Chapter Twenty #2
“Will you tell me if I show you the biscuits in my bag?”
This is difficult. I’m not sure how to explain what happened between me and Fletch last night without breaking his confidences; it’s definitely a conversation to have out of earshot of stray cameramen or lurking creepy twins.
But I really want Marina’s biscuits. She knows my tastes run to the big and calorie-packed luxury end of the biscuit aisle; there’s no way she’s going to have a plain old packet of McVitie’s in her handbag.
I need to make like a politician and be evasive, so I nod, but try to shake my head a little bit at the same time and she narrows her eyes suspiciously.
“Are you running a fever?”
We both know I’m not running a fever. She delves into her shoulder bag and pulls out just the very top corner of the biscuit packet, flashing it at me.
I can’t see enough to know exactly what they are, but I now know that they’re in a matte-black package that looks expensive, and they’re definitely from the all-hallowed luxury section of the aisle.
These babies aren’t wartime stalwarts with sensible shoes, they’re good-time showgirls with frilly bloomers.
“Do they have big crunchy nuts?” I whisper.
“Does he?” she snaps.
“Thick chocolate coating?”
Her brows shoot up. “Food play?”
Someone stop me if I ever attempt to run for Parliament. I intended to be vague, and yet so far I’ve managed to imply that Fletch has big, crunchy balls and coated me in Nutella.
Actually, that idea isn’t wholly without merit.
Any sex that includes chocolate has to be good sex, right?
I’m not precious about it being Nutella either.
There isn’t a single sexual activity I can think of that couldn’t be enhanced by a Mars bar.
That sounds a lot ruder than I intended it to.
For clarity, I’d only want to lie back and blissfully eat the aforementioned chocolate bar while Fletch (for instance) and his big crunchy balls did the necessary down the business end.
Or whomever else I happen to be with. I just used Fletch as an example to demonstrate that I don’t want M it’s as tough as Marina’s attitude and sourer than goat’s cheese left out in the sun.
How can something with juice in it make my mouth dry up?
I think it’s actually curdling my saliva.
“Is it…good?” Marina croaks. The fact that tears have started to stream down my face should be a big old clue to how good it is. It’s like there’s a bale of bitter hay wedged in my mouth and it’s so big I don’t have a prayer of chewing it.
“Healthy?” Fletch smiles expectantly at me, and I consider blowing the whole wad out of my mouth into his smug face. It could easily take his eye out.
I think I’m going to die from rhubarb. It won’t go down, it can’t come out, and I can barely breathe.
I’ll have to die and then they’ll feel terrible and wish they hadn’t been so ha-ha amused.
Only Artie can walk away from this guilt-free; he looks like he’d love to help me but is clueless how.
Then, and I cannot tell you how much I love him for this, inspiration strikes him.
He winks at me, almost subtle, and then he executes a perfect comedy fall, as if an invisible person just shoved him right over.
Marina and Fletch jump to help him, and in the moment of distraction I bury my face in the giant rhubarb plant and gag out the lump of rancid string.
I kid you not, it’s the size of my fist. No.
The size of The Hulk’s fist. It lands in the dirt with a thud, like a house brick.
By the time Artie has been hauled back onto his feet and has laughed off the incident, I’m standing nonchalantly sipping my coffee.
“Thank you, Fletcher. That was delicious.”
Marina and Fletch both put their heads to one side, suspicion in unison, and I just shrug helplessly.
“What can I say? I like healthy stuff.”
Fletch shakes his head, clearly not conned for a minute. “What’s next on your healthy snack list, Ghostbuster? Want me to find you some lemons to suck?”
I give a forced, tinkly little laugh. “No thank you, Fletcher. That rhubarb has filled me right up. I feel so healthy I could probably run a marathon without breaking a sweat.”
He laughs and strolls away, whistling, and he’s lucky I don’t chase after him and ram the rest of the rhubarb up his fit sodding backside.