‘I like to think so.’
He picks up the card and I notice how beautiful his hands are: strong fingers with tanned skin and neat nails.
‘What’s yours?’ he says.
‘Something fruity. A cosmopolitan maybe.’
As he studies the choices, I am assaulted by a vivid memory of my dream again. The way he slid his belt slowly from his trousers, the taste of that drink on his lips.
‘Whisky sour?’ I suggest, before I can stop myself.
‘No, I’m not a fan. I’ll take a dirty martini.’
He gestures to the bartender with a single finger, who appears immediately to take our order. I don’t know if it’s Zach’s size, or something else less easily defined, but he has a kind ofpresence. He really isn’t easy to ignore.
‘Comeon. Don’t keep me in suspense about Krishna any longer,’ he says.
‘Well, I put up a good argument, I think . . .’ I begin. ‘But then I kind of stalled.’
He looks surprised. ‘Doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Rather than going all out and fighting forOur Girl In Milan– which part of me still thinks would have been the sensible thingto do – I said I was going to outline the pros and cons of both that . . . and another show.’
He raises his eyebrows, hopefully. ‘My Teenage Bombsite?’
I nod.
‘You are full of surprises. So what did he think?’
‘He likes both. As do I. But on balance, we’ve decided that we wouldn’t want to plough on withOur Girl in Milanwithout further investigation into a couple of things. Which basically meant, when I telephoned the producers . . . we’ve lost the show to YouTime.’
He exhales. ‘I don’t know what to say. Sorry? Thanks?’
‘I think you were right about it being unoriginal. I’m big enough to admit that,’ I confess. I don’t want to admit I’ve been snooping around on his Insta. ‘I still think I might have lost a massive hit though.’
‘We’ll never know.’
‘Until it appears on YouTime. So you’d better be right, Russo,’ I warn, with a smile.
‘I’m always right,’ he says, dismissively.
‘Really?’
He shakes his head and scrunches up his nose. ‘No.’
I laugh.
‘But onthisoccasion . . . you did the right thing. I’m sure of it.’
Our drinks arrive and I take a sip of my cosmopolitan. A fuzzy, electric warmth spreads through my chest and I find my eyes drawn to that dimple in his chin again. A ripple of laughter rises from the other side of the room, while the opening bars of a soft piano tune drift from a distant corner. I feel suddenly quite warm and go to remove my jacket. As he helps me shrug it off, his fingertips brush through the sleeve of my shirt and something flutters in my belly.
‘I am not supposed to be drinking on weeknights,’ I say, tapping on my phone.
‘Says who?’
‘Me. I still feel pickled after that night at the school.’
‘Well, itwasa Wine Quiz. What are you doing?’ he says, glancing on my app.
