Quentin poked the tomatoes and breathed in garlic and basil, feeling all the cells of his body roll over and sigh contentedly, the way they always did when he had a wooden spoon in his hand. He grinned at Poppy over the huge pot, as she brushed yet another smear of flour across her face, a determined little frown creasing her forehead. She and Julia were wrestling with the pasta maker. He wanted to go over and help, but he knew better. If Signora Rosa didn’t bust his balls for trying to take over her class, Julia was sure to shoot him one of her fuck you glares. And even for someone with an ego as healthy as Quentin’s, those glares were becoming a bit much.
He was finding himself increasingly fond of the incendiary redhead over the last month, but the feeling was most definitely not reciprocated. It seemed to Quentin that his presence was like a splinter in Julia’s heel – what had been a minor irritant at first was rapidly deepening to an unbearable agony. She was working hard to pin on a brave face, making sure her irritation didn’t peek through when Poppy was watching. But Quentin wasn’t entirely sure he could take one more of her martyred sighs without snapping and spitting at her to get down off her crucifix.
A noble man would have bowed out, given the two women some alone time in Poppy’s final weeks. But the last time Quentin had been anywhere near nobility was a gig in Sydney when he’d played support for a hot new band from the US and they’d given him a Duane Noble custom hand-built acoustic to play.
Julia scowled at him now as she caught him watching them with the pasta machine. She poked her tongue out at him, and he raised an eyebrow back at her.
Really?
This was a whole new level of juvenile, even for Julia, and his face flushed. Juvenile was usually his department. His father had once told him he deserved an honorary doctorate in juvenile. If there was one thing Quentin resented more than anything else right now (and god knew he was resenting a helluva lot), it was being out-juveniled. Lately, he’d been having the most horrible creeping feeling that this whole thing, this thing with Poppy (and Julia), was some sick experiential learning gig set up by a whacko god to teach him to grow up. Talk about overkill.
Before he could poke his tongue back at Julia, Poppy looked up, flicking a glance over them both, and Julia blew him a kiss. ‘How’s it going over there, Ten?’ she asked sweetly. ‘That ragu going to be good enough to grace our perfect pasta?’
Quentin forced a smile onto his face and let out a long whistle. ‘I think so, Ms Julia. Question is, will your pasta be man enough for the job?’
He’d chosen his words deliberately, knowing Julia’s sensitive radar for sexism. To divert attention from his needling, he leaned forward and scooped some ragu onto a spoon, breathing on it to cool it a bit before tasting its rich sweetness. But when he looked up again, all innocence, Poppy was facing him, hands on her hips. She was wearing a simple turquoise headscarf today, turban-style. It set off her brown eyes and lent her a strange grandeur. Poppy was fearsome generally, but over the last month she had assumed a whole other level of don’t-fuck-with-me.
‘Cut it out, you two,’ she hissed. ‘You’re like children. So competitive over every little thing. Grow up.’
‘Competitive?’ Julia arched a perfect eyebrow and swept her fierce gaze over Quentin. ‘That’s ridiculous, Poppy. For me to be competitive, Ten would have to represent some competition.’
Poppy flashed Julia a hard glare.
Quentin gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘No competitiveness here, Pop.’
* * *
Quentin gripped the spoon firmly. He was going to whip Julia’s arse if it was the last thing he ever did. She would be eating his dust in about thirty seconds.
‘Isn’t this a great idea?’ Poppy’s eyes were bright, and twin spots of colour burned in her cheeks. ‘I reckon it’s a fabulous way for you two to have some fun together. Signora Rosa is the best, isn’t she?’
Quentin nodded and forced a smile. Just swell.
Poppy and her bloody games. The only reason he was getting involved in this ridiculous charade was so he could teach Julia a lesson. If Julia was a guy, they could have settled this the easy way, with a minor dust-up and a beer afterwards. But it didn’t matter. Quentin knew public failure would be far worse for the superior redhead. And if it took an egg-and-spoon race for Quentin to put Julia in her place, well so be it. He’d lowered himself further than this for far smaller prizes.
As if she could read his mind, Poppy squeezed Quentin’s arm then looped her other arm through Julia’s. The redhead was sporting a Rambo-like black sweatband on her forehead and a look of determination that would have felled a lesser man. ‘Now you two know this is just for fun, right? You’re not taking it too seriously?’
