Page 44 of Under a Dancing Star

“Oh,” I manage, completely reeling from this unexpected barrage of compliments. “Thank you.”

“Don’t go getting a big head about it,” Ben warns quickly. “After all, compliments are part of the whole wooing thing. I’m contractually obliged to produce them. I’d be more than happy to sit here and list all your flaws, but that wasn’t part of the deal.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I say, but I’m smiling. Even if the compliments are just part of the experiment, they’re still nice to hear.

“Good.” Ben clears his throat.

I am distracted from whatever he is going to say next by the now-familiar song of the hoopoe. Then, suddenly and without ceremony, the bird I’ve been so desperate to see lands on a nearby branch, fluffing out its soft peachy feathers, the long black and white crest fanned out impressively on its head.

“Look, Ben!” I exclaim, pointing.

My sudden movement must come as something of a surprise. He tips backwards, there’s a bit of comic arm wheeling as he hangs, suspended for a second on the edge, and then Ben finally goes head over heels, falling into the fountain with an almighty splash.

I leap to my feet, dodging the tidal wave that his impact sends crashing towards me. Ben emerges from the water, spluttering indignantly, his face a mask of outrage.

“Oh dear,” I say.

He stays where he is, sitting in the fountain, blinking at me for a moment. Rivulets of water stream from his hair and he pushes it back and away from his face.

“Let me guess,” he says finally. “There was a dragonfly?”

“Oh no,” I say quickly. “A hoopoe, Ben, look!” I turn, but the bird has flown away. “Oh.” I frown. “You must have scared it.”

“How thoughtless of me,” he mutters.

“I don’t suppose you did it on purpose, but really, Ben, you are quite clumsy.”

Ben glares at me. “I wasn’t clumsy before I met you.”

“I hardly think you can blame that on me,” I say. “But if your balance is off-centre, perhaps there’s something wrong with you, medically speaking. You should get that looked at. Unsteadiness can be a symptom of many different things. How are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling?” Ben muses, lifting a hand to rub his chin thoughtfully. “How do you think I’m feeling, Bea?”

“Quite damp, I should imagine,” I say, trying and failing to stifle a laugh.

Ben pushes himself to his feet in one swift movement and, like a sea creature emerging from the deep, he sends another wave of water crashing against the edge of the fountain.

“Now, Ben,” I say coaxingly, “don’t be cross. Look, I saved the most important thing.” I hold out my hand to reveal his book, slightly damp but mostly unharmed.

Ben pauses, looking from my face to the book in my hand. “You,” he says, almost to himself, “are the strangest person.”

“Extraordinary,” I remind him. “You think I’m extraordinary.”

“Extraordinarily annoying,” he says acidly.

“That doesn’t really seem to be in the spirit of our agreement, Ben,” I say sweetly. “And you were doing so well with the compliments.” I’m taunting him now and it’s fun, but the look on his face tells me it’s also possibly dangerous. I absolutely wouldn’t put it past him to throw me in the fountain out of some misplaced idea of vengeance. I edge away. “Well,” I say brightly, “this has all been very enlightening, but I think I’d better be off,” and I turn and stride away, ignoring the spluttered outrage that hangs in the air behind me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The days that follow are dreamy and intoxicating and extremely educational.

Ben throws himself into the experiment with great enthusiasm, and there have been enough stolen kisses to fill two notebooks with observations. We have not yet tackled the subject of moving beyond kisses, but I have to say my increased awareness of both his body and my own has been rather thrilling.

It’s late afternoon now and the light is heavy and golden. We’re in the garden and against my better judgement I’m allowing Ben to give love poetry another go.

“There’s no romance in your soul,” Ben grumbles as I press my lips together, trying and failing to stop the laughter from escaping.

“I think it’s your reading style, rather than the words,” I point out fairly. Ben is obviously relishing the role of romantic hero, and – as I feared – the overblown, high-drama, “raven-haired beauty” stuff only seems to make me laugh. “I enjoyed Filomena’s poetry at the bonfire the other night.”