And that was a way of keeping his distance, too. Whoever called anyone under the age of fifty ‘Miss’ any more? Although, given the choice, she preferred it to ‘madam’.
‘My name is Gabriella,’ she reminded him. Her way of keeping her distance. All her friends, employers, called her Ellie. Gabriella was a special occasion name. Gabriella March was going to look very special embossed in gold on the cover of her first book. Then, having descended the ladder-this time in the conventional manner, one step at a time-she added, ‘And it’s Mrs. Mrs Gabriella March.’
He removed his spectacles and turned to face her. Now she had his attention. ‘Mrs? There are two of you?’
She stiffened. ‘No. Just me. If you find all that too difficult to remember, maybe you’d find Ellie easier.’
She could do sarcasm.
‘Ellie?’
‘There-that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
Unsurprisingly, he did not respond with an invitation to call him Ben, and she found herself wishing she’d left it at ‘Ellie’.
‘I’ll, um, leave you in peace, then. If there’s nothing else I can do for you?’
His look suggested that she had done more than enough, but he restricted his response to, ‘Nothing. Thank you…Ellie.’
She could tell that he’d had to force himself to use her name. Just what was his problem? It wasn’t as if she’d flirted outrageously with him. Good looking he might be, give or take a sense of humour, but she wasn’t about to throw herself at him. Not intentionally, anyway. Not if she wanted to continue to ‘live-in’-and it was quite possible that this was just a flying visit.
‘Help yourself to whatever you like from the fridge,’ she said. ‘Milk. Eggs…’ Then, when that didn’t elicit a grateful response-or any response at all…‘Right. Well, I’ll see you later, perhaps.’
Dr Benedict Faulkner easily managed to contain his excitement at the possibility.
Ellie forced herself to ignore the shabby rucksack that had been dumped in the kitchen. It was probably full of dirty washing, and her fingers twitched to get it into the washing machine, but she restrained herself.