Ellie Darkins - Frozen Heart, Melting Kiss

He slid his knife through the fish in neat, straight lines, carving it methodically. She watched, intrigued, his precise, emotionless approach, and fought down her instinct to look for approval. Her feelings when she served someone her food were always the same. Did they like it? Of course Will’s face gave her no hint. She had to force down the disappointment that he showed no pleasure in it. Tell herself that this was still early days. But she couldn’t stop herself hoping. Just a few small genuine words from him would soothe her fears, show her that they were on the right track. Ease the pain that the rejection of their first meeting had caused.

Will seemed to sense her staring at him, because he glanced up and held her gaze for a moment, before remembering what manners required of him.

‘This is nice, thank you.’

Maya sighed; they still had a lot of work to do—not least on thickening her skin. But they had to start somewhere, and if she wanted him to be open with her, to open himself to the joy that she hoped her food would bring, she would have to show him the way. She should see each barb as an opportunity—he had come to her for help, and each sting would tell her how much work they still had to do.

She glanced across at the meadow, letting the colours and the glory of the sunset sink into her skin and smooth away this latest hurt. Eventually she turned to Will, trying to reflect those rays of evening sun back to him.

‘So, Will, why don’t you tell me more about your work?’

He met her eyes again, and she watched his face for clues, signs that he was making progress. But all she saw was him bracing himself, hardening his eyes and fixing a neutral expression. All that for small talk, she thought, and wondered what pain lingered behind the façade to make it such a frightening prospect.

‘My company offers a range of financial services,’ he said, his voice flat and clipped. ‘At the moment I’m working on a project to raise funds for a health sector construction scheme.’ A frown creased his brow and he looked troubled...tired. ‘But I won’t bore you with the details.’

‘I’m not bored,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested. I’d like to understand more about your work. It’s a charity fundraiser, the dinner you want me to cater, isn’t it? Do you do a lot of work with charities?’

‘No.’

As she watched she could see him trying to distance himself further. He looked away, past her shoulder, and plucked his phone from his jacket pocket. She suspected he didn’t even realise that he’d done it. One-sided small talk was its own particular form of torture, and without his help she had no idea how to steer this conversation onto safer ground. She stumbled for words, not wanting them to end the evening on an awkward silence, hoping for even the tiniest breakthrough. She decided to stick with business questions—maybe if they could get comfortable talking about that, they could progress from there.

‘So, is it interesting, working with a charity? What type of charity is it? How did you get involved?’

Perhaps if she just kept throwing questions out there one of them would stick. But at the last one Will dropped his fork, placed his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand.

Will looked...broken. More pain than she’d seen one person bear weighed heavy in his eyes and on his shoulders, and she hated that she’d caused that. Regret curled in her belly at the knowledge that she’d brought someone so much grief. This week was meant to be about pleasure, about learning to appreciate flavour and beauty and art. But from the way that his elbows had come up onto the table to turn him in on himself, shield his body, she knew that she’d made a huge error.

Her instincts told her to move closer, but his body language screamed Keep Out. She rested her hands flat on the table to stop herself reaching across to him. Seeing Will like this threw everything that she’d thought she knew about him into new light. She’d seen hints of something haunting him, but had never imagined that he was carrying such raw pain.

‘Will...?’ She didn’t want to make this worse; she only wanted to help.

‘It’s a hospice,’ he said quietly. ‘I have a...a family connection to it.’

‘Oh.’

She knew that the response was inadequate. His few words, forced out through gritted teeth, had carried a great weight of buried hurt. There was so much she didn’t know about him, but with those words she’d started to understand him a little more. No wonder he was distant, if this was what threatened when he opened up. No wonder he eyed her with distrust and trepidation when she wanted emotion from him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, caving in to her instincts and touching his hand. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘It’s fine.’ Will picked up his fork, shrugging off her touch, and his face was smoothed over.

Maya guessed that he was fighting against memories, and winning this time.

‘Julia, my foster mother, died fifteen years ago. One of her nurses started a hospice charity and asked me to provide financial advice.’ He spoke with an angry edge to his voice, apparently still fighting for control.

‘Oh,’ she said again. It was still inadequate.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Will said, solving her dilemma. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

* * *

Maya lay in bed and checked the clock on her bedside table. Still only five o’clock. A little early to be crashing around when she had a guest in the house, especially one who’d seemed so annoyed with her by the time they’d gone upstairs last night. After her disastrous attempt at small talk Will had swept up the dishes from the table and clattered around in the kitchen, tidying up. She’d followed him, wanting to help—with the dishes, with his pain—but he’d scowled at her when she’d walked through the door and told her that he could manage. She’d started to argue, to insist that he didn’t need to, but the glare that he’d sent in her direction had had her retracing her steps out through the door. She’d watched through the window as she picked up the last few things from the table, had seen the blank look in his eyes. He’d scrubbed at the counters, cleaning them in long straight strokes, and she guessed that he’d found some comfort in those actions.

She’d known beyond doubt that her presence in the kitchen would upset him further. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to apologise, to put things right, he’d needed her to stay away.

When he’d finally gone upstairs she’d wished him goodnight and told him she’d see him back down here in the morning; then she’d sorted through the last few things in the kitchen before following him up. As she’d reached the landing she’d heard frantic typing, fingers being hammered into a keyboard, and had let out a long sigh. This week was already proving to be so much harder than she’d ever dreamt, and this was only day one. Will had asked her to teach him, but she was worried that he would fight the temptation to learn with his last breath.

Lying in bed was doing her no good this morning. She’d woken so many times through the night, thinking about the disastrous evening in the kitchen and on the terrace—she couldn’t have slept for more than an hour at a time.

Making this week a success had never seemed less likely than it did this morning. But Will had laid down the gauntlet, challenged her to teach him, and she was determined to see it through. He was here, and there was something in that simple fact that made Maya want to persevere. This man needed happiness in his life, something to balance the grief she had glimpsed last night, and the only thing she knew that could deliver joy of that magnitude was food.