Chapter Twenty-Two
Form a bond with your intended by being interested in the things he enjoys. It may not come naturally, but with practice you will learn to love his hobbies as much as if they were yours.
Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955
I spend the next forty-five minutes delicately sipping water, trying not to chuck up and attempting to be mega interested in open mic poetry. All the people at Little Joe’s Java are so excited to be here, and Leo is the most excited of all. He really does love it, clapping enthusiastically after every performance and nodding like hegetswhat they’re all spouting on about. Why did Valentina not tell me about this hobby of his? Did she even know? It’s absolutely not what I thought he’d be into. Sensitive sketches and poetry aren’t usually the kind of thing you’d associate with arrogant, sexist ad men. I’m so confused.
When (thank God) it’s interval time, I lean over to Leo.
‘So how long have you been coming here?’ I ask curiously.
‘A while,’ he replies, taking a sip of his espresso. ‘Though never with a girl, come to think of it.’
What did I do to deserve this hell?
I put a hand to my chest.
‘What did I do to be so lucky?’
He looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose you seem a little …differentto the girls I usually date . . . A littlealternative.’His eyes flick up to my tufty lace hat and across my powdery face. ‘I thought you might enjoy a more unconventional scene.’
He thinks I’malternative?This was not the intention. Stupid quirky hat. I try to hide my bewilderment and appear as enthusiastic as I can possibly be.
‘Oh, yes, Iamenjoying it,’ I purr, looking around Little Joe’s Java with wide eyes as if there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be. ‘Open mic poetry iswonderful. I − I come to these places all the time. I’m thrilled you brought me here. Thrilled with a capital T.’ I peek up at him through my lashes. He seems to like my fake excitement so I carry on. ‘Yes, if I’d known we were coming to a spoken word event, I’d have, er, signed up to recite myself! It’s so … brave and, um, expressive to share yoursoulon stage. To, um, connect with strangers. It’s so … er …’ What were they always saying in poetry lectures at uni?‘ … so avant-garde!’
Leo slowly nods as if I’ve just said something dead insightful. He slips a hand round my waist, rests it on my ribcage and moves his thumb in a slow circular motion that my body, annoyingly, does not immediately reject.
‘Lucille Darling,’ he says, looking at me in an odd, appraising sort of way. ‘Aren’t you an unexpected pleasure?’
‘That I am,’ I reply with an alluring, mysterious throaty laugh. ‘That … I am.’
He pulls me in close as yet another amateur poet takes to the stage.
Despite being completely miserable, totally unprepared and on the verge of puking like a mofo, I seem somehow, in the most unlikely of circumstances, to have piqued Leo Frost’s interest.
* * *
This date is going fairly well. Because of the performance nature of the evening, we thankfully don’t have to talk too much so I try to zone out, sip my water and deep-breathe until the night is over and I can shuffle off back to bed and rub my belly. But just when I think I might be about to pull this whole evening off like a boss, I’m thrown a curveball.
And it’s a massive one.
‘And now, everyone, we come to the improv poetry portion of our evening,’ the goateed host says into the mic. The crowd make an ‘ooooh’ noise. ‘The part of the night when members of our audience come up on stage to recite a little something off the cuff.’
Oh man, there’smore? But we’ve heard so many poems already. I look around at this crowd in disgust, huffing as discreetly as I can. These people are soobsessed with poems. They can’t get enough of poems. There’s no escape. I am in poetry purgatory.
The MC picks a little piece of paper out of a hat.
‘OK, guys, first up to share some improvization with us is … Lucille Darling.’
Because Lucille Darling is not my real name, it takes a second to sink in.
What. The. Fuck?
No.
I spin round to Leo in horror. He’s smiling excitedly. ‘I put your name in when you were using the ladies’ room. You said earlier that if you’d known we were coming here you’d have got up. Well, now’s your chance.’ He looks so pleased with himself. Like he’s done me a favour. What a turd!
Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Turd.
