‘You,’ he says.
‘Me.’
And we just stare at each other like idiots for a minute.
‘Will you come in?’ he says, holding the door open wide.
Now I really hope I brushed my teeth properly. As I walk ahead of him, I discreetly breathe into my palm just to check. I doubt the heroines in Richard Curtis films ever had to worry about their breath smelling.
Jasper leads me to a spacious farmhouse kitchen, all sleek pale granite work surfaces and a few tastefully retained period features – large oak beams and stone slab flooring. This is good; if I’m noticing the stone flooring, I must be sober. Jasper pulls out a leather-topped bar stool for me.
‘I owe you an apology, Laura – carelessly picking up the wrong bag, and then revealing myself to be so slovenly that I haven’t even unpacked or noticed for twenty-four hours.’ He looks across the kitchen island at me, and his cheeks crease into dimples. Wow, he really is incredibly attractive. Though a little younger than I remember from the airport. His face has a boyish quality, but he’s probably late twenties like I am.
‘Well, you have a decent excuse – lifeboat training, your mother mentioned,’ I say, daring to glance down at his hand – no ring. Cha-ching.
He nods.
‘I’m only a part-time volunteer, but it’s still a big commitment training wise.’
Though he has a lean build, he has broad, manly hands, perfect for pulling people from the water, or kneading dough, or playing the piano, or putting one on either side of my naked hips and – OK, inappropriate.
‘Will you stay for a drink? Whatever you feel like, I have a fully stocked bar.’
‘I shouldn’t have anything alcoholic, I’ve already had a few this evening,’ I say, giving him my most demure smile. ‘Maybe just a tea?’
Jasper starts pulling down cups and saucers from a shelf.
‘I have Darjeeling, Assam, Oolong?’
‘Any of the above.’ I shrug, I know nothing about tea except I like it with milk, no sugar.
‘Let’s have Oolong for a change, then,’ Jasper says, tapping a glass jar and taking it down from the shelf. ‘I have to say it feels fortuitous, us picking up each other’s cases,’ he says, spooning loose leaf tea into a small grey earthenware teapot.
‘It does?’
‘This might be speaking out of turn, but when we ran into each other in the airport, I—’ He turns back towards me, shaking his head in feigned embarrassment.
‘What?’ I say with a girlish giggle that doesn’t sound at all like me.
‘Well.’ He closes his eyes briefly. ‘I wanted to ask you out. I know we barely said a word to each other, but, well, I’ve never scrabbled around the floor to retrieve’ – he pauses, his lips twitching briefly as he searches for the right word – ‘the washbag contents of someone so beautiful before.’
I clench every muscle in my body. Did he just say I was beautiful?
‘Hardly,’ I say, feeling a playful scowl crease my forehead.
‘You’re stunning, Laura, as I’m sure you know, but – I don’t think we British folk know how to ask someone out in the middle of an airport,’ Jasper wrinkles his nose. I can’t stop watching the muscles in his face move. Is this really happening, or is this a fantasy? Maybe I passed out drunk in the sea and this is some kind of drowning hallucination.
‘I would have felt sleazy asking if I could have your number in front of a concourse full of people. Plus, you probably have a boyfriend or a husband or a …’ He lets the sentence hang, and I look up to meet his eye with a deliciously laden look.
‘None of the above.’
‘When I got the message about a woman having my case, I— It sounds ridiculous – but I hoped it might be you.’
This could literally not be going any better.
‘Can I tell you something even stranger?’ I say, leaning forward to take the cup of tea and saucer he hands me. ‘When I opened your bag – before I knew it wasn’t mine – some of the things inside, they made me feel that I was meant to find you.’
‘Really, like what?’
He walks around to my side of the kitchen island, pulling out the bar stool next to me, and I feel flustered by his proximity. Don’t tell him everything, Laura, you’ll freak him out. Apple peel, apple peel.
‘To Kill a Mockingbird is my favourite book.’
‘No,’ he says, eyes wide with surprise, ‘I’ve only read it about fifteen times.’
‘You haven’t!’ I gasp.
