Love to Hate You

Chapter Sixteen - Playing the Game

Rafe spent the weekend at Mattie's, and surprisingly, he didn't have the urge to murder her come Sunday evening. So too, Mattie found that she could get on with Rafe without bickering, as long as she ceded to all of his wishes. That meant listening to BBC Radio Four, where men with droning voices talked on and on about... things. Things like pizza and llamas. She couldn't accurately explain how anyone could talk about pizza or llamas for that length of time, because she had tried to let the radio become white noise, and therefore hadn't listened to the man's incredibly interesting diatribe on what makes a true Neapolitan pizza. Whilst Mattie had a penchant for pop music – something that she could sing along to, badly – Rafe was more interested in news and politics and world affairs. A scowl and a grunt, an irritated sigh and a set jaw, as Mattie put the radio on and started singing about how she kissed a girl and liked it, and she soon realised that she was going to have to acquaint herself with the irritating tones of Sandi Toksvig.

'Alright, then,' she said, placidly, as she switched the radio onto BBC Radio Four (because Rafe was a virile man, and had kept her well-sated, and any woman – no matter how stubborn and prickly – would struggle to muster any vehemence of defiance in the face of a beautifully sex-mussed man, who was more than capable of offering another round of blissful satisfaction in return for merely flicking over the radio station). 'You can have your boring talking station which is totally lacking in music. You're older and likely to die sooner, so it's only fair that you get the make the most of what time you have left.'

'Like that, is it?' Rafe asked, his brow arched in offended amusement. 'Y'know,' he said, rising from the sofa and stepping the few short paces it took to reach the kitchenette, where Mattie made tea, 'you're younger than I, but more unhealthy,' he whispered, standing behind her and folding her into his arms. 'I've had a good look through these cupboards, and all your food's shit. It's not very nutritious.' Mattie shrugged.

'You've lived in America too long, Rafe. We don't do egg white omelettes over here. And yeah, I could juice, but the machines cost about three hundred quid, and would take up my entire work top, so I make do.'

'With rich tea biscuits, tomato soup, Babybel and alphabet spaghetti? Your eating habits are worse than a child's.'

'Well, blueberries and all the other superfoods are expensive, and I've not really got the room for cooking, so go and lecture someone else.'

'I'm not lecturing,' Rafe said, quietly. 'I'm just saying it's not healthy; that I'd like you to look after yourself better.' Mattie crinkled her nose; she disliked being told what to do, but Rafe's tone was tender and intimate, and he was nuzzling at her neck in that annoying way that men have, so she sighed and relented, when she otherwise would have argued.

'I'll try to make more of an effort, then.'

'Let's go shopping. Get you some fresh food, hmmm?' Rafe asked, his lips vibrating against her neck.

'I'll go one evening after work,' Mattie said, her voice less even. Rafe was quite certain that she had money issues, and he was more than willing to help, but he suspected that she wouldn't like him to offer her money, so he chose a different tactic.

'Mattie, sweetheart,' Rafe said, surprising himself by how natural that never-before-used endearment felt upon his tongue, 'it's Sunday morning and I need some proper food, so can we go shopping now?' When Mattie didn't instantly agree, Rafe got grumpy and began to complain loudly that a woman half his weight didn't understand what it was like to go without proper food, so Mattie gave in, and let him take her to a Marks and Spencer food court, where everything was not just expensive, but an over-priced, over-packaged, fancily-named expensive, which made the food actually appear to be good value.