On Thursday after work, I head for home instead of The Canongate Tavern, and I’m not expecting to see Shep until later – that is, if he even comes back before I head to bed. Because having finally waved the white flag the night before, after my meet-up with the girls (which he was delighted to hear about), I’ve agreed with him that I’m going to have a relaxing night in with just my book and Netflix for company. It seems funny that, after so desperately wanting to have a social life, I’m now craving some time alone to rest and recharge. But I guess it’s all about balance. Regardless of how good a social life a person has, surely everyone needs to power down at times. We are humans after all, not robots.
Moments after I’ve dumped my handbag on the floor and kicked off my shoes, Shep appears through the door.
‘What are you doing here?’ I cock my head in surprise.
‘Don’t sound too pleased to see me.’ He pecks me on the lips with a grin.
‘I am. You know I am. I wasn’t expecting you, though, as you know. And it’s a pain for you to come all the way back here between shows.’
‘Maybe I couldn’t wait until later to see you.’
‘OK, now I know you’re talking bull.’ I push him playfully and he grabs my hand, pulling me into him. Then he nuzzles my neck with his stubble, knowing fine well I find that really tickly and unbearable. ‘Argh, stop it!’
‘That’s what you get for doubting the sincerity of my gesture.’ His eyes twinkle mischievously, then he stops his antics but keeps a hold of me. ‘Your spare main-door key is a dud after all, by the way. I almost couldn’t get in just now. You don’t have another, do you? I wouldn’t want to have to wake you later.’
‘Nope, afraid not. Why don’t you take my keys for now and get a new one cut for yourself tomorrow? They’re in my handbag. I can meet you after work to get mine back from you.’
‘Good plan.’ He finally lets go of me.
‘So, why are you really here?’ I ask.
‘I couldn’t face fish and chips again. Or anything from a food truck. There’s only so much of that you can eat before you start craving a salad.’
‘You’re craving a salad?’ I give a sceptical laugh.
‘Not as such, but something like pasta and sauce – with some of that green stuff in a bowl on the side. That would hit the spot.’
‘Well, you’re in luck, because I was about to make a pot of spag bol. I make it with bottled sauce, so it’ll only take twenty minutes. That work for you?’
His eyes light up. ‘Damn right it does. In my mind I’m already licking the plate.’
‘Saucy.’ I waggle my eyebrows at him and he guffaws.
‘You’d do a good one-liner routine.’
‘Yeah, if it were three-jokes long.’ I head into the kitchen and start piling the ingredients I need onto the counter. ‘Not sure anyone would turn up for that. I certainly wouldn’t be getting glowing write-ups from the local media.’
Taking a sneaky glance at him while locating a spatula to stir the sauce, I see Shep inflate with pride. It’s the kind of disbelieving pride that’s born out of self-doubt and an unexpectedly amazing happening, not out of arrogance, and I can’t help but feel all warm and fuzzy for him. He more than deserves this chance at something incredible – especially given what he’s had to put up with to achieve it.
We work as a team, getting the food ready while chatting away companionably. He prepares the ‘green stuff’, grates some cheese, and sorts drinks and cutlery, while I man the sauce and the pasta on the cooker. It’s one of life’s unremarkable moments, yet it feels wonderful beavering away side by side like this – like I’m part of a real couple – and it makes me yearn for something more committed. Something longer term. This predictably sends my brain in the direction of where things are really headed: the sad fact that Shep and I have a shorter expiry date than some of the food items we’re handling.
‘You’ve gone quiet.’ He picks up on my change of mood.
‘Oh, sorry.’ I smile at him. ‘I’m a thinker. Get lost in my brain sometimes.’
‘I’m sure you do, with that analytical mind of yours. Work stuff?’
‘Something like that. Just mulling over a problem.’ I don’t elaborate and Shep doesn’t enquire further, probably because he’s assuming it’s a research-study issue and he won’t be able to follow it, nor will he be interested enough to try.
‘Hope you manage to solve it,’ he simply says.
Yeah, me too, I reflect wistfully, feeling a disconsolate tug at my heart.
My estimation of serving dinner within twenty minutes is pretty accurate, and for some unknown reason – perhaps because Shep is on the clock – we don’t even bother going to the table in the living room. We just serve up and stand at the counter, eating our food while chatting away. Well, I eat, and Shep shovels the pasta and sauce into his mouth like he’s been told it’s his last meal.
‘This is great,’ he says when he finally stops for a breath. ‘You’re a mean cook.’
‘I didn’t do much.’ I twirl spaghetti onto my fork with a smile. ‘You should be sending your compliments to the conglomerate that manufactures the sauce.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve seen a few car-crash meals come out of a jar. The hand that makes it is still important.’
When we’ve finished eating, I put our dirty plates and glasses in the dishwasher, and tell Shep to leave the rest of the clearing up to me. Then I wander through to my room to get changed out of my work clothes and he follows me, as he usually does.
‘I enjoyed that,’ I remark. ‘Out of a jar or not, spag bol is proper comfort food.’
‘Do you know what my comfort food is?’ Shep asks.
‘What?’ I step out of my trousers and pull my top over my head.
‘You.’ He saunters up behind me, slipping his arms around my waist and planting butterfly kisses on my neck that explode into a tingling longing. This, and the feel of his hands on my bare skin, wipes out any urge to call him on that ridiculously cheesy line.
‘I’m not sure you have time for this,’ I murmur.
‘I’ll take my chances.’ He turns me around, kissing me passionately while pulling off his own jeans and T-shirt, and we sink onto the bed, becoming quickly tangled up in each other.
Within minutes, we’re locked in the throes of passion, moving rhythmically together while moaning with pleasure, when my flat buzzer echoes deafeningly through the hallway.
Shep’s head jerks up, like a gazelle braced for danger. ‘Who the hell is that?’
‘It’s probably just someone wanting into the building,’ I say. ‘Ignore it.’
He seems satisfied with this response, quickly getting back in the mood, but moments later the buzzer goes again.
‘Oh, bugger off and get someone else to let you in,’ I yell. ‘Can’t you tell we’re busy?’
We share a giggle and as we once again fall back into our rhythm, I can hear footsteps on the stairs, which confirm what I thought: it was someone I don’t know, looking to be let in.
That is, until I hear a knock on my flat door and a familiar voice.
‘Oh fuck. That’s my dad.’
‘Holy shit.’ Shep leaps off me and we both dart around in a panic, locating and pulling on our clothes at lightning speed.