Pernille Hughes - Probably the Best Kiss in the World

Being a lawyer, Robert was fairly straight-laced (or “uptight” as Lydia would say), but now and again he did something quirky. Jen had first noticed this years ago in his office, as he sombrely went over the details of her parents’ wills, formally assigning Lydia’s guardianship to her. Still shell-shocked and grieving, her eyes had wandered to his pink and orange striped socks. They were a marked contrast to the sobriety of his tailored dark suit and the uber-traditional (Lydia would say “cliché”) polished leather and wood of his office decor. Jen regularly wheeled the socks out as a positive example when Lydia was on one of her “Robert is boring” attacks.

That Sunday evening, as Jen walked towards the beach, she suspected there might be a spot of quirk in the air. They normally met around seven at a local bar or at the golf club if he’d just played, but tonight he’d texted her to meet him at the family beach hut. Westhampton’s beach wasn’t one of those wild windswept moody backdrops with sand and marram grass, nor a bouncing surfers’ paradise a la Cornwall. This was a proper town beach with large uncomfortable shingle, candy-coloured beach huts and ice cream stands, but thankfully no pier chocked full with arcade machines. There were no features of particular natural beauty, and nothing really to write home about, which was why Westhampton had never quite made it onto the list of popular Victorian bathing resorts. But it was home – so Jen loved it, and as the flashier neighbouring towns were getting expensive, more and more tourists seemed to be coming. She smiled to see them this evening, as she walked briskly along the promenade, hands in the pockets of her khaki shirt dress. The lure of quirk had pushed her to make a change from her usual blouse and tailored trousers, but the pockets were non-negotiable.

“Anyone home?” Jen asked, stepping onto the small deck area. The small port-holed door was open, but she couldn’t see Robert. The Thwaites beach hut was bang in the middle of the single row, the paintwork pristine in its pale blue nautical palette. Robert’s mother insisted on it being repainted every spring. Jen suspected this was more to keep up appearances and one-upmanship over the neighbours than down to any weathering necessity.

“Hello Gorgeous.” Robert appeared holding a blanket which he unfurled with a flourish onto the wooden boards at her feet, before giving her a brisk kiss on the cheek. “Exactly on time, as always.” That was one of the many reasons they got on: mutual appreciation of punctuality. He disappeared back into the hut, and reappeared with an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and flutes, along with a picnic basket. A picnic was definitely not what she’d been expecting. It seemed rather, well, rustic , for Robert – he was more of a croque-monsieur chap than a sandwich guy. Not that it was a problem, Jen certainly wasn’t above sitting on the floor, it just wasn’t what she was used to with Robert. He was definitely making a particular effort this evening, only at what she wasn’t quite sure.

“Take a seat,” he said and laughed at his joke, then popped the cork on the bottle. The cork ricocheted off the peak of the roof to clock Jen on the head. Unaware, he reached for the flutes and poured them each a glass. There followed a moment of awkwardness as he attempted to fold himself down onto the deck without use of his hands, in spite of Jen reaching up to help. “To us,” he said in toast, brushing the worst of the spillage from his striped shirt.

“To us,” she agreed, discretely giving her head a soothing rub, and taking a sip. The champagne was delicious. She couldn’t see the label, but he wouldn’t have skimped. Robert took a week off every year for wine tasting in France, so he had his standards. As he delved about in the basket, laying out a fine spread for them, Jen looked about her. The sun was low but it was still comfortably warm and there were plenty of people about on the shingle. The air was rich with scents: the salt of the sea, the smoke aroma from a distant barbecue and the fragrant notes from the champagne. Her thoughts started to meander as to how she could emulate it all in a beer. It was all rather lovely and dare she say it, romantic . Overt romance wasn’t normally their thing. They were both far too practical and realistic for that – another of the things that had them well suited by Jen’s estimation – but for all of that, he’d put together a sweet little scene for them. She was glad she’d worn a dress now.

She asked him about his golf and he talked her through the first eighteen holes while she ate her Quiche Lorraine, Scotch egg and numerous other picnic standards. The napkins told her the local deli had catered, which was fine by her as Robert wasn’t known for his cooking. In fact, both Ava and Zara teased their brother mercilessly on his ineptness in the kitchen. Jen pushed the thought of Ava and Zara aside. It was still the weekend, and for now she would concentrate on Robert and staunchly overlook the fact she dated her bosses’ brother. There were days when she wished he’d never pushed her CV their way, but then she’d been desperate for a job and Westhampton was hardly the marketing capital of the world.

“What did you get up to then?” he asked, brushing a crumb off her chin and sliding his hand into hers. They’d both relaxed back against the wall of the beach hut. Having known each other for many years, sitting together peacefully was something they did quite well.

“Tapping. And labelling. The boxes are ready for the County Show. And I brewed two new beers, which are now safely in the tanks.”

“Right oh,” he murmured, pulling the picnic basket towards him with his spare hand and perusing the contents, “Lydia help you out?”

“No, she was gone most of the weekend. Not sure where, just said she was popping out with mates. She offered though.” She didn’t mean it as a hint, but he didn’t take it as one either, as he was busy setting up the desserts.

Two ramekins of something with a brown sugar topping sat on the blanket and he fished out a small kitchen blowtorch. He looked quite excited to be holding it. “I saw them do this on Saturday Breakfast .” He must have seen Jen’s look of concern as he released her hand and stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry, Jen. Fire-handling comes with the Y chromosome.”

Minutes later, the flames were quickly doused with a bottle of Evian, but the blanket was a goner.

“Never mind,” he insisted, unfazed and more intent on pressing the alleged Crème Brȗlée into her hands, “Mumsie will be pleased with the shopping excuse.”

Jen looked at her dessert. It wasn’t fully burnt, there was still a small patch she could breach to access the custard. The intense way that he was nodding her on, eager for her to tuck in, suggested perhaps he’d made this part himself. She swallowed her gulp quite admirably.

Credit where credit was due, the patch she stabbed made exactly the right cracking sound, much to his delight. Robert didn’t seem overly concerned with trying his own dessert though, which was worrying, but he’d made such an effort and appeared so keen, that she couldn’t do anything else but delve out a substantial spoonful and put it in her mouth.

She knew instantly she’d made a mistake. There was something big and hard in there, definitely not smooth and creamy. She looked about, not sure what to do; spitting was not a seemly option. Finally, she looked at him distressed and what was that in his eyes? Mischief? It certainly looked like it. Slowly, carefully, trying to appear as ladylike as possible while desperate to gob it out, she extracted the object from her mouth.