Well, close to it, anyway. Although we talk about the same shit we’d discuss if we were still just good friends - Gary, the parlour, when we think Dean will propose to Liaden - there are these moments of heated eye contact, and I can’t stop glancing at his lips. They’re gorgeous, beautifully shaped and smooth as silk. I kissed them on a kind of whim at the wedding, like mybody took over the controls because it knew something my brain didn’t. Or wouldn’t acknowledge.
I’m not going to be able to hide behind fear of losing the friendship much longer.
In a rather longer time than is really warranted, our first course arrives, the waiter showing his teeth again in a nearly smug smile. Clearly they have a lot of confidence in their menu and their chef’s abilities, and itisvery attractively presented.
“How’s the langoustine?” I ask.
“It’s good,” Leo says, swallowing. “How’s yourheritagetomato?”
I snort. “It’s fine, very - ” Oh. Oh,eww.
“Everything OK?”
“Ah…” I look a little closer, and, yup, there’s an ant on my basil. And another.
Leo looks over and scowls, dropping his fork and standing abruptly, striding over to where the waiter is speaking to a bartender. I don’t try to stop him. It’s satisfying to see him speak, quietly but furiously, to the blanching waiter, who is stuttering with embarrassment. Without bothering to listen to his frantic apologies, my lion man walks back, necks his wine, and offers his hand to me.
“Come on,” he says clearly, “I’m taking you somewhere where the food is better.” He glares at the staff. “Like a McDonalds drive-through.”
I grin and take his hand, squeezing it to comfort him. “Sounds good to me.” We stride out of there, heads held high, but I can hear him muttering darkly to himself. His shoulders are hunched as though he’s ashamed, and his face is tight with anger. It wrenches my heart.
Once we’re out of there, I pull him to a stop. “You know what I’d really like right now?” I ask, hoping to brighten his spirits. He lifts his eyebrow for me to go on. “A bag of chips. Just a shit tonof salty, vinegary chips, with those stupid sachets of ketchup that never open properly, and a walk along the seafront, under the stars.” And I mean it, as well. One corner of his mouth lifts, and I know I’m on the right track. “You and me…we’re much more Lady and the Tramp than High Society or whatever. So screw these pretentious knobheads, let’s havefuninstead.”
Leo
Sades was so right when she suggested this.
I wanted to give her the sort of high quality experience she’s always deserved, but I mistook pristine tablecloths and piss taking price tags for class. Butthis, eating crisp and fluffy chip shop chips with a tiny wooden fork, strolling along the seafront under the clear night sky festooned with stars, watching the gentle evening breeze ruffle her hair…
This is the highest quality experience there is. For me, anyway.
I could not be more embarrassed by what happened at Chagall, but at least it led us here, where we’re both laughing uproariously together in a beautiful place on a beautiful night.
“You’re so full of shit,” she scoffs, her eyes glowing with humour.
“I’m really not! That song is about wanking.”
She shakes her head, giggling. “I’m gonna need you to walk me through that one.”
I give her aseriouslylook. “The song is calledBeat It,” I say drily, “and he’s singing about watching porn. What more do you need?”
“Oh, he isnot,” she says scornfully.
I whip out my phone and tap on the YouTube app, loading a video of Michael Jackson singing the song in question. I skip it tothe chorus, and we huddle together to listen to the lyrics. “See? He singsshow some hot fucking. And keeps saying ‘beat it’. He’s like the host of a self abuse competition.”
“There’s no way!”
“Alright, whatarethe lyrics, then?” I challenge her.
She cracks up, leaning against me, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life than I am at this moment. “You are such atool.”
“Come on!You wanna be bad, so beat it…” I can’t keep a straight face either.
She screws up her empty chip bag and bins it. I offer her the rest of mine, not that there are many left, and she takes a single one. “Someone else’s chips always taste better,” she says.
“They really do. We should have swapped bags halfway through.”
She shrugs. “Maybe next time.”
