I wrinkled my nose with the distaste that only a lifetime of Australian cultural indoctrination could hammer in. “Budweiser? Really?”
“Yes, I know y’all hate it and its boring shit, but it reminds me of home, all right? Here.” He cracked one open and handed it over. “Suffer like an American.”
“You mean like bad healthcare and student debt?”
Miles barked a laugh and clinked his bottle against mine. “What can I say? Greatest country in the world. Cheers.”
I took a mouthful expecting horrible, only to be under-whelmed even by its awfulness. “You know what,” I said, licking my lips. “I’m no beer connoisseur, but it’s fine? Just, dull and average.”
“That’s what I want to hear. Dull and average.”
I grinned and tried another mouthful. It failed to improve. “I’m sure it’ll do the job.”
Beer in hand, Miles made for the lounge, where an old fabric monstrosity with patched cushions took up most of the space. A similarly upholstered armchair sat at an angle beside it, both facing the TV over a scratched-up square coffee table. It was all the communal space the apartment had to offer.
As he sank onto the ugly couch, I was struck anew by just how ridiculous this was, and said, “What are you doing here?”
“Buying you dinner and hanging out?”
“I don’t mean here, I mean . . .here, like in this apartment building, in this part of London. Doing this.”
His smile vanished, leaving him staring into the distance overhis beer bottle. “I’m here because . . .” He tapped a finger on the damp glass. “You said it didn’t belong to me. My success. I guess I wanted to prove to myself that it did.”
“Hit a nerve, did I?”
“You could say that.” He paused his tapping. “And you know, I really hate that people think—” Miles snapped his jaw shut and shook his head. “Never mind.”
With a friend, I would have asked what he’d been about to say, but although he had brought beer and was sitting on my terrible couch, we were not friends. Miles Callahan was a star of our game, whereas I had become a has-been without getting tobefirst. And so I let it go, burying my curiosity in another sip of beer.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Probably the food,” Miles said, abandoning his drink and getting up. He opened the door upon the slightly confused expression of a young man in a neat uniform, holding one of those scanners that were terrible to sign on. And an enormous Styrofoam box.
“A delivery for Mr Miles Callahan?”
“That’s me.”
The young man—who on closer inspection looked more like a high-end postal courier than someone who delivered food—handed over the box with reverential care. “I’m going to need a signature, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, sure.” Miles passed the box on to me, and it was so much heavier than I’d expected that I almost dropped it.
While I adjusted my grip, Miles took hold of the dangling stylus and signed with a few hurried taps. “There you go.”
Job done, the young courier lingered on the threshold, and just as I began to wonder whether he would ask for an autograph, he burst out with, “Thank you. Uh, for the tip. It, um, yeah. Thanks.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” Miles said, his smile so broad it lit up his eyes. “You have a great night.”
“Yes. You too. Thanks.”
An awkward little nod and the young man scurried off, leaving Miles to close the door. I lifted an eyebrow. “How much did you tip him? He looked like he wanted to kiss your shoes.”
“None of your business, Russo,” Miles said, grin broadening. “Besides, you said this didn’t count toward the budget so it doesn’t matter.”
I held up my free hand. “It doesn’t, I just . . .” I swallowed my surprise, because admitting I had thought him on the ‘selfish prick’ end of the tipping scale probably wasn’t a wise start to the evening. “I don’t think I’ve ever had to sign for a food delivery.”
“No, but you have to sign for premium couriers.” He took the box from my hands. “You can’t order areallygood steak through an app, but there’s a great place in town and they like me, so I made a couple of calls. And now . . .”
He set the box on the coffee table, pulled away the tape, and gently prised off the lid like a man uncovering buried treasure. Inside, a stack of large, square plates took up most of the space, the contents of each protected from the one above by half a waxed cardboard box. A pair of plastic containers had been crammed into one end too, while the other held a very fancy looking waxed box wrapped in tea towels and small ice packs.