‘Of course not.’ Quentin and Julia spoke simultaneously, giving Poppy matching wide-eyed smiles. But once she turned away and sauntered back to assume her spot on the picnic rug, Julia muttered under her breath. ‘Eat my dust, pretty boy.’
‘Not if it tastes as bad as your focaccia,’ he hissed back.
‘Ha,’ Julia returned. ‘Just remember: you can’t beat me, and you know it.’ She shot him an evil smile. ‘You can’t win because you can’t commit to anything, you wannabe rock-star dropout. No grit.’
Even though she sounded like she didn’t really believe it anymore, like she was just rehearsing some line that made her world make sense, Quentin still wanted to reach over and throttle her. But as Signora Rosa ambled up to the starting line with her brightly coloured horn, he did something that he knew would irritate her far more. He made a huge deal of reaching over and shaking her hand with a big grin, in a deliberate show of ‘may the best man win’. He glanced back to check that Poppy had clocked his good sportsmanship. She gave him a warm smile.
Julia swore under her breath and pulled Quentin into a friendly hug. ‘I see your fake nice and raise you one,’ she muttered into his ear, thumping him roughly on the back and earning a matching smile from Poppy.
Quentin could hardly breathe after the assault.
The little Italian woman with the big voice and magical way with tomatoes interrupted them. ‘Enough with ze wishing each other well, bambinos,’ she said, shooting them a shrewd look. She hadn’t missed a second of their rivalry in the kitchen and her heavily accented English didn’t mask her irony. ‘Time to race.’
Quentin dug his heels into the soft grass and gently adjusted the spoon in his right hand, feeling its weight and balance. He shot a last sideways glance at Julia as he surveyed the terrain in front of him. She was entirely focused on the course as well, her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed. The race would not be long, but it was perilous for those holding a raw egg balanced on a spoon. It required contestants to skirt two large trees and wade through a shallow pond to reach the finishing line.
Quentin briefly surveyed the other contenders. It was a small field. Most of the tourists doing the Two Days in Tuscany cooking course were lolling on blankets, revelling in their post-pasta glow. It was a perfect day, still warm; the grass was the impossible green of story books. Pitchers of fresh sangria stood invitingly on a long picnic table. And the smell of freshly baked bread wafted over the scene, coating them in an all’s-well-with-the-world dozy sort of peace.
But five fools had taken up Signora Rosa’s challenge: Quentin, Julia, a set of blonde Californian twins, and one older bloke who looked like his arteries weren’t up to the challenge of heaving his considerable girth up Signora Rosa’s winding stairs, let alone facing off the rest of the field. Sizing them up, Quentin decided that while the two blondes looked fit enough, Julia was his only real competition. They didn’t seem to have her killer instinct. And they certainly wouldn’t have her motivation.
Quentin just knew that Julia wanted to grind him into the Tuscan dust and work out the angst she had been building up over the last few weeks – the angst that seemed to have become almost solely focused on him. And if she could manage victory while also causing him some kind of injury as a bonus prize, he had no doubt she would.
Rosa raised her megaphone and recapped the rules. ‘Drop ze egg, disqualified,’ she said, drawing out the last word theatrically. ‘Any body contact, disqualified,’ she continued, with the same flourish on the last word. ‘Any shortcuts, disqualified.’
Okay, they got the picture. Quentin had no doubt the little Italian would be watching them like hawks. She didn’t tolerate miscreants on her watch.
‘May ze best cook win,’ she finished, blasting the horn and stepping away from the line.
Every synapse in Quentin’s brain and every nerve ending in his body leapt to life as he charged forward as quickly as the delicately balanced egg would permit. This was not an egg-and-spoon race. This was not some bit of fun dreamt up by an Italian mama who had spent too many summers at British picnics. This was not an idle sunny-afternoon pursuit to pass the time while the pasta boiled.
This was war.
From the moment Quentin had met Poppy, Julia had been in his way, with her facetious superiority, her high-handed dismissals, and her over-protective suffocating of his girlfriend. It was as clear as it could be that she considered Quentin not good enough for Poppy. Not smart enough, not trustworthy enough, not worthy enough in general. And, worse, she considered him a waste of Poppy’s precious last days. In spite of the fact that Poppy had been pretty clear that she wanted Quentin around.
