Raincoats and Retrievers. Cressida McLaughlin

that’s all.’

      Polly laughed. ‘You’re not her dad.’

      ‘No,’ Joe admitted, ‘but that doesn’t mean I can’t look out for her. I’d look out for you.’

      ‘Awwwww.’ Polly grabbed her brother round the shoulders and pulled him towards her. Joe rolled his eyes and put up with the hug for three seconds, before shrugging himself out of it.

      ‘Thanks, Joe,’ Cat managed. His comment was working its way into her brain, mixing with her own anxieties, but the doorbell rang, making her jump, and she realized she no longer had time to worry.

      This was it.

      Cat ran her hands down her dress and, turning away from her friends, went to open the door.

      ‘Hello,’ Mark said, giving her his full-beam grin, and Cat’s nerves were swallowed by desire.

      Mark was wearing a white Ralph Lauren shirt, the top two buttons open, over dark jeans and navy shoes. Cat couldn’t see socks, but then she couldn’t see ankles either. His dark brown hair had been cut recently, but still had enough length to be attractively messy, and his brown eyes latched instantly onto hers.

      ‘Hi,’ Cat said.

      ‘I’ve come to take you for a walk, if that’s OK?’ Mark raised his eyebrows.

      ‘A walk? I thought we were going out to dinner.’

      ‘A short promenade with the owner of Pooch Promenade, before our meal. I’ve been harbouring a lot of jealousy for all those dogs, so now it’s my turn.’

      ‘Ah. Well, I’m not really wearing the right shoes…’

      ‘No,’ Mark agreed, eyeing her appreciatively, ‘you don’t tend to walk them looking like that. You’re stunning. It’s a very short walk, I promise. Shall we?’ He held out his elbow and Cat leant back into the living room, gave Polly and Joe a final wave and then took Mark’s arm and closed the door behind her. They walked the short distance from number nine Primrose Terrace to number four, and Mark unlocked his Audi.

      ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s the walking part done with. Though I guess if we’re both well behaved…’

      ‘What?’ Cat asked, sinking into the warm leather passenger seat.

      ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you give your dogs treats, don’t you?’ He flashed her another grin and started the engine.

      ‘Little bone-shaped chews,’ Cat said. ‘Though I wouldn’t recommend them as an appetizer. I tried one once and it was disgusting.’ Her mouth was drying out. She wasn’t in Mark-mode, ready to deflect his quick comments and his innuendo.

      ‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ Mark said, his voice light.

      ‘Oh.’ Cat closed her eyes as realization dawned, feeling a warm flush creep up her neck; nerves were jumbling her thoughts and she felt clumsy and awkward. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, hoping the change of subject would give her some breathing space.

      ‘You’ll see.’ Mark pulled away from the kerb. Like everything else about him, his driving was assured. He wasn’t overly fast, but once they’d left the wide streets of Fairview, then the sprawling suburbs of Fairhaven, and made it onto the A-road that rose up behind the town and gave a stunning view of the sea, he put his foot down. They were going east, and Cat had to peer past Mark to watch the sun dropping spectacularly over the water.

      He was so close, his thigh just beyond the gear stick, and Cat wished she could reach over and casually put her hand on it. But her palms were sweaty, and she’d probably end up grabbing it too hard, or missing it altogether and…she shook the embarrassment of that thought away. ‘You didn’t want to stay in Fairview, then?’ she asked.

      ‘I told you I’d take you somewhere special,’ Mark said. ‘Not that Fairview isn’t great, but – I owe you this. For taking so long to get round to it.’ They’d met in March and had been dancing round each other for five months, though Mark had allowed Cat to look after Chips, his Border collie, when he’d gone to London. ‘I’m intrigued,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the area beyond Fairhaven very well.’ This was much safer ground. She leaned her head against the headrest.

      ‘Neither do I, but I had help. Someone we both know who’s quite good when it comes to food.’

      Cat sat up and looked out of the window, hiding her face from him. Jessica. Food writer and owner of three beautiful Westies, she had been Cat’s first official client for her dog-walking business Pooch Promenade. Cat had originally believed that Jessica and Mark were an item. They were both beautiful, both writers. Jessica was a bona-fide celebrity and Mark moved in the same circles, with two films under his belt and a third in pre-production. More than once, Mark had assured her they were just friends, but had he really been talking to her about their date? Did he confide in her about everything?

      ‘Jessica suggested it?’ she asked, trying for lightness and not managing it. ‘Then it must be good.’

      ‘We’re about to find out.’ Mark, unaware of, or ignoring, her discomfort, indicated right and drove down a twisty, narrow road, before turning between two trees and onto a gravel driveway. They were still high up, and the low building they parked in front of sat snugly on the side of the hill, as if it had been carved out of the rock. Mark helped Cat out of the car, and they approached the entrance, the sign above confirming they’d reached Highcroft Manor and Vineyard. Beyond the building, Cat could see neat rows of vines sloping down towards the sea, rays of golden sun picking them out in sharp relief.

      ‘If the food is as good as the view…’ Cat murmured.

      ‘And you already know the company is,’ Mark said cheekily. He put his hand on the small of her back and led her through the door.

      They were greeted by a smartly dressed woman with a high, tight ponytail. Mark gave his name and she led them into a large square room with a bar at its centre, floor-to-ceiling windows making the most of the landscape beyond. The carpet was cream, the tables and chairs dark wood to match the bar, the lighting low but warm. The whole place exuded luxury. They could easily be in southern France rather than perched on a hill overlooking the English Channel.

      Mark had reserved them a table against the window, and he held back Cat’s seat for her, then sat opposite as the restaurant manager handed them the menus.

      ‘This is spectacular,’ Cat whispered, feeling awkward and underdressed, despite the effort she’d made. The restaurant was full, but the atmosphere was soft, quiet, well-behaved. Cat’s nerves ratcheted up a notch as she was handed a wine list as long as her arm, the offerings mostly in French. ‘But I don’t know anything about wine.’

      ‘Let me pick that,’ Mark said. ‘Just focus on the food.’

      ‘Oh, right,’ Cat said, ‘OK.’ She felt a burst of anger that he was taking charge, that he’d brought her to a place where she couldn’t be in control of her choices. But then, was that his fault? It was Jessica who’d suggested this place, and the reminder of that didn’t make her feel any better. She glanced over the menu, her eyes widening at the descriptions: Seared, hand-dived scallops; Beetroot with nuts, seaweed and chocolate.

      ‘This place is something else,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

      She tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but Mark looked up, a hint of a frown lowering his brows. ‘We just need to pick what we like the look of, identify some ingredients we know. Beetroot and chocolate?’

      Cat screwed her face up.

      ‘You’ve never had chocolate beetroot cake?’

      Cat shook her head. ‘You have?’

      ‘No,’ Mark said, grinning. ‘It sounds disgusting. Jessica’s really outdone herself here,’ he said, eyes scanning the menu again. ‘One of them looks like it might be a steak, if you ignore the fancy