He pauses, willing, I think, to brave Nigel’s wrath if I ask him to stay; wondering if I’m at all worried for my own safety. And I am, believe me, but I nod toward the backyard to let him know it’s fine for him to leave. He lifts his hand in a half-wave and disappears into the shadows. Now it’s just me and Nigel. It’s not a storm The Weather Show can track. Nigel is eerily quiet as he leads me back to the house and locks the door. To be honest, now I’m terrified. I mean, what do I really know about this man? He might wear an apron to protect his rocker jeans while he bakes croissants, and he might do dorky things to prove to his daughter he really is worthy of her love and respect. He might have a great croaker of a cigarette-scarred voice that makes millions of girls swoon all across the globe, and he might have publicists forgetting to go home and feed their parakeets, but I know very little of what to expect here. One thing I know for sure: he fooled me good. I’d never have thought he was capable of this.