‘I even went to law school because I wanted to be Atticus Finch,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘Though I soon realised being a lawyer wasn’t all about getting to be the good guy; often you’re forced to be the bad guy too. Thus, my career in the legal profession turned out to be short-lived.’ He shakes his head, as though not wanting to get too far off topic. ‘What else was in my bag? You have me well and truly intrigued now.’
‘Phil Collins.’ I let the name hang between us.
‘Only the greatest musician ever born!’ says Jasper, slapping his hand on the counter.
‘You had the piano music in your bag, and, well, to say I’m a massive Phil fan would be a huge understatement.’ I feel myself grinning – everything he is telling me is confirming my instincts about the case.
Jasper shakes his head, smiles, then starts talking to the ceiling, ‘Alexa, play “I Wish It Would Rain Down”,’ and the walls begin to sing. ‘I found that sheet music in an obscure music store in London; I thought playing more music I actually like might encourage me to practise more.’
The chorus kicks in, and we both start singing along. He knows every word, just like me. It’s cheesy, but delightfully so. We’re both nodding our heads to the beat. Jasper rolls up the sleeves of his jumper, picks up two wooden spoons from a pot and pretends to play the drums on some saucepan lids; it makes me laugh.
My mind starts getting ahead of itself: maybe our suitcase story will be made into a musical one day. Reese Witherspoon could buy the movie rights and turn it into something like La La Land or Les Misérables. Ooh, it could be like Mamma Mia but full of Phil Collins songs.
‘I don’t know anyone else who truly appreciates Phil’s genius. I mean, who else can combine up-tempo pop with that kind of musical dexterity and lyrical complexity?’ says Jasper.
‘Right! Exactly,’ I say, throwing both hands in the air. ‘I’ve loved him since I was a girl. I inherited my dad’s old LP collection, and all the Phil records are scratched from overuse—’
‘You listen to LPs?’ Jasper grins, ‘I have a whole library of LPs upstairs. OK, favourite song, on the count of three – one, two, three …’ and then we both say, ‘“Sussudio”,’ at the same time. He holds my gaze, and I feel that warm glow that comes from knowing someone likes you.
‘Well, well.’ He smiles up at me. ‘I think we should make a toast.’ He pauses, contemplating what to toast to, and then says, ‘To lost luggage.’
‘To lost luggage.’
Looking at Jasper take a sip of his tea, it’s as though someone has found the list in my head filed under ‘perfect man’ and made him flesh. I ask Jasper where the loo is, just to give myself a time-out from all the delicious eye contact, and he points me down the corridor. There are all sorts of interesting prints and vintage maps adorning the wall; they don’t look like the kind of art someone our age would choose. I must have walked further than he instructed, because when I open the door, I find, not a bathroom, but another kitchen. Unlike the kitchen we were in, this one is cream and white, and all the units gleam as though brand-new and unused. I shut the door, confused. Why would anyone need two kitchens? Maybe this is some kind of granny annexe or a lodger lives here.
Following the corridor around, I pause to inspect a line of butterflies in wall-mounted cabinets. They’re both beautiful and strangely morbid. The next door I come to is open a crack. I reach out for the handle, inexplicably nervous about what I might find behind it. As I push the door slowly open, I fin
d – another kitchen.
What the hell? I am Alice in Kitchenland, and it’s slightly freaky. This kitchen is stylistically entirely different from the first two, dark charcoal surfaces and deep mahogany cupboards, with a large steel extractor unit in the centre of the room. I back out, my heart racing.
Bugger, I knew he was too good to be true. It’s not as though I’ve opened doors to find a string of corpses or a coffin with my name on it – but I still feel unnerved. Is Jasper obsessed with kitchens? How many more kitchens are there? Why do guys that tick every other box always have to have a weird ‘thing’? Why can’t I just meet a normal, unmarried man, who likes Phil Collins and has a regular number of kitchens in his house?
‘So um, I think I went too far down the corridor and – you have two kitchens?’ I say as nonchalantly as possible, once I’m back in the first kitchen with Jasper. Best to just ask him. I genuinely can’t think of anything other than ‘kitchen murderer’ right now, like he has a fetish for killing people in a culinary environment, but he likes to mix it up with different backdrops. I won’t let on I’ve seen all three; he might conclude that if I’ve seen three, I’ve seen too much, and he’ll have to murder me right here with a bread knife.
