Week 17
'I only have four dishes in my repertoire,' says Wilson handing me a plate of chili con carne. 'But this should be edible.'
'Even if it's horrid, I'll pretend to love it,' I say.
'Thanks,' grins Wilson, sitting down next to me, 'that means a lot.'
This is our third date (though we've still not even kissed yet) and we're in Wilson's kitchen/sitting room.
I've already done a meticulous mine sweep, noting the bookshelves heaving with Hemingway, Updike, Chandler and Carver, the stacks of vinyl records and the piles of old Marvel comics (Wilson's a graphic designer, so he's sort of excused).
'Who did that?' I say, nodding to a painting of a sunflower above the fireplace.
'My niece,' says Wilson. 'Milly. She's 5.'
'Did she do that one too?' I point to another orangey-yellow picture by the bookshelf.
Wilson shakes his head and laughs. 'That's actually a Rothko print.'
We've been talking about the high and lows of working from home. The cheap thrill of talking to grown up professionals while still in your jims-jams at 3 pm is a definite high, but an in-depth knowledge of Radio 4's Money Box Live is considered a low. Tea and coffee-making facilities on tap is another selling point but a steady supply of quality biscuits features both in the plus and minus boxes (tasty snacks versus waistline worries).
'This chili's got quite a kick,' I say, glancing down at my jumper and wondering at what point I can risk the big reveal. I'm certainly not going to put myself through a replay of the tapas bar fiasco again.
The jumper's off and now I have a choice. I can either eat with my right hand, pretending I've temporarily lost the use of the left one and keeping it under the table. Or I can come clean.
'You may notice some flaky red patches on my left arm,' I say, determinedly picking up my glass of Rioja with my left hand. 'I'm not a circus freak. It's psoriasis.'
Wilson glances at my arm, takes a sip of wine and thinks for a moment.
'Is that why you kept your jumper on the other night?'
I nod. 'I nearly boiled alive.' Then I tell him about standing in my bra on the ladies loo so I could cool down in front of the window, and how I spent so long there that I forgot to check the mirror before exiting. Hence the inside-out jumper. By the time I've finished, Wilson's laughing so hard he's choking.
'Did you honestly think it would make a difference?' says Wilson once he's recovered.
'I wasn't sure,' I say.
He reaches over and places his hand on my left arm. 'What's a bit of flaky skin between...?' he pauses, 'I was going to say "between friends", but somehow that doesn't sound right.'
Then he leans forward and kisses me on the mouth.
To be continued next Friday...