Don't Hurt Me by Elizabeth Moss

surprise,
Marshall dropped the argument. He nodded instead, glancing at the row of fresh
herbs she kept in pots on the windowsill. ‘How about a quick omelette? With
some of those fresh herbs, perhaps? That would be delicious.’
       They set to work, shoulder to
shoulder in the tight space of the kitchen, Marshall insisting that he should
help prepare the meal. She found him a blue and white plastic apron from one of
the drawers and he slipped it over his head, unmoved by her amusement.
       Watching him whisk the eggs
expertly with a fork, adding only a pinch of freshly snipped herbs at a time
until the mixture was at the right consistency, she had to admit to feeling a
little surprised by his domesticity. Marshall did not look like a man who would
particularly enjoy slaving over a hot stove. Yet he must have lived alone for
some years now, she realised, and it was unlikely that he had cooked nothing
but microwave meals during that time.
       He caught her watching and smiled
drily. ‘I can do stir-fries and Sunday roasts too,’ he murmured, tipping his
egg mixture into the hot omelette pan and setting it back on the heat. ‘But not
pastry.’
       ‘There’s a real art to pastry,’ she
admitted, laughing. ‘Some people make perfect pastry every time, others can’t
manage it however many times they try.’
       ‘Which are you?’
       She made a wry face. ‘My pastry
tastes like shoe leather, horribly   dry and unappetising. That’s what my sister tells me, anyway.’
       Marshall took the mixing bowl to
the sink and rinsed it out under hot running water, a frown of concentration on
his face.
       ‘I didn’t know you had a sister. Is
she older or younger?’
       ‘Eight years older.’
       He looked at her, interested.
‘That’s quite a gap.’
       ‘I don’t think I was planned,’ she
said with a wry smile. ‘My parents only meant to have one child.’
       Julia uncorked a bottle of white
wine and set it on the dining table with two glasses, knives and forks, and a
small jar of sesame breadsticks to accompany the omelette. Moving about the
room, she was acutely aware of the intimacy of their situation, eating a late
supper together in her flat, and it took an effort of will to remind herself
that he belonged to the beautiful Sasha. This was not the start of a
relationship and she would be crazy to start believing otherwise.
       ‘I hope Victoria’s all right,’ she
murmured, fetching two plates from the cupboard. ‘She’s very young to be
roaming around London on her own.’
       He nodded grimly. ‘I asked Paul’s
mother to ring me on my mobile if and when she turns up there. That was hours
ago. I thought she would have arrived by now.’
       ‘You came about her very much,
don’t you?’
       ‘She’s my daughter.’
       Julia shrugged. ‘This may sound a
little cynical, but not all fathers would go to such lengths to get their
children back.’
       His face shuttered, Marshall began
to serve the supper. He cut the fluffy golden omelette in two with a practised
air before sliding each half smoothly from the pan to their plates.
       ‘I can’t answer for other fathers.
Victoria is the most important person in my life and I want to do what’s best
for her. Even if that makes her hate me.’
       ‘Victoria doesn’t hate you. On the
contrary, the two of you are very close. It stands out a mile.’
       He grimaced. ‘We always seem to be
arguing.’
       ‘Families can be like that
sometimes,’ she pointed out, carrying the warmed plates to the table and
sitting down opposite him. She watched him pour the white wine, accepting half
a glass. ‘It doesn’t mean you don’t love each other.’
       They ate in silence, listening to
the soft patter of rain against the windows. Every now and then, Julia stole a
quick glance at him from under her lashes, taking in the lean face and tough
uncompromising lines of his body. He seemed out of place here,