Chapter 18
Dyddiad - Date
Rhys
The conversation’s great between me and Luce on the drive. It continues after I’ve parked and while we’re walking towards the indoor market. The chat’s mostly nothing – tour details, Cai, stories about the last time me and him was in Manchester – and it’s friendly and comfortable.
A fresh spring breeze tickles me, and I tip my head to catch it. It’s lush, not having to worry about Cai for a few hours. I’m gonna have to make the most of it. Moments like this will be few and far between from tomorrow.
‘It’s not far from here,’ I tell her, hoping the map app on my phone’s taking me to the right place. ‘Like a minute tops. Saw this place online the other day and saved it as a favourite.’ Thank fuck, cos I had no other ideas.
‘I have a long list of bookmarks I’ve saved for the trip, too. Are yours categorised like mine?’
Who the fuck categorises saved posts? Little weirdo. ‘No.’
‘Oh.’
The sun kisses the top of the skyline as we follow the road to an old red brick building.
The hubbub of the market hits us as soon as we step through the sliding glass doors.
Stall holders call to us, luring us in to buy their fresh foods, their hand-knitted jumpers, all the treats and toys for our non-existent pets.
Spices, fish, earthy vegetables all mingle together – the smell strong but not disgusting.
My stomach rumbles louder because of it.
We don’t linger. An unspoken agreement passes between us that we’re going straight for food, and we squeeze through the shopper-packed aisles to get to our goal.
I keep close to her, my hand on the small of her back so I don’t lose her in the throng. She leans into my touch. Bloody brilliant.
The food court isn’t much quieter than the market.
A spread of tables sits in an open space, hemmed in on three sides by countless food stalls, dessert places, and a bar.
A cacophony of conversation, the sizzle of food and the scrape of cutlery against the plates fills my ears.
Noisy in a good way. Low lighting makes it moody enough, but not too dark you can’t see what you’re eating. My type of place.
Should have planned this a bit better. My not-so-perfect timing means we got here as all the nearby offices and shops shut for the day.
The tables are full of commuters and diners, desperate for food before they head home.
Day-drinkers line the bar, and there’s a few people propped against empty stretches of wall, eating chips out of cardboard boxes.
‘Any spare tables?’ I ask Lucy, stretching on my toes to give me a better vantage point. No use. All the seats are taken.
‘No. Nothing.’ She cranes too, a hand on my upper arm for balance, her touch scorching through my light jacket and shirt. I slip an arm around her waist to steady her. She doesn’t flinch, and I get my first win of the evening. Yes! ‘There, look.’
Right at the far end of the court, a couple get to their feet, collecting their rubbish. A group of women at the bar also spot them, and they slide off their stools, readying for the race.
‘Reckon you can move quick enough to get there before that lot?’
A few other people around us wait for tables, but they’re not my concern. Never underestimate a group of girls fuelled by prosecco. They’re already making their trot towards the spare space.
Lucy pins her handbag under her arm and weaves around waiters with trays of food, people leaning over tables to talk, hopeless groups ambling around in search of their own space to eat.
I move in a diagonal away from her, just like the bishop in our chess game, making a beeline for the women. My phone’s already in my hand.
I stop directly in front of them, shoving my mobile at them. ‘Prynhawn da. Oes yna rywle y gallaf wylio'r gêm heno?’
They stare at me like I’m talking gobbledygook. Which to an English person, Welsh sounds like.
‘Y gêm?’ I jab my finger at the list of fixtures I’ve got up on my phone. I’m not sure if they’re playing today. I’ve stopped following the national squad since they got shit. It’s embarrassing.
‘Do you mean the game?’ one of them, a blonde, asks.
‘Ie, y rygbi. Ble maen’n chwarae?’
Her friend butts in. ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, but there’s a pub down the road. You’re better off asking there.’
‘Diolch. Diolch.’
I step aside and the group groans as one, the prosecco giving them hive mind functionality. Brilliant. Lucy’s nabbed the table. I saunter over to her, trying, but failing, not to not look too cocky about it.
‘Look at us working like a team.’ I hold my hand up for a high-five and she slaps it straight away.
‘What did you say to them? They look confused.’
‘Must have been my charms.’ She scoffs and my smile grows wider. ‘Nah, I spoke Welsh to them.’
‘Lucky there wasn’t a Welsh speaker with them.’
