He clutches at his eye and bends over, his huge shoulders rounding.
“You all right?” his friend says.
“No, I’m fucking not, something flew into my eye—ah, it hurts like a motherf—”
Mebel steps carefully toward him and taps him daintily on the arm.
“What?” he snaps.
“I have the eye drops,” Mebel says, holding out a small bottle.
Beard glares at her with one eye for a moment, then snatches the bottle from her. He raises his head and squirts way more drops than are needed. Then he blinks furiously and releases a long sigh of relief. “Thanks,” he mutters, handing the bottle back to Mebel.
“You walk around with eye drops in your purse?” his friend asks, something close to awe in his voice.
“Of course,” Mebel says smartly. “Always be well prepare.” She puts away the drops, then says, “Maybe you gentlemen can be so kind and direct me to nicest restaurant in town?”
The men blink slowly at her. Their breath fogs up in the cold night air and smells like stale alcohol. It is beginning to dawn on Mebel that perhaps these two might not be the best food connoisseurs around, and that maybe she wouldn’t trust their judgment when it comes to fine dining. Or anything else in life, for that matter.
“ ’Ow about the Goat and Eagle?” Bearded Man says.
Mebel wrinkles her nose. “So, they serve goat meat? I like goat meat. Not sure about eagle, but I will give it a try. I am a bit surprise that they serve the eagle meat here.”
“No, they don’t serve actual eagle meat, good grief. The Goat and Eagle is a pub down the road,” Mr. Beard says. “I go there when I’m feeling posh. They serve a good kidney pie.”
“I like the King’s Arms, m’self,” his friend says. Mebel mentally calls him Ears, on account of the way his stick out. “Get yourself a nice plate of bangers and mash, and wash it all down with a pint of cider.”
“That sound good,” Mebel says.
“They do a mean spotted dick at the King’s Arms every Thursday.”
Mebel frowns. “I don’t know if I like spotted dick, is sounding quite unhygienic.”
Ears shrugs. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Tell you what, why don’t you come with us, and—”
Whatever else he was about to suggest is interrupted by a group of youths coming out of the pub. They’re laughing and carousing with one another, not looking where they’re going, and one of them crashes into Mr. Beard, who swings around and grabs the offending person by the collar of his shirt. The easygoing laughter dies a quick death.
“Watch where you’re going, mate,” Beard says.
Mebel reflects on how funny it is that in every part of the world, the words “mate” and “buddy” and “pal” are often used in situations where it’s clear that neither party thinks of the other as a friend. She surmises, not unwisely, that now would be an appropriate time for her to make her exit, because there is nothing worse than a guest who doesn’t know when to leave. But as she’s inching away, the guy whose shirt collar is currently being squeezed in the massive hands of Mr. Beard squeaks, “Mebel?”
“Oh!” Mebel finally looks, really looks, at him. It’s a boy she recognizes as Bruce from her class. And behind him are Gemma, Bella, and Adam. “Oh, hello,” she says.
“Mebel!” Gemma says. “How nice to see you here!”
“Um, Mebel?” Bruce says. “Could you ask your friend to let go of me?”
Mebel looks at Beard. “Can you stop choking my classmate?”
Beard looks back and forth from Mebel to Bruce. “This little shrimp is your classmate? What class are you taking?”
“I am student at the Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts,” Mebel says with an amount of pride that surprises even her.
“Sounds posh,” Beard says.
“Does, don’t it?” Ears says. “You learning them posh French dishes then?”
Mebel thinks for a second. “Well, so far I have learn how to cube a potato and how to butcher shellfish, like lobster and oyster,” Mebel says primly. “Not yet posh French dishes, but I’m sure they come soon. And when they do, then maybe you two can come and try them. You can be my trial customer,because I am learning how to make nice French food to win my husband back, you know.”
