Read Online Raven by Monica Porter - Free Book Online

off his fit young body, and sunglasses which he took off so that he could wink at me. He looked even hotter than I’d expected. He kissed my cheek, murmured ‘All right?’, and ordered himself a beer. Oh yes. I was going to enjoy this date.
    We sat down at a table and he started talking, easily enough, about his life. He liked his job but wanted to start his own design business one day so he could be his own boss. He said he enjoyed living in the East End – such a great area for creative types like him. And he explained that he grew up in Bristol and his parents were divorced. ‘Everyone’s parents are divorced now, right?’ he quipped. He said he never wanted to get married or even live with anyone. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ he said, rather too definitively, I thought.
    Then he abruptly stopped talking, stood up and announced: ‘I’m going outside for a smoke.’ And before I knew it he was gone, leaving me sitting alone, glass in hand, at the table. A bit odd. And he was away a long time. Had he changed his mind about me and gone home?
    But at last he returned, sat back down and flashed me a smile, and we picked up where we had left off. A moment later he said: ‘I’m starving. Should we eat something?’ So we ordered sausages and mash from the bar and as we ate our meal I stole glances at him, marvelling at the turn of events which had led to my date with a young hunk like Max, when only a few months earlier I had feared my dating days were over.
    By this point I knew I’d be inviting him back to my place. I was dying for a snog. When we had finished our meal and came to a natural break in our chat, I gave him what I hoped was an alluring smile. ‘So…wanna come up and see my etchings?’
    He looked confused. ‘Etchings.’ He frowned as if trying to work out whether we had mentioned etchings earlier in the conversation.
    Obviously he had never heard the expression. Wrong generation. Perhaps I’d better not refer to Private Eye’s ‘Ugandan discussions’, either.
    â€˜What I mean is, fancy some coffee at my place?’
    â€˜Yeah.’ He gathered his things and stood up. We stopped at the bar to pay the bill, which was handed to me, as the tab was on my credit card. ‘I’ll give you the cash,’ he said, already making his way towards the door and taking another cigarette out of his pocket. I paid and followed him out.
    We walked back to my house, less than ten minutes away, and when we got there I led the way into the kitchen, turned on the radio for some easy-listening music and reached for the percolator. But he wasn’t bothered about any of that. He took me by the arms and gave me a long and zealous kiss. Afterwards he had a look around and observed approvingly that the place was clean and tidy.
    We got touchy-feely again and it wasn’t long before we headed upstairs. But once there, he did something unusual. While I entered my bedroom, expecting him to follow me in, he went off instead to peer into every other first-floor room, to ‘see what’s in them’. Like an estate agent sizing up a property for sale…which was what my house was, of course.
    â€˜They’re just bedrooms,’ I called out, baffled. Maybe he was interested in the housing market? Or was he worried about possible strangers lurking in this big silent house?
    Turning lights on and off in various rooms, he satisfied himself that there was nothing untoward going on. But when he saw children’s cots and toys in one of the bedrooms, he turned to me curiously and asked about them.
    â€˜Grandchildren,’ I said. Now I knew I had to divulge my real age. Otherwise the numbers just wouldn’t add up. ‘Max, I’m a little older than it says on my profile.’
    â€˜Oh? How much older?’
    â€˜Um…59.’
    He eyed me shrewdly. ‘You’re sixty, aren’t you?’
    I sighed