"What do you want to eat?" he asked, when she stepped out of his bathroom.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

She walked into the drawing room, looking around. What a cacophony of colours and styles, she thought. There was a massive, curved velvet sofa, of deep navy blue. It probably cost him a couple thousand quid. It looked endlessly comfortable, just asking for one to stretch on it, or settle to watch telly, which was of course present as well - a ginormous monstrosity on the wall. The media unit under it with all those gizmos he was so fond of - with its metal frame with pitted golden finish - clashed terribly with the sofa.

"You haven't eaten anything all day," he said walking after her and leaning his shoulder against the archway. "I bet you didn't have breakfast before I picked you up."

She shook her head, walking behind the sofa, letting the tips of her fingers slide along the top of its back. The texture was endlessly pleasant. So Rhys. Two armchairs in the room - a rattan papasan and a leather churchill one - couldn't be any less coordinated - even less so with the three triangular nesting tables, which looked vintage, and were almost buried under bits and bobs that he tended to produce and scatter on every surface around him: keys, little tools, magazines, buttons, cables and wires and earphones for his many devices, sunglasses, small pieces of paper, pens, keychains, receipts, small change, sweet wrappers, empty and still containing candies, mostly his favourite Walker's toffees.

"I don't eat much," she said with a shrug.

Just as she expected there were no plants in his house, but it wasn't bare or unlived in. The sofa had cushions and a couple of throws on it; and there were photos in nice frames on a drawer unit by the wall. She quickly thought that the drawers were most likely empty, or contained some odd rubbish. She couldn't imagine him folding linen and tablecloths, and neatly organising them inside - but once her eyes fell on the faces in the pictures, she forgot her sarcastic musing. They were all there, his whole family - in official pictures from weddings and christenings, and some candid shots outdoors, black and white photos of his parents and their siblings, the formal portrait of his grandfather. Her gaze jumped from one to another, and she smiled.

"I remember this one," she said and pointed at the photo of Di Holyoake, Rhys' cousin, holding a chubby infant in her hands. "That's baby Philip isn't it?"

"Yeah," Rhys said, very close to her, and she jolted. "He's eleven now. So tall. And blond," he added.

Viola laughed. "You say it like it's a bad thing." She looked up at his mane. "I like your longer hair too."

He smirked.

"You need to eat, Vi," he said. "You had a long day. I get it you're dieting, but–"

"I'm not dieting," she interrupted him, and frowned. Her light mood was immediately gone. He 'gets it?'

"Alright, you don't eat carbs or something," he said, "You still need to eat."

It had been an emotional day, she was tired and still feeling at sixes and sevens after her melt-down - and that's why instead of giving her usual polite evasive answer, she hissed, "I'm not dieting, Rhys. I have an eating disorder. And it's not carbs that I don't eat. It's any food."

Confused expression ran across his face, and then he frowned.

Viola took a measured breath to calm herself down, and said in an even tone, "You see, that's one of the things I truly didn't miss in the last ten years. Your swift judgement. You aren't a therapist or a nutritionist. You are not a medical specialist. As I would abstain from judgement on constructing a bridge, I would prefer you to keep your comments on my recovery to yourself."

He looked taken aback, and suddenly Viola's knees started to shake. She had a distinct desire to leave, because he was now attentively studying her - her cheeks felt ice cold, which means she was now ashen pale - but instead she had to sit down. The sofa was as comfortable as she'd assumed, though.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She gave him a small nod. Her head was starting to spin. She needed to take it under control, vomiting was the next symptom.

"I do need to eat something, but it's... challenging," she said. "And I surely wasn't planning to have you witness it, of all people."

She wanted to rub her cheeks - she hated this chilling numbness - but she knew her hands would tremble noticeably. He slowly approached the sofa and sat on the other end.

"Vi, I– don't have the foggiest what to do right now," he said in a low voice. "I mean, I've heard of it, but–"

She looked at him, and saw an uncharacteristic lost expression. She'd feel almost entertained by it, except she was too busy trying to take the usual painful shame and anxiety under control.

"What do you need, Vi?" he asked and gave her a small soft smile. "Just tell me what to do."

A shaky disbelieving laugh escaped her. Heaven above, Rhys Holyoake asking for guidance. What's next? Will a unicorn gallop through his drawing room? She inhaled deeply, fighting off nausea.

"I need a steak," she said.

His eyebrows jumped up.

"A steak," he repeated.

"Yes," she said and chuckled. "I need a steak. A piece of meat, basically. And some veg on the side. No starch, it'll raise the blood sugar too high too fast."

"Ah, that I remember," he said, his face lighting up. "You had that sugar thing, when after a slice of cake you'd start shaking and behave like you're pissed, and then crash."

"Hypoglycemia, yes," she said and laughed awkwardly. "I'd rather you remember something else about me, but sure."

"I remember other things too," he said, quickly dialling on his phone. He lifted it to his ear. "Much more sexy... things," he said with a wink - there was concern hiding under his flirting - and then they answered on the other end.

