‘Pretty wild.’ I tilt the risotto dish a little in Heather’s direction. ‘Look, they’re so wild they’re having a knockdown fight on the dish.’
‘Sorry. Again.’ She shoots me an uncomfortable smile. I think I preferred it when she glared at me like I’d personally offered to arrange a phone full of dick pics.
I still could if she wanted.
‘There’s no need to be sorry. This is delicious.’ I shovel another glutinous forkful into my mouth.
‘I shouldn’t have ordered vegetarian. I shouldn’t have assumed.’ Assumed that her yet-to-be-blackmailed-at-that-point date would be a red-blooded, meat-eating carnivore? I wonder who was option two? Ah. Me. I’m option two, the original option being her ex. A hemp-wearing, chickpea-swilling herbivore probably. My expression must be as sour as my thoughts as Heather apologises again.
‘Heather, look, it’s fine. I have obviously lived but half a life, ’cause let me tell you once more, this risotto is great.’
‘Are you both eating risotto over there?’
Somehow, we’ve been sat at a table with Captain Obvious and his somnolent wife, who has either been hitting the G&Ts hard or is a narcoleptic judging by the way she almost fell asleep in her soup course. There are two other couples who seem like friends and have only attention for each other, which suits both me and Heather’s anxiety levels. The E11even crew have been dispersed amongst other tables, which also suits me because I’m happy I have her all to myself. Yes, happy. I’m just going with the flow. A free bar soothes all kinds of problems, except risotto self-flagellation in women named Heather.
‘You’re missing a treat,’ I tell him, forcing another forkful past my lips, ignoring the beef wellington on Captain O’s plate, tender looking and rare, just the way it should be.
‘I’m an Englishman,’ he says with a deep chortle as though his accent hasn’t already given that away. ‘Give me meat and two veg or lay me down in my grave.’
‘Unlike the poor animal on your plate,’ Heather mutters, her gaze dropping to her own dish.
‘If we were meant to eat grass, the good Lord would’ve given us two stomachs.’
‘Looks like you’ve already got two,’ his wife says, squinting at her husband’s girth before poking it with a bony finger.
‘Bride or groom?’ I ask as his cheeks turn a lovely puce colour.
‘Groom,’ the man answers. ‘He’s my cousin’s boy. A lovely fellow. You?’
‘Bride.’
‘Her family did this place up a treat.’ I stifle a smile as his eyes wander over the Regency-style splendour of the castle’s ballroom, a relatively modern addition to the building, circa 1812 as I understand, according to the booklet in Heather’s bedroom. Though he could be talking about the abundance of fresh flowers. And feathers. And crystal.
I find myself smiling as I recall Heather’s remark about how Poppy’s family had a lot of money but not a lot of taste as we had stared at our table setting, dressed with about as much understatement as a Vegas showgirl.
As banalities ensue, I notice a change in Heather’s posture. The way her fingers are almost white around the stem of the glass, and the shade of red in her cheeks and the even darker one in her eyes. I follow her gaze to where Haydn is glaring at her.
‘I told you so. That isn’t a look that says interested,’ she murmurs, tearing her gaze away.
‘That’s what I’d call a black look, one of pure jealousy.’ I slide my hand around the back of her chair, acknowledging him with a short wave.
‘I’m not sure how antagonising him will help.’
‘You want proof,’ I whisper, leaning in. ‘Oh, it’s coming.’ I can feel it, just as I can feel the daggers he’s throwing my way.
‘I know you find it very hard to believe you could be wrong, but you are. Very wrong.’
‘So much snark for one so sexy. Care to bet on that?’
‘I’m not so mean as to take money from you.’ Her blithe tone contradicts the pink in her cheeks. Is she embarrassed that I called her sexy or is she irritated? And then, is she irritated because I called her sexy or irritated because I say she’s wrong. I might’ve come to understand a few things about her but there’s so much about her I still want to know.
‘Who said anything about money?’
‘That’s usually what a bet is, isn’t it? A wager or gamble? Cold, hard cash.’
‘I’m sure we could make it a little more interesting, unless you’re just flapping your gums, of course.’
Our joint gazes slide to Haydn again who is still glowering over at us. As he tears his gaze away, he violently pushes back his chair and stomps out of the room like a man thwarted.