No grit, she said? Well, today Quentin would show her just what he had in the tank. She had no idea the kind of grit it had taken to defy his father consistently and creatively for the last ten years. Not many men had it in them to stand up to Ray Carmody – his money, his power and his bullish determination. If Julia thought she was going to sashay over the finish line in front of him with that egg in her hand, she had no idea who she was dealing with. Just like if she thought he was going to bow out, drop out of Poppy’s life when she needed him most, to never see her again, she was completely deluded.
Quentin grinned as he realised he had leapt to the front of the pack. The portly gent had already dropped his egg, retreating to clean sticky yolk off an expensive loafer. He heard Poppy squealing and cheering in delight and registered the two blondes, neck and neck in his peripheral vision, making good time behind him as he closed on the first tree. He couldn’t see Julia and was determined not to take his eye off the egg. That was exactly the kind of amateur mistake Julia would expect him to make. No grit. As he reached the tree, his foot connected with a large root, and he stumbled, the egg rolling precariously towards the edge of the spoon. He was forced to stop to right its path, and behind him one of the blondes let out a very bad word as she also ran foul of the root but without the same luck. Her egg smashed messily and she retreated in tears. Too much sangria.
Quentin regained his balance, but the delay had been costly. Julia scooted past him, bumping him viciously with her hip as she rounded the tree, sheltered from the hawk-like gaze of Signora Rosa by the second blonde. Quentin wanted to call foul as his egg rolled perilously again, but he clamped down on his tongue. He’d show her grit. If that was how she wanted to play it, he’d take it right up to her.
The next obstacle was the shallow pond and Quentin reached it a second behind the two women. He smiled to himself, realising his long legs gave him a natural advantage in the knee-high muck. Summoning every ounce of his surfer’s balance, he streaked through the pond, carefully skirting both women, who had slowed considerably in the murky water, and made it to the other side a whisker ahead of them. As he stepped up onto the opposite bank, he kicked back strongly with his other leg, sending Julia a face full of muddy water.
He thought the shock might have been enough to unbalance her and make her lose her egg, but no such luck. Julia swore under her breath but she didn’t appeal to the umpire either. This was the Colosseum, not kindergarten, and neither of them was a crybaby. As the final tree came into sight, Quentin felt both women gaining on him on the firmer ground. He picked up speed, and they matched his stride. He could almost feel their breath on his neck as Poppy screamed encouragement to both him and Julia. He sped up further, and the new pace was too much for the second blonde, who matched her sister’s profanity as she stumbled and her egg bit the dust.
Now it was only the two of them.
The final tree was ringed by a stand of bushes, and as Quentin and Julia entered its sheltered circle, side by side, Julia trod maliciously on his foot. He gritted his teeth and made to shove her with his elbow, but she was already a heartbeat in front of him, rounding the huge tree.
Knowing they couldn’t be seen, he took a chance and reached out to tug her ponytail. She grunted in shock and stopped to right her egg. By the time she recovered, he was out of the bushes and powering down the home stretch Signora Rosa had slung a red ribbon between two trees back near the main group, and it looked to Quentin like a victory beacon. He lengthened his stride, almost tasting triumph in his mouth. He allowed a grin to slip onto his face as he saw Poppy, standing near the finish line, her face alight with excitement, dancing on the spot.
But he had underestimated Julia’s will to win. From god-knows-where, she produced a last desperate burst of speed. He lengthened his stride again, but she matched him, and he knew he couldn’t risk going any faster, lest he lose the precious egg. He basically had to hope she might stumble, or lose steam.
No cigar.
They crashed through the red ribbon together to Poppy’s excited screech of ‘Tie!’ It hurt, but not as badly as the look on Poppy’s face as Julia plucked her egg from her spoon, took aim, and threw it right at Quentin, smiling like a mad person as sticky yellow yolk dribbled down his face.
It should have felt like a consolation prize. After all, Poppy’s expression of stunned horror as she regarded Julia made it pretty clear who the loser was. But it didn’t. It just hurt, some place high and awkward in Quentin’s chest. He wanted to wipe away Poppy’s wounded look. He wanted to tell her it was okay, all part of the fun. He took a breath to summon the right words, but Poppy had already turned and fled in the direction of the villa. Julia stood open-mouthed and red-faced for a second before she dashed after her. ‘Oh dear,’ Signora Rosa said, putting a restraining hand on his arm as he made to follow them. ‘I zink zis one is for zem to sort out, sí?’
