Lachlan gets up to go to the bathroom, so Bashie leans over to join our conversation and Moira rounds on him. “Billy, why haven’t you got yourself a girl yet?”
He shrugs and mumbles something I can’t understand.
“Abby, do you have anyone we could fix our Billy up with?”
The reality is I would just have to say the word and any one of my single girlfriends from college would be over here in a heartbeat, such is the continuing American fascination with the men in this country—though to be honest, they might struggle with Bashie’s accent. But I decide to go for something a little less hypothetical. “Actually yeah, there’s a great girl at work he might like.”
Bashie looks surprised, then narrows his eyes at me.
“Oh!” says Moira. “What’s she like? Is she smart?”
“Very. She studied classics at university. She loves ancient Rome.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting. And is she kind?”
“Yes, she’s been incredibly helpful as I’ve been settling in.”
“And good-looking?”
I nod. “She is genuinely one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.”
Bashie’s looking right at me, and there’s color in his cheeks and a sort of sadness in his eyes. “Seems a girl like that could have any man she chooses.”
Moira is affronted. “And why wouldn’t she choose you?”
“Who’s choosing Bashie?” Lachlan asks, rejoining the table.
“No one,” he says quickly. He gives me the tiniest shake of his head.
“Of course not. Why would they, you brute?” Lachlan claps him on the back. “Ready for me to put on the footy?”
Moira starts to gather plates. “You go ahead, I’ll get started on the washing up.”
I stand and flap my hands at her. “No no, you two cooked, we’ll clean.” I jerk my head at Bashie. “Up you get.”
“I haven’t washed a dish in ten years, Macca.”
“It’s just like riding a bike, promise.” I collect the plates and carry them into the kitchen. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Och,” Moira says, a look of surprise on her face. “Never thought I’d hear an American say that. You’ve taught her well.”
Lachlan laughs. “She’s my star pupil.”
“You should have seen his face when I told him most Americans don’t even own a kettle. Never seen him so pale. And when I revealed that some of my countrymen will heat up water in the microwave, I thought I might have actually killed him.”
“Barbarians,” Bashie mutters, filling four mugs with teabags.
“I didn’t even know you could put milk in tea until I got here. Turns out it’swaybetter that way. I couldn’t believe everyone was just drinking hot herb water all day long.”
“Heaven help us,” Moira says. “We’ve found you just in time.”
When the tea has finished steeping, I pull out the drawer housing Lachlan’s trash can and drop the teabags in, one by one. As they splat down, I happen to see what they’re falling onto: a copy ofLOOK!magazine, folded back to a page with another paragraph-long headline:IT’S GETTING CALIENTE: Carlinhos coy about affair with Ramsay WAG as new photos surface of their romantic getaway in Mallorca—more sexy snaps on page 32!The photos are a smidgen more clear in this issue, even with four teabags splattered over them. Still, though the two blurry people-shapes are definitely touching each other, it wouldn’t hold up as evidence in court. I’m also struck by how terribly sexist it is that Claire doesn’t even merit a name, she’s just “Ramsay WAG.” Even if sheischeating on him, she deserves better than that. I shove the drawer shut with my knee and try to put it out of my mind.
Bashie delivers the tea, then joins me at the sink to scrape plates. When he’s satisfied that Moira and Lachlan are focused on the match, he turns to me. “So Sadie told you about us?”
“Yeah, and I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to know, but I think it’s fantastic.”
He nods. “She’s bonnie.”