She realised he was calling a restaurant and ordering. The tremors were starting to intensify, and her ears were ringing.

"Can I look into your fridge?" she asked, and he nodded while giving his address.

It was always easier to convince herself to eat something if she wasn't the one who cooked it. She opened the massive French doors on his fridge and stared at the containers, bottles, and boxes. Too much choice, at once. Too many colours and labels. She almost closed it when she remembered his love for cheese. She pulled out the dairy drawer and almost laughed. Wallace and Gromit would appreciate the assortment. She spotted one of those pre-made sealed packs of slices, pulled it out, and stared at it.

"The food's going to be here in twenty," he said behind her, and she jumped up.

"Oh, I forgot how stealthy you are," she muttered and turned to him.

"Just take a slice and eat it," he said. "Or do you want me to get you a plate?"

She opened a corner of the pack and pulled out a slice of cheddar.

"I could never understand why you buy this cheap rubbish," she said, taking a small bite, "while you have a premium red Leicester in the fridge at the same time."

"I keep the cheap rubbish for hungry ex-wives," he said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms on his chest. "I've never seen you eat anything out of a package."

Viola chewed the cheese pensively.

"I never do. Well, not in front of other people. It's funny, really," she said. "I'm more comfortable with you now than when we were married. It must be all the therapy I've gone through."

He nodded, and watched her for a few seconds, with a small frown. Viola finished a slice and looked down at the cheese, trying to understand if her stomach would protest more of the same.

"Do you want some?" she asked, and stretched her hand with the pack to him.

He took it out of her hand, opened it much less gently that she did - the sticky flap made a sad squeak noise - and jerked the next slice out. She turned away from him and walked to the window. It was dark outside now, and it seemed to be snowing heavily.

The silence between them was surprisingly comfortable, and then she heard him open and close the fridge, probably putting the cheese away.

"I will have dinner with you," she said, without facing him. "In a week."

"In a week?" he asked.

"Yes, in a week," she said and looked at him over her shoulder. "I need time to– process things. It took me years to figure it out, but that's just how my mind works."

She could see he wasn't happy with the suggestion - but then he nodded.

"Alright, in a week then," he said. "Do you want to go out or come over to my place?"

"Definitely go out," she said.

As far away from his bedroom as possible. She'd been divorced for four years, and celibate for three. To be honest, she wasn't sure she was particularly interested in the physical side of a romantic relationship at all these days. With time, the interest had faded, and sex had become a sort of an abstract memory, lacking any tactile details - or any appeal, to think of it. She needed to remove this variable out of the equation: if she had dinner with him and even started considering any sort of a relationship with him, she didn't want this particular question to add on to her stress.

"I'll make a reservation in some place in Abernathy," he said. "Any preferences? You said you didn't like Chinese anymore. We've had Indian at Nana's. And apparently you eat meat."

She smiled at him.

"No preferences," she said. "I trust you completely."

His doorbell rang.

"No, you don't," he said with a chuckle, and left to pick up their supper.

Viola washed her hands and started looking for plates and cutlery.

***

They ate their steak and veg with a glass of excellent Malbec he had.

"Hm, no pudding?" Viola teased.

He looked at her over his glass. His eyes seemed darker in the dim light of his dining room, and the streak of hazel in his right eye - the heterochromia anomaly in the iris - seemed almost black.

"I didn't know if you– if you'd be uncomfortable if I ate it in front of you," he said and put down his glass.

"Remember, Rhys, other people don't concern me," she said lightly and put a piece of asparagus in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I really don't care what other people eat, or do altogether."

He tsk-tsked. "So, you're saying I gave up my dessert for nothing?"

"More so, I might have considered snatching some of it from your plate," she said. "So, not only you aren't getting any sweet tonight. You've missed an opportunity to seduce me into having some."

She could see the exact moment when he realised she was shamelessly flirting with him - and he leaned back in his chair. She remembered them all - the signs of his thoughts turning onto shag - as he narrowed his eyes at her, that long-forgotten hungry expression flashed in them, and he pursed his lips.

"Careful, love, I might think I'm not the only one here who needs some sugar," he murmured.

"And on this note, I think I'll call myself a cab," she said with a short laugh. "It'll be here by the time I'm done my glass." She lifted her wine and took a sip. "And I assume you're planning to insist on paying for our dinner next week," she said. "Knowing your outdated views."

"Of course," he said.

"Well, then I'll owe you for tonight." She pointed at her empty plate with her hand with the glass. "How about next time our meal isn't a dinner," she intonated purposefully, "I'll pay?"

"You can buy us breakfast," he said. The randy spark in his gaze was almost gone, but she wondered if she'd poked a hornet's nest she wasn't ready to deal with.

"I don't eat breakfast," she said and shook her head in amusement. "But I'll pay for your mushroom and tomato omelette."

He laughed and nodded.