* * *
Quentin waited an hour before he sought Poppy out. It was a very long hour. His inclination was to run after her, find a way to make her happy again. Shame filled him as he did penance in the kitchen, helping Rosa wash up all the big pots from lunch. The suds were therapeutic, and he even offered to mop the floor for her afterwards. She rewarded him by promising her cannoli recipe, but even that didn’t make him feel better. Sure, a lot of this had been Julia’s fault, but he was equally to blame. Poppy had just wanted them to get along, have some fun, and they’d turned it into a pissing contest, like primary schoolers fighting over a best friend. He swallowed nervously as he ran through all the ways he could make it right.
The problem was, everything seemed so important when it came to Poppy, and he was having a bloody hard time working out why. Try as he might to be objective, he kept drawing a blank. Why this girl? Why had this girl crawled right under his skin and made an uncomfortable home there? Why did he want to make things good for her, to see her smile, to make her face and her voice make all those interesting shapes and noises? Why did he want to stay up late with her when he knew she should be sleeping, just to hear her talk about maths and politics and the state of the world?
This was not Quentin. Quentin did not like skinny girls. He didn’t like serious girls. And he really hated bossy girls. Quentin loved curvy, fun, uncomplicated girls; girls who laughed at his jokes and took off their bras when they danced on tables. If they wore bras at all. Yet here he was, washing up and mopping and feeling like five kinds of an arsehole over hurting the feelings of some skinny, serious, bossy girl. It wasn’t like they had a future. He wouldn’t be marrying her; he wouldn’t be having babies with her. As that thought landed, something horrible poked into his brain. Was that what this was about? A sudden chill skittered down his spine.
Was this some kind of sick want-her-because-I-can’t-have-her problem?
Oh fuck.
Quentin’s father had accused him of being a screw-up, and maybe he really was. Maybe everything he’d ever really wanted had come so easily to him – girls, music, more girls – that this one was the most desirable because he knew he could never have her, not really.
He stood in the middle of Rosa’s kitchen, looking out over the valley spread out below her big picture window, and examined the thought, checking its provenance. He thought about how he had felt when Poppy had stood in his line at the cafeteria and asked for that ridiculous sandwich. He remembered the way his heart had raced as she had launched herself at him after the skydive. And then he recalled how he had heard the voices of angels after the first time she had come like some kind of ancient goddess in his bed a few hours later.
No, this had nothing to do with hard-to-get. Goddammit, it was all to do with the mysterious bundle of energy and whimsical creature that was Poppy Devine. Even her name made him shiver. She was some kind of witch, and it was time to go find her and make it right.
He hurried to their room in the villa.
Even the sight of her door made him feel better. It meant that in a short moment he would be talking to her, explaining, saying sorry. His skin itched to be in there as he raised his hand to knock.
But then he heard Julia’s voice.
‘I know, Pop, I do.’ Quentin had never heard the redhead sound so contrite. ‘And I’ve been able to hack all of it. Well, you know …’ Quentin heard the petulance in her voice and could imagine the mulish look on her face. ‘A bit, anyway.’
There was a pause, and Quentin was decent enough to realise he should go.
And curious enough to stay rooted to the spot.
Julia went on. ‘But the trip to the Dalai Lama?’
Poppy mumbled something Quentin couldn’t quite make out.
‘I know, Poppy, but that’s our gig. It’s always been our gig, remember? It was on your list but we always said we’d go together.’ Julia’s voice took on a reciting quality. ‘I can still remember you writing that: Sit at the feet of Dalai Lama in Dharamsala and work out what the fuck it’s all about.’ Julia paused again. ‘Remember?’
This time Quentin did hear Poppy’s reply, and her voice sounded so small and sad Quentin wanted to bash the door down and scoop her out of there. ‘I remember.’
‘Well,’ Julia went on. ‘I get that you wanted him at the cooking class. I’ll admit he can cook, okay?’
Poppy laughed at the grudging concession. ‘And play guitar,’ she said.
Julia grunted.
‘And sing,’ Poppy went on.
‘Okay, okay, enough,’ Julia said loudly. ‘I’ve already said sorry about the egg incident; don’t make me start singing his praises.’
Poppy mumbled something and Quentin pressed his ear closer to the door, knowing he should be ashamed of himself and also knowing there was no way he was stopping now. In for a penny …
‘And the northern lights, okay. Fine to both of those. But, Pop,’ Julia’s tone turned from petulant to pleading, ‘not Dharamsala.’
When Poppy spoke, her voice was so clear but so sad it almost burned Quentin’s eavesdropping ear. ‘I’m sorry, Juju. I love you, you know that. To the moon and back.’ She paused. ‘But he’s coming. Or I’m not.’
