“Oh, where did you go to uni? For some reason, I assumed you'd stayed local,” I ask, dipping a slice of bread into the olive oil and balsamic vinegar mix.
“I went to University College London. I just wanted to get out of Bristol and see what life was like in the capital for a while.”
“One of my besties went to UCL!”
“Really? Who?” Brad asks, seemingly intrigued.
“Max. She got a BA in education something-or-other. She’d always wanted to open a baby sensory centre but decided she needed a degree first, just in case. Wait, is that the degree you did too, Larissa? I realisesomething-or-otherisn’t an actual degree title, but…” I trail off, snorting at my lack of memory.
“Most likely,” she nods eagerly. “There are only a handful of undergraduate degrees for education there. Maybe we were there at the same time and just didn't know it!”
My smile softens because she's honestly so sweet, “I doubt that, hun. We graduated when you were around five.”
“Oh. Right,” her gaze drops to her lap, and she blushes even harder. “Sorry, I always forget that you're so much...that we're not the same age.”
“And I, personally, love the ego boost that gives me.” I reach my foot across the space under the table to nudge hers, but apparently miss the mark, which becomes clear when Brad gives me a questioning glance.Oops, wrong leg.
“And? Was London all you thought it would be?” Jake's tone feels too hard for the question, but I can't fathom why.
“It was fun, but it was really expensive. And busy. So busy,” her eyes are comically wide. “Ultimately, it just wasn't for me, but I'm glad I experienced it firsthand.”
“I find most people over-glamorise the capital when really it's just a glorified shit hole.”
“Jake!” I chastise. “London might not be everyone's cup of tea, but that's a bit harsh.”
His jaw tenses, “You're right, that was uncalled for. Most of my delays tend to be to or from London, so I guess I just have whatever the opposite of rose-tinted glasses are when I think of the city.”
The waitress returns to take our food order, and Larissa is still torn between two dishes. Jake clucks his tongue in impatience and I arch a disapproving brow at him. He at least has the decency to look sheepish, but when I order the lamb I'm struck dumb to hear him mumble, “Are you sure you want to choose such a fatty meat? You know I adore your figure, Amour, but you must appreciate how hard it is to stay in shape after forty. Perhaps you’d prefer to get the chicken salad?” My eyes flick up to see if anyone else heard him, but Brad is busy helping Larissa decide on her main course.
Since I'm exactly the kind of person who will double down when someone tries to coerce me into something, I ask the waitress to add a side of cheesy garlic bread. I'm also going to choose the most calorific dessert, even if I'm too full to breathe.Because fuck you Jake, that's why.I don't understand what's gotten into him tonight.
That muscle ticks in his jaw again, and I can sense Brad staring at me from across the table, trying to figure out what set off my obvious stubborn streak.
The waitress leaves with the menus, and that horrible tension trickles back in, so I drain my wine and try to lighten the mood.
“So Lizzie said the funniest thing today. Pickles was in one of his moods where he wanted to be outside, but not if we weren't out there with him, so he constantly had me letting him out into the garden only to come running back in when I walked away from the door. And it got to a point where I was getting nothing done except letting the cold air in, so I blurted ‘For fuck's sake, Pickles!’ without thinking. But thankfully Lizzie hadn't been paying attention. Or so I thought. Because ten minutes later when he came back to beg me to let him out for the twentieth time, Elizabeth shouts, ‘Box ache, Picka!’ It was the cutest, most ridiculously inappropriate thing and I couldn't breathe for laughing. I wish I'd been filming it!”
Brad and Larissa burst into laughter at this, and I barely hear Brad's solemn promise to get her to do it again when I clock Jake's silence as he stares across the table. When he notices my questioning gaze, he forces a smile and hum that I think is meant to emulate a laugh.
“Shari, I meant to say earlier that I love your necklace. It's so pretty! Can I ask where you got it?” Larissa gushes.
“Oh!” Instinctively I grip the pendant to tilt it up, “Thank you, it is very pretty. And um,” my eyes flick to Brad but he's not looking at me, “actually Brad got it for me. For Christmas.”
Jake turns his head to me, and his eyes snap down to the necklace. “I didn't quite notice it before,” he says, cupping his fingers around mine as I hold the charm. “It's very unique. Does it represent anything in particular?”
“The shape is the Serch Bythol, a Celtic knot made up of two trinity knots, and the gem in the middle is an amethyst. Lizzie's birthstone,” Brad replies, not taking his eyes off where my and Jake's hands hold the pendant hostage.
Jake finally releases my fingers. “And what exactly does this Serk Bittol symbolise?”
“We actually did a project on Celtic symbols in my Year 6 class last year,” Larissa offers, quietly. “The Serch Bythol is said to represent the joining of two souls. Or everlasting love,” her eyes are on her hands in her lap and her posture sags.
My eyes collide with Brad's because I didn't know that.Did he know when he bought it?
Brad clears his throat and takes a large gulp of his wine. “Yes, it's for our, uh, our everlasting love for Lizzie. That's why her birthstone is in the middle.”
That makes sense. But I also feel a bit disappointed when I shouldn't.
“I had no idea,” I admit softly, “it makes me love it even more. What a thoughtful gift, Brad. Thank you. Again.” I bite my tongue to stop myself from rambling the way I often do in uncomfortable situations.
