“It’s only because I care about you,” she said, more gently. “You are one of the most incredible people I’ve ever known, and I can’t bear to see you like this.”
“So I have a nursemaid.”
“Don’t think of it like that. Think of it as a friend who wants to take care of you.”
His lips curved sardonically.
“It should be me taking care of you,” he said.
“You can’t. Not now. You just need to get off the booze, that’s all. Anyway, let’s start with food. I’m going to cook you something and you’re going to eat it. Then I want to hear your Lark Ascending.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do?”
She thought, with momentary regret, of Vanessa and Ben on their picnic rug enjoying the sunshine, instead of cooped up in this trashed flat with an alcoholic. But she didn’t let it sway her. Picnics in parks would happen again. Milan’s health was the pressing issue.
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
Heading for the kitchen, she called Vanessa to let her know she wouldn’t be back that weekend. Vanessa tried to demur, to lure her back, but Lydia had made up her mind.
She made herself and Milan an omelette and salad with what sparse ingredients remained in his fridge—apart from all the vodka and champagne—and they ate together, Milan slightly more sober after showering and dressing. Well, half dressing. He wore a pair of jeans and nothing else. Lydia tried not to be distracted by his chest and those sinewy, strong upper arms as he toyed with his food.
“So it’s two months until the Prom,” she said. “Eight or nine weeks. I’m staying here until then, at least.”
Milan shredded some salad leaves between his fingers, never putting anything into his mouth.
“When did this happen to you?” he wondered aloud.
“When I met you. It’s been happening ever since then. I used to be such a pushover at first—but I’m not anymore.”
“Hmm.” He raised bleary eyes to her. “I liked you when you were a pushover.”
“I know. But I didn’t like it much.”
“Lydia, I want you here. That isn’t a problem. But I want you here as a lover. Not some kind of jailer.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. And I know you aren’t.”
“Okay, but I have to tell you—eight or nine weeks without sex isn’t going to happen.” He raised a challenging eyebrow.
“What are you saying?”
“Maybe I’ll bring people back here with me. How will you feel about that?”
She stared at him, stumped. Would he really do that?
“What, to sleep with?”
“No, not to sleep with. To fuck. Well?”
She swallowed, less keen on the omelette all of a sudden.
“What’s wrong with your right hand?” she asked, her voice crooked.
“My bowing hand? I need to keep it rested.”
He showed his teeth. You couldn’t really call it a smile.
“Would you be so cruel?”