Quentin’s insides jumped up and did a victory dance. He hadn’t known exactly what the plan was; Poppy had been pretty secretive about it all. More games. And he hadn’t really cared. She had just said they were going on a trip and he had said yes I’m in. But to hear her stand up to the indomitable Julia, for him. It took his breath away. He knew right then that he did not want to be away from her for a second of whatever was to come over the next few weeks.
And now he knew she felt the same.
She hadn’t said it to him, she never said it to him, but he had heard it. He had heard her saying it to her very best friend.
He didn’t deserve it after the performance he and Julia had put on during the race, and after all the hopeless and screwy things he’d done in his life to date. But the gods were somehow smiling on him anyway. Poppy wanted him with her. And he wanted to be with her. The knowledge of how badly he wanted to be there for her settled in his bones like the chorus of a well-known and much-loved song. Something slow and sexy.
And he knew in that moment that he was in deep, deep trouble.
* * *
Quentin licked his fingers decadently, and clucked his tongue at Poppy.
‘Is there anything you can’t do?’
Poppy grinned over her tiramisu. ‘It was pretty good, wasn’t it?’
There was a chorus of agreement from around the table. ‘Top marks, I’d say,’ the portly guy from the egg-and-spoon race said, scraping his spoon against his plate.
All around the long antique table diners scraped and licked in the candlelight. Quentin looked around at them all. The tiramisu was good, for sure. Poppy was a quick study and she had hung from Signora Rosa’s skirts like an avid schoolgirl, not wanting to miss a trick. But this was more than that, and Quentin knew it. He saw the way the assembled students lavished attention on Poppy. They knew she was sick, but they also loved her already. One by one she had laughed with them, tasted their goodies, made jokes about her situation, asked about their kids, and gradually wormed her way into each of their hearts. Like she had into his.
Like he said, she was a magician.
But right now, he noticed, glancing over at her, she looked like one very tired magician. A hot poker of guilt stabbed at him as he thought about how tumultuous the day had been for her – the stupid race and the scene with Julia, on top of her illness.
‘You two go for a walk,’ one of the blonde Californians said, standing up to gather plates. ‘It’s a gorgeous night out there. We’ll do the dishes.’ The girl appealed to her fellow gluttons, rolling around in their chairs on a coffee-and-chocolate high. ‘Won’t we?’ They all murmured agreement. Julia hadn’t showed for dinner, and Quentin hadn’t asked. But he needed to talk to Poppy now.
‘Well, okay,’ he said, greedily taking the chance to walk in the warm night with Poppy. ‘I’ll take you good people up on that.’ He stood, pushed back his chair, bowed grandly to all of them, and stood behind Poppy. She blushed sweetly as he pulled her chair back. He leaned down and scooped her out of her chair. ‘Someone who can cook tiramisu that well should never have to walk,’ he joked.
Poppy began to protest but then sagged against him, and he realised just how tired she must be. ‘Okay, then,’ she agreed, nestling against his chest. ‘You’re right, a master chef like me deserves a free ride.’
He squeezed her in his arms. There was less of her every day; it was as if he could feel her slipping through his fingers. ‘Onward, to the moonlight,’ he joked to the others as they left the room.
And then, to her, ‘But hang on a tic. I have to organise something.’
‘Something’ was his guitar. Jerry Hall had a job to do tonight. And he had to get a blanket. He had stashed them earlier and now he needed to quickly set up.
Five minutes later, Quentin had settled a sleepy Poppy on a blanket under an old olive tree a short distance from the villa, down by the sparkling blue pool. She was bathed in moonlight, her beautiful face turned up to him expectantly. ‘Well?’
She always knew when he was a man on a mission.
He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to say sorry,’ he started, feeling his way. ‘About today.’ He stopped, watching for a signal, but she was waiting, those brown eyes urging him on. No way would she give him a free pass. ‘For all of it really, with Julia. We’ve—’ He shut his eyes momentarily, realising he needed to do better than that. ‘What I mean is, I’ve been childish.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’ A slight pause. ‘This is hard for her. Not just the cancer. The sharing. Julia’s not used to sharing me. Not with anyone, really.’ Poppy patted the place next to her on the blanket and Quentin eased himself down, picking up her hand. His always felt so much better when hers was nestled inside it. ‘We’re all each other ever had, really.’
