He throws the end of the joint into next door’s garden, and we head back inside, laughing.
In the kitchen, Héloïse, who has spoiled the candlelit vibe from dinner somewhat by putting the big light on, is setting up UNO on the table to play with Evelyn. She eyes us suspiciously, sniffing loudly, then her eyes rest on me.
‘Erica, what’s that on your face? Were you at Violet’s party too?’
I stare at her, bemused.
‘I didn’t get my face painted,’ she goes on, ‘because I wanted Greta Thunberg and the woman said I had to stick to the list of animals.’
How strong was that weed? I have no idea what she’s on about. I turn to Keith for guidance.
‘You do have something on your cheeks, Erica,’ says Keith, ‘but I’m fairly sure it’s not residual face paint from Violet’s party.’
JEEZ, I know what it is. It’s my bloody contouring, which is not cut out for kitchen lighting. I walk over to the mirror on the end wall and look at myself. Admittedly, it’s not great, but it will be fine at The Perch, I’m sure. It’s Héloïse’s fault for putting on that million-watt light.
‘It’s my contour.’ I’m conscious I sound snappy.
‘There wasn’t a condor on the list,’ says Héloïse.
‘Contour. It’s a trompe l’oeil make-up trick for a sculpted jawline.’ That’s what it said on the YouTube video anyway. ‘It looks great in low lighting.’
‘There was an eagle though?’ says Héloïse.
Just as I am wondering how much further down this bird of prey cul-de-sac we can go, Keith, sensing my discomfort, steers me out of the kitchen and up the hall towards the front door, shouting to Josie that we’ll see her in the pub.
Keith and I arrive at The Perch – a big barn of a place, all flagstone floors scattered with Persian rugs and high, timber-framed ceilings. It’s Saturday, so it’s busy, warm and bright. I feel both at home in such a noisy, crowded place (thanks to my clubbing days) yet simultaneously not really that used to it, because I live on my own and interact mainly with the postman and a half-French child.
As Keith goes to the bar, I find a too-small-for-three table, dragging an extra chair over. I scan the bar to see if I can seeGabe, and wonder if the lighting is too much for my trompe l’oeil make-up, which I’m now, thanks to said half-French child, concerned hasn’t worked. Annoying really, as the YouTube video (Hide Sagging Jowls With This Simple Contour Trick!) was quite an investment, at fifteen minutes long. I’m just wondering if I should go to the loo and check it in the mirror when Josie appears.
‘You okay, Erica?’ says Josie.
‘Yes… why?’
‘No reason, just checking in on you.’ Josie is always checking in.
‘Thanks Josie. I’m fine. I’m good.’
‘Gabe’s over there by the way.’ Josie directs her gaze in a diagonal direction behind me, just as Keith returns from the bar and puts down his pale ale, Josie’s G&T and my red wine.
‘Who’s over where?’ he says.
‘Gabe,’ says Josie. ‘Erica fancies him. In the corner. Looks a bit like Gerard Butler. Checked shirt.’
Keith lowers his glasses and peers over them. ‘He’s a Wiltshire eight. Which as we all know is a London six.’
I snort into my wine. ‘Wiltshire Eight?Sounds like a group of wrongly accused ham smugglers.’
Gabe stands up and heads towards us. Oh crap. He’s approaching at an angle, he’s meant to be face on. I should have just worn a giant polo neck.
Josie stands up and hugs him, then turns back to the table.
‘Gabe, this is Keith, and you know Erica?’
‘Hi Keith. And Erica, good to see you, you look very… well.’ He has a deep voice with a very faint west country accent. What does he mean ‘well’? Why did he pause? I wonder if he remembers that the last time he saw me I was retching in the doorway of FILLINGZ?
He asks a neighbouring table for a spare stool, then pulls it over and sits down next to me, while Josie and Keith are suddenly engrossed in conversation.
‘Josie tells me you’re into cheese.’ Not the opener I was expecting, but at the same time, what could be better than a Wiltshire Eight talking to me about cheese? For a second, I almost forget the bad lighting.
