I tentatively take it from him and open it up. There’s nothing inside. He’s given me an empty paper bag.
Huh?
Oh!
All at once, I get the joke. It’s an aeroplane sick bag. It’s not an extravagant gift at all. Leo Frost brought me a sick bag! I laugh out loud in surprise and make a great show of tucking the bag carefully into my purse.Well played, I think suspiciously. Leo laughs back gleefully and offers me his arm.
‘So, where are going tonight?’ I ask, delicately linking arms with him as we wander past the fountains in the square. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this evening all week long.’
Leo points over towards the National Gallery.
‘Right there,’ he says, eagerly leading me in the direction of the steps. ‘There’s a private viewing of a newly acquired Van Gogh collection and I’ve got tickets.’
Van Gogh?
Shit.
If there’s one thing I know even less about than poetry, it’s art.
Gad, why can’t he just take me to dinner like a normal person? Or a rock concert. I’m ace at rock concerts − I can mosh like nobody’s business. Except for that one time when I tried to crowdsurf but the crowd was a bit sparse and it was essentially just one meaty-looking guy holding me up in the air for a bit.
I frown discreetly to myself. Art. Leo Frost has gone and thrown me another bloody wild card. I only just got through the poetry night without letting the Lucille veneer slip and revealing Jess underneath.
How the fuck am I going to manage this one?