‘Five actually,’ he says with a grin.
I swallow nervously. There is a touch of the Patrick Bateman about Jasper, now that I look at him with fresh eyes. Not in personality, but he does look like Christian Bale. Oh God, what if this is my last night on earth? I haven’t even seen the latest Bond film yet – I’ll die not knowing if Phoebe Waller-Bridge managed to revive the franchise.
‘Sorry, I should have warned you,’ says Jasper. ‘You’re probably thinking I’ve got a bizarre kitchen obsession now.’
‘Ha ha, no,’ I let out a high-pitched laugh.
Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.
‘It’s my job – I sell kitchens,’ he explains. ‘We needed a showroom, and I inherited this house that’s far bigger than I need,’ he shrugs. ‘When people want to see the kitchen fixtures they’re buying, they come here. There are three in the main house, two more in the outbuilding. I host a lot of culinary and lifestyle photo shoots too.’
My throat stops constricting, my shoulders relax, the rising tide of Christian Bale-related panic recedes. OK, that is definitely a more logical explanation than that he’s a serial killer who likes to murder people in different styles of kitchen. Maybe I do watch too many true crime shows.
‘Let me give you the full tour,’ he offers, jumping to his feet.
Jasper tells me that his company is called Contessa Kitchens, and that all his kitchen designs are named after women he admires. The kitchen we are in is the Michelle (as in Obama). There’s the Maude (after his mother) – a modern take on a rustic, farmhouse theme. The chic cream design I’d stumbled into is the Diana (as in the princess). The dark charcoal fixtures make up the Emmeline. And then, finally, there’s a more traditional oak-framed kitchen called – wait for it – the Malala.
As Jasper gives me the tour, he gears into ‘salesman mode’, and I hear a lot of words I don’t know the meaning of, like ‘compact laminate’ and ‘polymer resin’. He explains all the Contessa styles can be adapted to a U-shape, L-shape, a peninsula or islands, but he might as well be speaking Danish for all the kitchen-speak I understand.
I nod along, impressed by his enthusiasm.
‘You’re regretting asking about the kitchens now, aren’t you?’ he asks as his gaze settles on my perplexed face.
‘No, not at all,’ I quickly change whatever expression my face was displaying. ‘So, are all the kitchens named after women?’ I ask, leaning against the dark mahogany island of the Emmeline. ‘Isn’t that slightly, I don’t know, sexist?’
Jasper looks wounded.
‘Oh no. It’s a tribute to some of the people throughout history I most admire, just as you might name a ship in someone’s honour.’ He pauses. ‘I have four older sisters; I was a feminist before I could walk.’
I’m not convinced any of these women would be thrilled about having a kitchen named after them, but he appears so earnest about it, it must be well intended.
‘And is there enough demand for new kitchens on an island this size?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes. It’s the first thing people change when they buy a new house. People like to make the heart of the home their own.’ Jasper leans an elbow against the wall, then ruffles his hair with the other hand. ‘There’s a manor in St Lawrence that’s had three of my kitchens in about as many years – the chap keeps getting divorced and each new wife insists on ripping her predecessor’s kitchen out.’
The story amuses him, so I smile along, but the thought of such waste casts a bleak image in my mind.
Jasper suggests we move through to the living room, almost as though he wants to reassure me that there are some rooms in his house that aren’t kitchens. He holds the door open before following me through. The living room has an old-fashioned feel: green velvet sofas, wooden side tables with protective glass tops peppered with ornaments, and a well-polished grand piano in the corner.
‘This was my uncle’s house – he didn’t have children, so he left it to me. This décor needs re-doing, but I’m putting it off because, well, I’m only good at kitchens,’ he says, with a charming, self-deprecating shrug.
Walking over to the piano, I lay my fingers on the lid.
‘What a glorious piano,’ I say. ‘You play then?’
