‘Crisps?’ Ollie suggests.
‘Safe,’ I reply and fetch him a pack of salt-and-vinegar.
‘How’d you know I want that flavour?’
‘You always eat salt-and-vinegar. It’s all that’s in your cupboard.’
Ollie looks a little put out.
‘You want a different flavour?’ I ask. ‘Cheese-and-onion?’
‘No,’ he says sheepishly.
‘And instead of a coffee,’ I say in a theatrical voice, as if I’m hosting QVC, ‘why don’t you choose something from our very fantastic draught selection. So I can practise,’ I point out.
Ollie exhales a loud sigh. ‘Fine. Cider, please.’
‘Or what about a lovely pint of lager?’ I suggest in my TV-presenter voice before switching back to my normal one. ‘Or even a Guinness. Because I specifically need to get this foam-business sorted out.’
Ollie laughs. ‘Fine, fine – whatever.’
I reach over and give his hand a squeeze of gratitude before calling Danny over to supervise.
‘Another one?’ I ask Ollie, who is still propping up the bar two hours later.
‘I’ve had two,’ he says. ‘And I didn’t even wantone.Am I allowed a coffee yet?’
‘OK,’ I concede flatly. ‘If you must. Americano?’
‘Yes, please. Drunk medical student is not a good look,’ he replies. ‘These words are starting to swim in front of my eyes.’ He closes his textbook and I attempt to look interested while he tells me what he’s just read.
I pull out my copy ofBleak Housefrom behind the bar, having imagined there might be a quiet moment to finish it in time for tomorrow’s nineteenth-century literature lecture. I was wrong. It’s been busy non-stop with students enjoying the freedom to day-drink without parental supervision, or I’ve been loading and unloading the dishwasher, taking deliveries and hanging up the new packs of crisps.
I line my copy ofBleak Houseup against Ollie’s book. ‘Dickens wins,’ I declare. ‘Nine hundred and sixty-five pages against your …’ I open his book and flick to the last page, ‘seven hundred and ninety, and however many pages this appendix takes up.’
Ollie takes my book, opens it at random while I make his coffee. He looks engrossed when I return. ‘What made you choose it?’ he asks idly.
‘It’s a set text for the course. I had no choice.’
He pushesBleak Houseback across the bar towards me. ‘Not the book. The course. Why’d you choose literature?’
‘Oh. Just wanted a degree, an experience. I like books, reading is easy.’
‘Reading is easy?’ He looks stunned. ‘Seriously? How iscritiquingthe reading? How’s writing two-thousand-word essaysaboutthe reading? What did you get at A-Level?’
‘That’s a personal question.’
‘No, it’s not.’
I laugh at his bluntness. ‘I got a C.’
‘In literature?’
‘I was predicted an A.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Not sure. I had an off-day perhaps, at exam time? I don’t know. It’s the only subject I enjoy, though.’
