Page 39 of A Snowfall of Silver

I turn my attention to the menu which is large and bound in red leather. “I’m starving.”

“Me too.” Russ’s tone is innocent, but the look he gives me is pure Big Bad Wolf eyeing up Red Riding Hood.

I try for a moment to take him seriously, to simmer in a seductive way, but I can’t help bursting into a laugh that rings around the murmuring quiet of the dining room.

Russ’s mouth tugs up in a rueful smile. “All right,” he says. “None of that. How about if I tell you what’s good on the menu?”

“That I would like,” I say.

It is not long until we have the place mostly to ourselves. A discreet waiter appears at my side to top up my wine glass whenever it is getting low.

Russ is charming and attentive, asking me questions about home, and he seems genuinely interested in the answers.

“Seven siblings?” He grimaces in alarm. “What was that like?”

“Complicated,” I admit. “And noisy. I was always a bit of an odd one out.”

“Me too,” he says, taking a sip from his glass. “I think lots of us actors start off as misfits.”

I like that. Us actors. I like to think of Russ as a misfit, like me.

I ask him about his own childhood but he’s evasive, only letting slip that his family don’t approve of his acting work. I get the impression they’re quite well off. He much prefers to talk about his life in London, the performances he’s been in, the people he knows, the parties he goes to.

“You don’t need to impress me, you know,” I say, chasing a morsel of steak around the plate. “After all, we know each other quite well by now.” I smile at him. “Which must put you at quite a disadvantage when it comes to seduction.”

“That’s a disadvantage?” He puts a hand to his chest. “Christ, Freya, you know how to wound a man. Are you suggesting you would like me more if you didn’t know the first thing about me?”

“Well, only that I would be more easily dazzled, you know,” I say, a little apologetically. “Like those girls by the stage door. I expect that’s why you make such quick work of the wardrobe assistants usually.”

A frown briefly mars his perfect brow, and then, reluctantly, he laughs.

“You are direct, Freya,” he says. “I’ll give you that.”

I can see that he has decided to find me amusing, and from then on everything is easy, so easy. The wine we’re drinking is good, red and spicy, warm on my tongue, and it leaves me feeling boneless.

Without knowing exactly when it happened I realize Russ is holding my hand across the white linen tablecloth, toying lightly with my fingers. On the one hand it is sending quite interesting little tingles up my arm, and on the other it is preventing me from being able to properly attack the towering dessert that has been placed in front of me – all thick cream and whisper-light meringue.

“Dessert first,” I say sternly.

Russ’s smile is one of delight.

After we’ve finished eating, he orders brandies. They come in wide glasses, swirling amber and sending a shot of heat right down to my toes. It all feels impossibly grown up. I sit there, twirling my glass and feeling sophisticated.

“So this is what a romantic evening feels like,” I say dreamily.

Russ chuckles. “We’re not done yet, you know.” This time the look he gives me is much more effective, a warm pulse in my belly.

There’s no one else left in the restaurant now. The waiter hangs back, waiting for the gesture to get the bill. The candles have burned down in their silver candlesticks, and the soft music continues to buzz in the background.

While Russ pays for dinner I slip off to the loo where I touch up my red lipstick. The girl looking back at me in the mirror sparkles, young and alive, and exactly as I imagined I could be. I feel a million miles away from Freya Trevelyan.

When we leave the restaurant, Russ gently places my wrap around my shoulders, his hand sliding down my arm. I watch it with a sort of fascination – how practised he is, how utterly polished.

He “knows a little place” where we go to dance.

It’s nothing like as classy as the restaurant we’ve just been to. A tiny door in an unappealing alley, jazz music, scattered and sultry, rippling through the air in a smoky little bar. We dance close together, and I can feel the heat of his body. It feels intimate, that heat, coming off his skin. I am taut, full of anticipation for … something.

By the time we leave I have no idea what time it is. The sky is pitch black, stars wheeling overhead. The dim light of the street lamps reflect off the road. It must have rained at some point because we skip around oil-slick puddles, hand in hand.