Jasper takes a seat on the sofa. ‘I was in a quartet at university, but I haven’t played much since. My sisters are always nagging me to keep it up – saying it’s a waste to let it slide. They also tell me women love men who are musical.’ He winces at the admission, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise, as though this is the first I’ve ever heard of such a thing.
Stepping away from the piano, I look around at the pictures of his family on the wall.
On the mantelpiece, I notice a photo of four naked men on a beach, their bottoms on display, all turning their heads to face the camera. One is clearly Jasper, and the man next to him almost looks like—
‘Wait, is that Henry Cavill, the Superman actor?’
‘It is – I was at school with his brother. Skinny-dipping on a stag do is par for the course here.’
I can’t help smiling, imagining what Suki would do if she were here: she’d probably be stuffing the photo into her handbag. Next to the naked men is a picture I presume to be of Jasper as a boy, standing by a house on stilts on a small rocky beach, next to four girls of varying heights.
‘Oh, is this the Écréhous?’ I ask, pointing to the picture.
‘Yes, my family have a cabin there.’
‘A cabin?’ I think of the keys in his bag.
‘When I was a child, we used to go out there for most of the summer to fish and swim.’ He pauses, a wistful look in his eye. ‘I’d love to take a son of my own there one day, teach him to sail, how to catch mackerel.’
Wants a family, tick. Hunter-gatherer type who can catch food in emergencies, tick. Access to cabin for cabin-themed fantasy, tick, tick, tick.
‘It sounds idyllic,’ I say.
‘I’ll take you there,’ Jasper says eagerly, crossing the room to stand beside me.
‘What, now?’ I tease.
‘No, no, it’s too dark now,’ he says earnestly, ‘but tomorrow. I could take you there for lunch – on a date.’ He looks shy all of a sudden, which is sweet.
‘I—’ I feel myself grinning, ‘I would love that.’
We move back to the sofa and share stories about our lives and our families. I tell him what I’m doing in Jersey: the travel article I’m writing, my parents’ story. I show him the coin around my neck, my mother’s album. I have told this story so many times I can recite it as though on autopilot.
‘That all sounds incredibly romantic,’ Jasper says, his sea-green eyes attentive to my tale. ‘You’ve got to believe in destiny when you hear a story like that.’
&n
bsp; Believes in destiny, tick, tick, tickity tick.
Telling the story prompts a flutter of panic about my looming deadline and doubt over whether the photos and my perspective on the story are going to be enough. Monica’s strange version of events replays in my mind. Maybe I should try and meet Bad Granny before I leave? Even if there had been bad blood between my mother and her, she might remember what happened more clearly than Monica; she might have something to contribute.
My mind is drifting, and I force my concentration back into the room, asking Jasper to tell me more about his family. He tells me his sisters are all fiercely protective of him, that part of the reason he set up the kitchen business was to prove he could do something on his own.
‘My entire family told me law was the right fit for me: I had the right degree, the right contacts, the right work ethic. But I just always loved kitchens. In some ways, it felt like a calling, the way you hear priests talk about their jobs.’ This comparison makes me smile.
‘You should talk to my mother for the travel piece you’re writing. There’s nothing she won’t be able to tell you about this island or its recipes.’
‘Oh?’ It comes out as a strangled-sounding oh, as the image of Maude Le Maistre prostrate on the chaise longue forces its way to the forefront of my optic nerve.
‘She will love the fact we met through a suitcase. We’ll be the talk of her pétanque club.’
‘Um, speaking of which, I’m afraid I have a confession to make, Jasper,’ I say, pulling my lower lip between my teeth.
‘This doesn’t sound good.’ He frowns. ‘Is there a boyfriend after all? You only have four months to live? An allergy to kitchens?’ He raises his eyebrows in a comical expression.
‘No,’ I say with a mirthful sigh. ‘It’s about your case. I’m afraid some of the things inside – well – there’s this dog where I’m staying, Scamp, and I stupidly left your case slightly open, and your jumper and one of your trainers came to a rather sticky end. I will replace them, of course.’ I feel slightly guilty about blaming everything on Scamp, but he did maul the jumper; it’s only a slight fudge.
Just Haven't Met You Yet Page 15
