at its best at this time of the evening, but he stopped in front of the stove and lifted the lid of the pot. ‘It smells special,’ he said, picking up a teaspoon without a by your leave and dipping it into the sauce. ‘Wow. You really can cook.’
    I didn’t like that I liked him there, and I didn’t like what my liking did to my insides, watching him in my lovely kitchen at my stove licking the sauce I’d made with such care from my teaspoon, so I switched the heat off under the pot. ‘We can eat later. I thought we’d talk outside.’
    He didn’t move, but looked around my kitchen, taking in the copper pots and the strings of onion and garlic, the dresser stacked with its pretty selection of mismatched plates and tureens and jugs that I’d picked up in markets over the years. The room that was the nearest thing to how I’d imagined home would be. ‘It’s nice,’ he said, ‘not at all what I expected.’
    Which made me uncomfortable, because this was me, more than any other place, this kitchen, and I didn’t like anyone seeing that, and I was pretty sure that he did. I picked up the tray with the glasses and wine and headed outside. He followed, but I could feel him watching me. I was aware, suddenly, of my bare feet and bare face. I’d thought that it would help to make it obvious that I hadn’t got all dressed up, even though I was wearing my favourite dress. Now I felt—exposed. I considered running upstairs and putting on some lipstick, but he’d notice. He’d already noticed way too much.
    I put the tray down and poured the wine. French. Tart, with a hint of honey. Another advantage of having money, you can bypass Prohibition. I’d curled up in my usual seat on the wicker sofa, thinking he’d take the seat opposite. He sat down beside me. My bare feet were almost touching his leg. I tucked them under. He raised his glass. Touched mine. His eyes weren’t so much blue as grey in this light. The grooves on his face were deeper. My hair, which curled wildly when left to its own devices, was caught in my lashes. He reached over and brushed it away. The lightest of touches on my cheek, it was, but it was enough to remind me. And him. I could see him remembering. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Seconds, minutes went by. I