Five seconds later, she’s attacking the bucket. There’s no other word for it. She dives into the cardboard before she’s even finished chewing the previous mouthful. It’s a furious caloric refuelling. A flanker trying to get mass back after a stomach bug.
‘I guess you were hungry.’ I lean an inch closer. ‘You’re gobbling that up like the Cookie Monster on a bender.’
She pauses, cheeks bulged out like a hamster. ‘I miffep binner.’ A single bit of popcorn shrapnel scatters into the dark as she speaks.
‘Obviously.’ I nudge the bucket closer to her. ‘By all means, fill yer boots.’
On the screen, a man in a pristine camel coat is attempting to purchase a single sourdough roll with a golden credit card in a tiny village bakery.
‘I’m calling it,’ I mutter in her direction. ‘He’s from a wee Alpine nation. He has Secret Prince written all over his chiselled cheekbones.’
Beside me, she’s twisting a popcorn kernel between her fingers. ‘Actually, it’s the Principality of Veronia. Population: twelve. And they’re all on his payroll as royal foot-rubbers.’
There’s a wry slant at the corner of her lips. The film’s heroine, draped in a white cashmere sweater that would be a crime scene within five minutes in a real kitchen, sighs dreamily and gives him a free baguette.
‘And there it is.’ She flicks the kernel into the air and catches it with her mouth. ‘The I’m-a-local-artisan-who-doesn’t-understand-profit-margins move. That bakery will be a Starbucks by Hogmanay.’
I watch the film, but my attention is latched to the woman by my side. The tension has bled out of her frame.
‘Naw. It won’t,’ I say. ‘He’s going to mend her broken oven with a paperclip and a piece of tinsel. Thus is the magical power of the Christmas Prince.’
‘Maybe.’ She lets out a tiny huff. It’s a private sound, meant only for the thirty inches of air between us. ‘In the third act, he’ll reveal his title. She’ll pretend to feel betrayed for the length of a montage, and then they’ll bridge the class divide by ramming their tongues into each other’s throats in a horse-drawn carriage.’ She turns and looks at me with a crooked grin.
The fizz in my veins has nothing to do with my drink. It’s a confusing, dizzying feeling, being understood without having to provide a footnote for the joke.
‘Aye. And then she’ll be queen and forget all about her wee bakery, friends, and poor employees as soon as he carries her over the threshold of his fancy castle. Greedy cow.’
She snorts and laughs at the same time again, and suddenly it bothers me that I don’t know what to call her. Oi, Nevin’s bird sits sour on my tongue. I’m a rugby player, not a tasteless dick without manners.
‘Since you’re as much undercover here as I am,’ I keep my eyes on the secret prince handling a lump of dough, ‘we should probably have code names. You could be Golden Eagle or Red Sparrow or something.’
Christ. How old am I – seven?
Yer bum’s oot the windae, Scottie Kerr. Pull it together.
She stops chewing and turns her head. In the shadows, her eyes catch the reflection of the fake snow. ‘Hm. If I’m a Red Sparrow, what would that make you – a Big Bear?’
‘I can live with that. Fits the description, and I’ve been called worse.’
‘Okay, let me think.’ She scratches her chin with a bit of theatre. ‘You may call me…Marzipan.’
‘Like the food? Your codename is a snack?’
She lets out that grunt-laugh again. It’s a wonderful sound. A lot rougher than she looks. ‘It’s from a ballet.’
‘Right. Ballet. Flitting around in tights and tutus.’
‘Tsk! Hardest athletic discipline on earth. Don’t let the tulle fool you.’
‘Is that what you do – dance?’
‘Mostly, yeah.’
Ah, so she doesn’t want to talk about that, either. Noted. I steal a piece of what’s left of that disgusting snack to keep my hands busy.
‘Right then. Marzipan it is.’
‘Copy that. Bear.’
