The Spanish Doctor's Love-Child. Kate Hardy

and lived on cereals or take-away food at home. And as for Michael…

      The less she thought about her ex-husband, the better.

      ‘The first cookbook published in Spain was from Catalonia,’ Leandro said with a smile. ‘Libre del Coc. It was nearly five hundred years ago, and my people are very proud of that. My mother taught me to cook.’

      He didn’t mention his father, she noticed. Or maybe his father had been more like the men she’d grown up with.

      ‘You need to tell your friend where you’re going,’ Leandro added. ‘So she knows where you are and who you’re with and won’t have to worry about you.’

      He rose a couple more notches in her estimation. That kind of thoughtfulness was rare, in her experience. Or maybe the men in Catalonia had a more developed protective instinct than the men she was used to. ‘Thank you.’ She pulled her mobile phone out of her bag and tried calling Tanya. ‘Ah. No answer.’

      ‘She probably can’t hear you above the music,’ he said with a wry smile.

      ‘I’ll text her,’ Becky said, and swiftly tapped in a message. Having dinner with Leandro Herrera. He gave her his address, and she felt her eyes widen. He lived in West Didsbury, one of the more upmarket districts of Manchester. She added his address to her text message and sent it to Tanya.

      ‘If we go to the end of the street we’ll be on the main road and we’ll be able to flag down a taxi, yes?’ he asked.

      She nodded. ‘Have you lived here long?’

      ‘I moved here this week. How about you?’

      ‘Six years.’

      ‘I’m looking forward to exploring the city,’ he said. ‘So where do you recommend I start?’

      ‘It depends what you like. The theatres are good; there are music venues and clubs to suit all tastes; and the museum’s got an amazing collection of pre-Raphaelite art.’

      ‘Not something I know,’ he admitted. ‘I know more about the Modernistes. Gaudí’s from my home city. And obviously we have the Picasso museum in Barcelona.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you like art.’

      She nodded. ‘Not that I get much time to visit the galleries in Manchester.’ She didn’t want him thinking that was a hint, so she changed the subject swiftly. ‘There’s an off-licence not far from here. Can we go there before we get a taxi?’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because if you’re cooking dinner, the least I can do is provide the wine.’ She smiled. ‘I promise it’ll be better than that stuff in the box at the party.’

      He laughed. ‘That wouldn’t be difficult. But there’s really no need.’

      Oh, yes, there was. She didn’t want to be beholden to him. She’d had too many years of feeling beholden. ‘If I don’t contribute, then I don’t feel able to accept your offer,’ she said quietly.

      He sighed. ‘In my world, when you ask someone to dinner, you don’t expect them to pay the bill.’

      ‘In my world,’ she retorted, ‘friends share. Which includes the bill. Or, in this case, make a contribution in the form of wine.’

      He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then I had better accept your offer. Gràcies, Becky.’

      They walked in relaxed silence to the parade of shops round the corner. ‘Red or white?’ Becky asked.

      ‘Either.’

      She opted for both: a fruity New Zealand sauvignon blanc and a rioja.

      He hailed a taxi, gave the driver his address, and insisted on paying the fare at the other end. ‘No arguments, this time,’ he told Becky.

      His house was a Victorian terrace, set in a leafy, tree-lined road. The kind of house she would’ve loved—the kind she and Michael had planned to move to. Except his price had been too high, one she just hadn’t been prepared to pay. Especially after all the dreams had come crashing down round her. And there was no way she could afford a house on her own, so after the divorce she’d gone back to renting.

      ‘Nice house,’ she said as he ushered her inside. The décor didn’t give much away—the colour scheme was neutral and there weren’t any prints on the wall—but if he’d only just moved in he probably hadn’t had time to change it to suit his tastes.

      ‘That’s what I thought when I looked around. I need to check with the agency if I can put anything on the walls, but in the meantime I can live with it.’

      So it was rented rather than his own. Not that it was so surprising. Even if he planned to buy a house, it would take time to sort out.

      ‘Let me get you a drink. Would you like a glass of wine, or would you prefer coffee for now?’

      ‘I’d love a coffee, actually. Thank you.’

      ‘De res.’ Her confusion must have been obvious, because he smiled. ‘That’s “You’re welcome”.’

      She smiled back. ‘So you’re going to teach me some Catalan?’

      ‘Sure. But let’s eat first, yes?’

      She followed him into the kitchen.

      ‘Would you rather eat here or in the dining room?’ he asked.

      ‘I don’t mind.’

      ‘Here, then.’ He gestured to the chair and switched the kettle on. ‘How do you take your coffee?’

      ‘A little milk, no sugar, please.’ And most of the time, at work, it was cold.

      ‘Are you OK with chicken?’ he asked.

      ‘Lovely. Anything I can do to help?’

      ‘No, it’s fine. Do you mind if I put some music on? I prefer cooking to music.’

      ‘Sure.’ Though Becky really, really hoped he didn’t like the kind of dance music they’d been playing at the party. She liked the kind of music you could sing along to, something with a tune.

      It seemed that Leandro preferred classical—she didn’t recognise the soft, gentle guitar piece, but liked what she heard. ‘That’s pretty. What is it?’

      ‘One of Mozart’s divertimenti. One of my favourites for chilling out.’

      ‘So the music at the party really wasn’t your sort of thing.’

      He smiled ruefully. ‘I must be getting old.’

      Hardly. She felt the same. ‘You don’t look older than your early thirties.’

      ‘I’m thirty-five. And I do like contemporary music…just not the stuff they were playing.’ He handed her a mug of coffee: just as she liked it, strong with just a splash of milk. So he’d been listening to what she’d said. That, in her experience, made a very pleasant change.

      ‘Gràcies,’ she said.

      He looked pleased that she’d tried to use his own language. ‘De res,’ he said, and started preparing their meal. He worked swiftly and accurately, she noticed, slicing and chopping. ‘Are you a chef?’ she asked.

      He laughed. ‘No. I just enjoy cooking. It relaxes me—that, and good music.’

      He didn’t venture any information about what he did for a living, and Becky wasn’t in the mood for being pushy. She’d been pushed too hard herself over the last few days, and right now she just wanted to relax and unwind and not have to think about anything at all. She sipped her coffee and enjoyed listening to the music and watching him sizzle chicken in a pan.

      ‘That smells gorgeous,’ she said.

      ‘Twenty minutes, and