Quentin nodded. He knew by now that there had been a few boyfriends for Poppy – but no-one serious. She had been too busy, and (he suspected) too different. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘She loves you so much.’ He had avoided asking; it never seemed like Poppy really wanted to discuss it, and god knew Quentin was almost positive he wouldn’t know what to say if she decided she did want to. But now seemed like the right time; the right opening. ‘What happened, Poppy? Between you and your ma?’
Poppy snorted, wrinkling her delicate nose and wriggling her body down to stretch out like a kitten on the blanket. ‘Nothing ever had a chance to happen,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t there. I was in boarding school, and she was in India.’
Quentin tried to work out the right words to say. He knew it hurt Poppy, the stuff with her mother, but on the other hand, it didn’t seem as if she liked her very much when she was around. ‘How old were you when you started boarding school?’
‘Eleven.’ Poppy sighed, and something about the noise tugged at his heart. ‘And from then on, it’s been Julia and me.’
Quentin murmured something non-committal while he thought it through. Scarlett sure seemed interested in Poppy now. ‘What was it like, before that?’ He wriggled down next to her on the blanket and she hauled herself up somewhat on one elbow and lay her head on his chest. He could smell wild basil and rich earth and the ever-enticing smells of Poppy – chocolate and watermelon. They were having a serious discussion, but his senses leapt to life as she trailed a hand across his tummy.
‘Hard,’ she said, fiddling with his belt buckle in a way that made it difficult to decide if he wanted her to stop or keep going. ‘She never really liked me.’
Quentin laughed, thinking about the people around the table tonight. He imagined how much more appealing Poppy would be if she was your kid. ‘Now that’s impossible,’ he said, rubbing his hand across the scalp she had shaved bald of its wispy regrowth that morning. The skin was soft and smooth, and already his fingers had found a new favourite place. ‘Everyone loves you.’
‘Oh she loves me well enough,’ Poppy agreed, lifting his t-shirt so she could trace the outer lip of his belly button. ‘She just doesn’t like me very much. Different issue.’
Quentin sucked in a breath and tried to focus. ‘Why not?’
Poppy’s face got all businesslike as she sat up and ignored his question. He had the sudden feeling there was something he needed to know, but the look on her face said she was done talking. ‘So why did Jerry Hall come along for the ride?’
Quentin really liked how Poppy always gave his guitar her full name. It always seemed kind of impertinent when people took the liberty of calling her Jerry. Like they knew her as intimately as he did. He reached over and picked up his guitar, stroking her silky skin. ‘Ah,’ he said, shifting up so he was kneeling and flicking the strap over his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you asked that.’
Poppy’s mouth twitched. ‘You been writing a new song?’
‘Uh-huh,’ he confirmed, removing a pick from his pocket and tuning up. ‘It’s called “Poppy”.’
Poppy smiled but she also got that guarded look he’d got used to when she suspected he was going to get serious.
He smiled back, knowing this was a sure thing, and started.
The melody was slow and dark, sweet Southern-style riffs wrapped in a bluesy rhythm. ‘Poppy,’ he started singing, stretching her name out to match the melody and trying to inject into the word all the things she wouldn’t let him say. He’d let the music do the job instead, just like he always had. ‘Ohhh, Poppy.’ The tune had been written to match the cadence and perfection of her name. ‘Ohhh, my Poppy,’ he crooned.
He knew it was good. The tune had come to him on the flight from Australia, and it had been almost torture to try to keep it in his head until he got his guitar back in his hands and could play it in privacy.
It was an ode to her. His beautiful girlfriend. It didn’t need any more words, only the notes he’d composed.
By the time he finished the final ‘my Poppy’ and played the last few notes, she was entranced, her head on the side, eyes glistening and face flushed.
‘That was beautiful,’ she said, reaching up to trace the line of his cheek and stroke the small scar that made a punctuation mark over one eyebrow. ‘And you know what I want now?’
Quentin put Jerry Hall down, hoping what she wanted was to kiss him really hard and lay back down on this blanket with him.
‘I want to go for a swim,’ she said, standing up and stepping out of her summer dress in one quick move, before yanking down her underwear and waltzing over to the pool.
Quentin felt relieved that everyone had retired for the night as he watched her move, her slender body outlined by moonlight, the back of her neck a sultry line dissolving into her fragile back, the delicate curve of her right breast tantalising him as she turned to beckon him to follow.
He had never moved so fast in his life.