‘This side of the border? We’re a rare breed.’
‘Maybe I should learn to speak it, so I can understand what you’re all saying when you use it around me.’
‘I can teach you.’ I’d love to hear the language coming from her mouth. The thought of it warms my blood. ‘But not yet,’ I add before I get too distracted by the idea. ‘I’m starving and it’s a complicated language.’
‘Fine. But I’ll hold you to that. I really do want to learn it.’
Great. I dig my phone out of my pocket and scan the QR to bring up the menu, putting an end to the conversation. Did I mention I was hungry?
Places like this are brilliant because the service is quick. Plus, you don’t have to pick from one cuisine. You can have pasta, with gyoza, and finish off with a round of burgers. Perfect.
We barely get time to pick up our small talk, or for me to teach Luce a word of Welsh before our food and drink’s put in front of us. I steal a fresh chip while she’s distracted by an email. Serves her right for checking her phone instead of chatting with me.
‘Oi!’ Her mobile goes straight on the table, and her attention’s on me. Good. ‘I told you we should order a platter if you wanted to share.’
Her hand shoots across to help herself to one of my arancini balls, but I swat her away. ‘I didn’t want chips. I’m doing my job and making sure they’re not poisoned. Now, keep your hands off my balls, will you?’
She giggle-snorts, a noise I’ve never heard come from her before, but one I want her to make over and over. This trip’s already full of surprises and we’re only on the first day. Who knows what other secrets I’ll learn from her by the time we’re done.
I push the cardboard tray of arancini towards her. Don’t mind sharing with someone as cute as her.
‘I was about to accuse you of being mean, but I guess I’ll have to take it back now.
’ She bites into the ball, and now she’s moaning.
I’m gonna be well wound up by the end of the night if she carries on like this.
I’ll have to reverse my no wanking rule.
She swallows then adds, ‘That said, I didn’t agree to come out to be abused. ’
‘That’s a perk of an evening with me.’
‘I’m sure there are a lot more perks than being teased.’
‘Oh, you’ve not seen nothing yet.’
Her smile’s still there when she helps herself to a spoonful of my ramen and I shovel more of her chips into my mouth. It’s not the verbal declaration she fancies me, but all this banter means I’m on track with her. None of this is wishful thinking or me jumping to conclusions.
I definitely fancy the pants off her. My cheeks ache with how much I’m beaming, only from being here with her. It’ll be brilliant if she’s on the same page.
We eat our meals, helping ourselves to each other’s food without another argument over it.
The flow to our conversation continues as we chat about what’s coming up in the tour, whisper about who might have hacked the house, and discuss our wild theories about Jasper Reynolds.
Most of it's work-related, but it’s the one thing we have in common.
For now. We have all evening to find more.
We eat through my ramen, her loaded fries, another order of arancini balls, and she gets another pint.
Silence drifts across the table once our plates are empty.
I recline in my seat, hands on my full belly and release a satisfied sigh.
I get the menu back up. I spotted a stall with amazing-looking doughnuts earlier.
I’ve got no space for anything else right now, but perhaps I’ll take a box for the rest of the house.
If nothing else, Bryn deserves a treat for being stuck in with the lovebirds.
‘You cannot be considering pudding,’ Lucy says. ‘How are you still hungry?’
‘I told you, I’m a growing lad. My mam used to say that you have a second stomach for sweet stuff.’
‘That’s not right.’
‘It is. She made the best desserts, so she would know.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve tried one. I’ve eaten some great-tasting puddings across the world. It’ll take a lot to beat a patisserie from France, or a matcha and yuzu cake from Japan.’
I’m not ready to ruin the mood of the evening by talking about my dead mam or by disappointing Lucy by telling her there’s no way she’ll get to taste a slice of amazing Victoria sponge, or crack the top of her perfect crème br?lée.
Neither me nor Beth are any good at baking.
We did try, but failed spectacularly, and now Mam’s recipes are confined to her tatty, hand-written notebook.
Nah, dead relatives aren’t the best topic of conversation for a first date. Not that this’s a first date. Lucy said yes to food, not dating me. Keeping things light and happy’s the only way to get things to the next stage with her.
‘Maybe we need a dessert tasting session?’ I suggest. ‘Reckon Gethin knows some chefs. He’s always eating in posh places. We could make a big thing of it on our next night off. Cheer Cai up. Being locked in gets old pretty quickly.’