Yeah, not that cute if she and her actual partner or ex both have cockapoos.
‘What are their names?’ asks Laura, Carla’s friend.
‘Um, Pasta and Bread.’ Ha, okay; Emma has clearly invented the dogs and has taken naming inspiration from the table in front of us. Ridiculously, that makes me want to smile.
‘Pasta and Bread?’ Laura echoes.
‘We like our carbs,’ I contribute.
‘And so do the dogs. Pasta and Bread,’ Emma says.
‘That’s ahugecoincidence,’ Carla points out. ‘That they were called Pasta and Bread before you met.’
‘Well,that,’ says Emma, not missing a beat, ‘is what got us talking properly. When we discovered that we had such similar taste in dog names.’
I nod soulfully. ‘Meant to be,’ I offer.
‘Exactly,’ Emma agrees.
‘So cute,’ Carla says. ‘When did you first know that you were in love?’
What? For God’s sake. No one asks questions like that.
‘It was one day when he thought he’d lost Pasta. It was the way he was shouting Pasta,Pasta,Paaaaastaaa,’ Emma tells us all. ‘There was something very endearing about it. The way he cared so much.’
‘I do care,’ I say. ‘Anyway, who would like more bread?’
‘Or Bread.’ Carla laughs uproariously at her own (remarkably poor) joke and then wags her finger at me. ‘You aren’t getting off that easily. When did you first realise that you were in love with Emma?’
Completely lacking in inspiration, I tell her the truth. ‘The first time I saw her smile.’
And then, because having said that, I really cannot look at Emma for a while, I stand up and ask where the nearest bathroom is, and take myself off for a fake toilet break.
By the time we get back, Carla and Laura are describing their recent stay in Sicily and Emma’s doing an excellent impression of hanging on their every word. She might even begenuinelyinterested in their descriptions of each meal they’ve had for the past week, from the way she’s tilting her head to one side and nodding.
When they finish describing their meals, she bombards them with questions about every other imaginable facet of their holiday until we finish eating, at which point Emma says, ‘What a wonderful vacation,’ before turning to the monks. ‘Thank you so much; that was delicious.’
Then she stands up, so I do too, in my capacity as her new, devoted, dog-owning husband.
‘Thank you. Wonderful soup,’ I agree, and then we walk out together.
I can’t help dipping my head to say, ‘Dog walking?’ into her ear as we go. ‘Pasta and Bread?’
‘I know,’ she says cheerfully. ‘I can’t believe my own genius.’
The second we’ve left the hall, she says, ‘So I was thinking I would read this afternoon if the rain doesn’t let up.’
‘Perfect.’ I’m pleased that she seems as reluctant to spend the next few hours with me as I am to spend them with her. Very pleased. I am not going to worry about what she might get up to if the rain stops. I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s an adult. She can look after herself. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Great, then. See you later.’ And off she goes back to the corner of the cloister bench that she was on before.
As I walk back to the room to get my laptop, I get a text from Emma:
I’m thinking we should meet in the room to go to dinner together?
Good idea.
The first thing I do when I get back to the room is email Janet about alternative travel options before starting some googling of my own.
