‘Brazilians.Capoeira,’ explains our server as he places bowls of pasta in front of us.
‘They’re amazing,’ I say as the street performer walks past on his hands, kicking his legs over his head in a fluid movement.
We all go wild at the finale, which sees the same guy taking a running jump and backflipping right over his companion’s head.
As an upturned cap does the rounds, I empty my purse of coins while Ash digs into the pocket of his shorts, pullingout a five-euro note. The street performers move on and we get stuck into our food, but a couple of minutes later, an old lady shuffles by on the pavement. She comes to a stop at our table and holds out her hand to me.
‘I’m so sorry.’ My face warms as I shake my head, realising I have no more change.
She stares at me, her weathered face blank. Ash pulls out another fiver and she takes it from him without a word and hobbles away.
‘I feel terrible, but I only have twenty-euro notes left,’ I explain awkwardly as Ash picks up his Coke and takes a sip. Before I can think better of it, I quip, ‘For that money, I’d want to see a backflip.’
Ash splutters his drink while I clap my hand over my mouth. Then he cracks up, laughing at my horror.
‘I can’t believe I said that,’ I squeak through my fingers. ‘It’s the sort of thing my mum would say and mean it.’
He chuckles, then sees my face. ‘Wait, really?’ he asks with surprise.
‘She’s a bit of a snob,’ I reply, twirling my spaghetti carbonara around my fork.
‘A bit’ is putting it mildly.
‘Do you get on?’ he asks as he pushes his plate aside. He’s made short work of hiscacio e pepe.
I shrug. ‘As long as I do what I’m told.’
His eyes are hidden behind square aviators, so I have no idea what he’s thinking as he cocks his head to one side. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one, but I’ll probably still be like this when I’mthirty. I’m the ultimate people pleaser when it comes to my parents.’
‘Maybe a couple of months away from them will help.’
‘I’m seeing them tomorrow evening.’
His eyebrows jump up above the rim of his sunglasses. ‘Where?’
‘In the Algarve, near Albufeira. They’ve rented a villa for the week.’
‘And then you’ll be on your way again?’
I shake my head, my lips downturned. ‘I’m flying home with them.’ I force another forkful of spaghetti into my mouth, but suddenly I’ve lost my appetite.
‘Haven’t you only been away for, like, three weeks?’
‘Less than. I’m supposed to have another month or so, but … I don’t know. I don’t think I’m cut out for interrailing.’ I push my bowl away.
He reclines in his chair, regarding me for a long moment, and then turns to look at the market. His jaw is even sharper without his stubble. My eyes track the line of his profile, drifting down his tanned neck to the muscled curve of his shoulder.
He returns his gaze to me and I try to regain my train of thought.
‘That surprises me a little,’ he admits.
‘What?’
‘That you’re not cut out for interrailing.’
‘Why does that surprise you?’
