Sally. Freya North

her the obligatory drink (‘Spritzer will be lovely, thanks’), she perused his books – just as Richard had at Sally’s. She was amused that many of her dog-eared paperbacks were duplicated in here in pristine hardback. She wondered if he really enjoyed Nietzsche and what his favourite Shakespeare was.

      ‘Seize her,’ Richard murmured.

      ‘I like the History Plays too,’ Sally agreed.

      Mentally, she catalogued all she saw and it all seemed to add up to the man she thought and hoped Richard was. Tulips in November, how decadent. A gleaming kitchen, ten out of ten. Leather recliner, lose five points. Cream sofa piled high with cushions, five points restored.

      ‘Can I use your bathroom?’

      ‘Sure, through there.’

      Full marks for hygiene, bonus marks for the thickness of the towels, an overall gold star for taste. She flushed the loo just to make it seem that her trip to the bathroom had been for a purpose other than a snoop. Coming back into the lounge she had a furtive glance into the bedroom – it seemed quiet, airy and muted. Good.

      ‘Sally, let’s eat.’

      For Sally, this meal was to be a sounding board for her scheme. All week, in the privacy of her flat and with a mirror propped close as the harshest of critics, she had practised a new technique on a variety of foods. Food, she had decided, was not so much to be eaten to be digested, as eaten to seduce. Hitherto she had merely cut asparagus into spearable, bite-sized chunks, now she could devour them whole with slow, sensual appeal. Although she had never really got to grips with the taste or method of oysters, she could now sip and gulp them with the alluring grace of a film star. To her relief, neither was on the menu tonight – anyway, asparagus had a strange effect on her bladder and she simply did not like those slithering detritus feeders, full stop.

      Richard had prepared a meal that was as chic and delicious as it was simple. He had laid the table with a fine white damask cloth, dark red linen napkins, and cutlery and glass that shone proud. He’d toyed with the idea of a candle and a rose but was instantly repelled by the corniness of it (they would have had minus marks from Sally anyway). Instead, he dimmed the lights just slightly and, at Sally’s request, replaced Brahms with Van the Man. ‘My Brown-eyed Girl’ indeed, thought Richard.

      He brought out the Prosciutto S. Daniele which he had rolled around grissini.

       Shall I lick at it and suck at it suggestively?

      Hold off a while, Sally. You don’t want to be too obvious.

      Ultimately, it was far too delicious to do anything to but eat and enjoy.

      Richard stared at her, held her gaze for a groin-stirring moment and then dropped his eyes to her mouth.

       Just look at that crumb nestling in the corner of her lips. A peony mouth, just like Hardy’s Tess. Don’t realize it’s there, Sally, let me linger on it a while longer. I have to have that crumb, your mouth.

      He leant forward, driven by the desire to lick the crumb, but Sally’s tongue beat him by a split second. He’d lost the crumb but was awarded a tantalizing taste of her tongue tip. Her eyes spoke of the wry smile her lips wore but which he could not see, so close was he to her face. Unfortunately, it was not a pose he could hold comfortably indefinitely, propped as he was on his elbows and precariously close to the jug of vinaigrette. He sat back and saw how Sally’s wry smile was not confined to her lips but covered her whole face. It raised her cheekbones, it caused delicate lines around her eyes, it dimpled her chin just very slightly.

       I want to suck your chin.

      ‘Delicious.’

      Giving himself a dignified minute in which to let his erection melt away, he rose to fetch the next dish. A warm salad of rocket and baby spinach with roasted red peppers and individual goat cheeses. Richard offered to dress it for Sally. She watched him whisk the vinaigrette and liked the way that such a simple task was possible only with great effort from the ligaments and tendons of his wrist – she wanted to place a finger over them lightly as they twitched and sprang. She thought how lovely Richard’s wrist was, slender and tanned and sporting a most beautiful watch (Cartier). She had never paid attention to a wrist before.

      Sally ate delicately, folding the leaves securely over her fork and cutting each slither of pepper into careful pieces. She could not risk splash-back tonight – for the sake of both Richard’s libido and her new silk shirt.

      Richard finished before Sally. He watched. She stared back, eating all the while.

       The skill of it! Every forkful placed perfectly in the centre of your perfect mouth without looking! Can I kiss you yet? When?

      The plate was now bare but there was still a film of vinaigrette left. It was such a beautiful dressing, why shouldn’t Sally run her finger round her plate? After all, waste not, want not. And, after all, it stirred Richard’s groin again, not that Sally was aware of it.

      The main course consisted of a bed of pappardelle woven throughout with porcini and chicken, and suffused with garlic, basil, sage and the ubiquitous olive oil. That it was extra virgin and cold pressed goes without saying, we know Richard now. Sally had never had porcini before and was at first baffled as to whether they were meat or vegetable, so savoury was the taste, so firm the texture.

       I must buy some of these.

      Sally, they cost Richard twelve pounds.

      The whole was a perfect partnership and created a lovely warm aromatic cloud in the mouth.

      Thank God we’re both having garlic, thought Sally, anticipating post-dinner sport. The pasta, broader than tagliatelle, was much more fork-friendly, preventing dribbles of sauce to the chin, or stray pieces hanging regrettably from the corner of the mouth (much to the chagrin of Richard’s tongue).

      The olive oil gave Sally’s lips a gloss, too tantalizing for Richard to sit and merely observe. The vinaigrette jug was now off the table, the bread basket was on the floor. The scene had set itself for Richard; there was space for him to lean across, there were the sides of the table to hold for stability. Assertively he swiped Sally’s mouth with his tongue. Her lips tasted of dressing, her mouth of Sally. Richard’s tongue tasted of passion. Sally was buzzing between her legs, her bosom was heaving cinematically. She was ready to leave the meal for a banquet of sex.

       No. Wait. Not yet. Keep it going, keep him just there. Let him stay a while hovering on the brink of being crazed and senseless with desire. Pull away. Smile as sweetly as you can and take a coy sip of that lovely Bardolino.

      ‘Cheese?’ Richard croaked.

      ‘Please,’ Sally purred.

      Just two cheeses, complementing each other and the food that had gone before and that was to follow; the oozing, subtle Taleggio and spicier Pecorino accompanied by further slithers of Rosa Gambini’s ciabatta, flatter yet with so much more spring and taste than the dull supermarket counterfeits. Richard had cleverly judged the servings and though they were both thoroughly satisfied, an all-important space still existed in their stomachs.

      Undoubtedly, the pièce de résistance was the pudding. Tiramisù, of course. Another first for Sally. Richard had bought a complete dish from Rosa, just under a foot square, and Sally was soon fantasizing about diving into the centre of it and eating her way to the surface. Remembering his first taste of tiramisù, that it was not merely a delicious flavour but a sensation, an unforgettable experience too, Richard decided to halt his spoon midway to his portion so he could observe Sally’s reaction.

      As she spooned into it, she thought how beautiful it looked. The dark matt brown of the cocoa powder, the soft ivory of the marscapone, the glistening sponge, speckled through with espresso coffee.

       I think I’m probably going to enjoy this very much. It could be dangerous!

      As