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She might get just about the best friend she had ever had.
    He was in the kitchen, at the stove, and again her heart gave that little leap at the sight of him. She asked, ‘Are you good at the cooking as well?’
    ‘Cordon Bleu it’s not,’ he said. ‘But my scrambled eggs aren’t to be sneezed at.’
    ‘I don’t ’ she began, and he turned from the stove and pointed a fork at her.
    ‘If you’re going to say you don’t like scrambled eggs you get what you do eat, because I don’t want you flaking out from starvation.’
    ‘Honestly,’ she protested, ‘I eat most things, and I like scrambled eggs. What I was going to say was, “I don’t suppose you’d let me cook dinner?”’
    ‘Splendid idea!’ He sounded all for it, and that would pass the day for her.
    ‘What time?’ she asked.
    ‘Sevenish.’
    ‘Just one hitch, I don’t have a watch. It’s in my handbag in my car.’
    Duncan took off the heavy Cartier wristwatch he wore and put it on the kitchen table. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘you can make the toast.’
    There was a long brass toasting fork with slightly bent prongs, and Pattie held the bread close to the embers and watched it curling and browning, and thought how much more satisfying this was than popping slices into a metallic container and waiting for them to be hurled back at you.
    They ate breakfast in front of the fire. The toast had a faintly smoky taste, but Pattie still preferred it to the kind she had at home, and Duncan was right about the scrambled eggs, they were good. She ate hungrily, and so did he, as though he was in a hurry to finish and start work. She would have liked to talk, but the talking could wait. She had a feeling of timelessness. There was no urgency about today. Later they would talk, and it wasn’t just for her article that she wanted to know about him.
    He finished before her and took his plate and mug into the kitchen, while Pattie chewed on the final crust of her toast and debated with herself about making another slice. The bread would be too stale to eat soon, and only get wasted, and she was giving the matter her serious consideration, sitting in the fireglow, when he handed her an oblong mirror in a narrow white plastic frame. ‘Sure you want this?’ he asked.
    Her reflection made her wince and she wailed, ‘I’m sorry I asked for it now. Talk about the raggle-taggle gypsies! Could I have a borrow of your comb? You do have a comb?'
    ‘Look, lady,’ he glared at her, but it was mock pugnacity that made her laugh, 'on my own up here I grow a beard — a handsome one too, basically I’m a hairy feller — but my general habits are hygienic. I comb my hair, I clean my teeth, I wash—all over.’ She grinned. ‘Oh, what’s wrong with a bit of scruffiness?’ and couldn’t believe what she was saying. ‘But I would like to wash my hair.’
    ‘Hang on,’ he said. This time he went upstairs, and came back at once, carrying a bottle of amber-coloured liquid. ‘I hadn’t unpacked this.’ Pattie gave a delighted squeal. ‘Never got so much appreciation for so little before,’ he said.
    ‘Who wants perfume, chocolates, red roses?’ she chortled theatrically. ‘This is beautiful !’ She kissed the bottle of shampoo and Duncan said,
    ‘Now that’s a waste of a good kiss. I gave it to you.’
    He stooped and kissed her lips and the light touch of his mouth sent ice-cold pins and needles up and down her spine. .
    ‘But right now,’ he said, ‘work.’
    ‘Of course,’ she said.
    Work for him, but she was going to wash her hair and make herself presentable. If she could achieve that she would work on the next stage and try to end up looking seductive. She had longed for her luggage ever since she arrived here, but now more than ever she sighed for a change into pretty clothes, and something to brighten her lips and cheeks. She was naturally pale. The golden tan she acquired through her weekly sessions under the sun-lamps needed to be augmented