He leans towards me and whispers, "You must know anything I say might convey the meaning inherent in the words. Or it might not."
I do know. Carlos likes to swing between the literal and cryptic to keep MI5 on its toes.
If MI5werewatching him, they would have given up years ago having never found the cipher to his baffling verbiage.
"See that woman there?"
Carlos nods towards the gallery.
There's no one in there.
"Which woman?"
"The one in the string bikini."
The only woman in a string bikini is one of Jeanette's whimsical pottery figurines that are surprisingly popular with London weekenders.
"She's been watching me ever since I got here. She's not even hiding it. Likes to wink at me whenever I look over."
Carlos is also on the neon end of the eccentric rainbow.
"Let me have a word with her," I say, intending to swivel the sculpture around so that she couldn't possibly be mistaken for a scantily-clad government operative.
As Jeanette scuttles past me with a plate that should hold an innocuous arrangement of standard-fare brunch food, one of the eggs twinkles, which is somewhat disconcerting.
I take the plate off Jeanette just as she's about to place it in front of the waiting customer and return it to the chef in the kitchen.
"Elly, in most parts of the universe, even the bits where unicorns frolic, eggs Benedict doesn't come with a garnish of orange and turquoise glitter. Call me fussy, but my expectation of a mouthful of egg white is that it doesn't crunch or turn the toilet bowl into a disco the next day."
I grab a spoon and do my best to remove the little shiny pieces without damaging the egg.
"I am a glitter artist, Bess," Elly says with solemnity and I almost do my best in trying not to roll my eyes, "who chefs as a day job. I find glitter under my toenails. There's going to be some collateral damage."
Elly’s toddler son, Jackson, adores all things glitter and so his mum decided to embrace his obsession as her artistic direction. Which is utterly delightful. Except for when it’s a major inconvenience.
She leans over an English breakfast to arrange the bacon, and several pieces of glitter wink at me from within the tight black curls of her hair.
"Not if you're wearing the hair cap I told you to wear there won't."
"I get a red line around my forehead. I look like I've just recovered from a frontal lobotomy."
I grab the box from a shelf, remove a cap and hold it out. "Put the cap on, Elly, or you'll be a glitter artist with no day job."
Elly continues to plate up. "I'm an ethical glitter artist. It's biodegradable, so it's probably edible."
I gather my strength. "Elly? Look at me."
She puts the pans in the sink and has the bad grace to place a hand on her hip.
"This is what I think of you prioritising your vanity over my business." I don't say anything else. I stare at her, gathering my features into the most meaningful I'm Not Impressed By Your Attitude look I've ever mustered. I make it last a full thirty seconds, which is pretty impressive and should make Elly melt into a puddle of acquiescence.
Except she's an artist. And Gen Z. Which means she's both very precious about her medium and has no respect for authority.
Which then means all this amounts to is a staring contest.
Fortunately, thanks to having more eye degeneration than her due to my being older and thereby having to wear contacts, I win.
"Fine." She holds out her hand.
