Chapter Three
‘What do you think?’ I gently bop my little buns as I join Jonah back in the living room, where he’s playing a soft tune on his guitar. His fingers stop strumming as he looks up at me, studying my hair for a few seconds before nodding.
‘Yeah. Great.’ He nods more enthusiastically. ‘Perfectly child-like for your kiddie dinner date.’
I screw my lips up tight as I roughly take apart the buns I’d so carefully created a minute ago.
‘Hey, wait.’ Jonah holds a hand up. ‘I was only messing with you. They look great. Very cute, actually.’ He plonks the guitar on the sofa and jumps out of his seat. ‘Come on, Jellybean. Put them back in. I’m being a knob.’ He places his hands on my shoulders and stoops to meet my eye. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re right.’ I remove the clips and finger-comb my hair. Perhaps I’ll leave it down. ‘I haven’t got time to do it again anyway.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Wish me luck.’
Jonah squeezes my shoulders before releasing them and I head out into the hallway, picking up my jacket and bag on my way out. My lips screw up tight again as I hear Jonah picking out the chorus to ‘Yo Ho Ho (and a Bottle of Rum)’ on his guitar.
‘You’re a massive knobhead.’ I slam the front door, but the corners of my lips are tugging upwards as I head for the lift. Bloody Jonah Jackson. I should shove that guitar up his arse. He’d probably label himself as mischievous, but I’d choose the word menace to describe my flatmate.
Woodgate Interchange is a short walk from the flat.
The retail park offers a selection of shops and entertainment, with two other eating establishments besides the pirate-themed restaurant, so I’m puzzled once again why Morgan would choose it.
Even the fast-food place would be better.
Still, the arrangements are in place and I’m here, standing in front of the wooden arched doorway to Pizz-Ahoy.
There’s a porthole in the door, between a skull and crossbones and a hand-painted sign warning of the danger of pirates within.
I’m assaulted by the sound of Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’ blaring and a bazillion overlapping voices as I open the door.
The restaurant is dark, with nets looping from the ceiling and skulls adorning the walls.
Straight ahead is the dining area, with the giant pirate ship soft play area (and the source of squeals and laughter that can be heard over the blaring music) to the right and the bar (thank god!) to the left.
‘Ahoy there, me hearty!’
I’m greeted by a woman wearing a ruffled white shirt underneath a black corset tied with red laces and a black-and-red striped skirt. Long black boots and a bandana complete the pirate look.
‘Table for one, lass?’ She grabs a menu from the treasure chest on the desk in front of her.
‘I’m meeting someone. I don’t think he’s here yet.’ I point to the bar. ‘I’m going to get a drink while I wait, if that’s okay?’
She slots the menu back into the treasure chest. ‘Aye, bucko. Ye just let me know when ye is ready to weigh anchor and set sail, me hearty.’
Dear lord. I’m going to need to down a bottleful of rum to get through this.
The stools at the bar are rustic, the wood bare and scuffed, and I choose the least warped-looking one before ordering my drink from the pirate bar staff.
She gives me the pirate spiel as we converse, but much less enthusiastically than in my previous encounter.
I message Morgan to let him know I’m at the bar while I’m waiting for my drink.
Not rum. Can’t stand the stuff. I’ve opted for a ‘Long John Silver’, which is a cheekily rebranded mojito.
I’m in the Treasure Chest! Be there in a sec xx
‘Thank you.’ I smile as my cocktail is placed in front of me and slip my phone back into my bag. ‘What’s the Treasure Chest?’
‘It’s the arcade.’ The barmaid points to the back left-hand corner of the restaurant.
She has a kill-me look on her face and while she’s wearing an eyepatch, it’s pushed up into her hair.
I think I’ve found someone who wants to be here even less than me.
One corner of her lips lifts as I down three-quarters of my mojito in one long gulp.
‘Birthday party?’
I shake my head, my eyes firmly on my drink as I place it down carefully on the bar. ‘A date.’
‘Noooo.’
I sneak a peek up at the barmaid. Her eyes are almost bulging out of her face, and her jaw has dropped so much it’s in danger of clanging on the beer pump.
I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But… why?’
I shrug. ‘I have no idea. My flatmate says I should have backed out when he suggested it.’
The barmaid nods slowly. ‘I’m in full agreement with your flatmate.
I know I’m supposed to big this place up but…
’ She shakes her head, seemingly unable to find the words.
But then she doesn’t have to as a piercing shriek fills the air, explaining her misgivings and more.
The shrieking continues from the soft play area, increasing in pitch, and I’m seriously considering dipping out when I spot Morgan marching towards the bar with the biggest grin on his face.
‘Chrissie!’ He hops up onto the neighbouring stool and drops a handful of plastic tat on the bar in front of me. ‘I won these on the coin pusher machine, but you can keep them.’
‘Oh.’ I separate the mass of plastic; there’s a yellow smiley-face keyring, a blue monster pencil-topper and a mini rainbow slinky. ‘Thanks.’ I catch the look of bemusement on the barmaid’s face and snatch my gaze away.
‘I kept the Maoam for myself.’ He opens his hand to reveal a small wrapped sweet bar on his palm. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No.’ I push a smile onto my face. ‘That’s okay.’
‘Great!’ Morgan pushes the sweet into his jacket pocket. ‘Shall we see if the table’s ready?’
‘Yeah, let’s do that.’ I snatch up my glass and drain it before slipping off the stool. Morgan points at the plastic goodies on the bar.
‘Don’t forget your prizes.’
I do not look anywhere near the barmaid as I pick them up and shove them in my bag.
‘So, um, what made you pick this place?’
We’ve been seated on chairs shaped like barrels by the corseted pirate at a table a safe-ish distance away from the soft play area.
I can still hear the chirp of play and the occasional squeal but it’s not as thunderous this far away.
Unfortunately, we’re much closer to the Treasure Chest, with its chunking coin drops and its bubbly, repetitive blips from the machines and the distracting flashing lights, but on balance, I think we’re in the best place we possibly could be (though that’s like finding a slightly less hot place in Hell and feeling content).
‘I’m called Morgan?’ He tilts his head to one side as he answers my (perfectly reasonable) question, his eyebrows pulled down low.
His eyes widen when I don’t twig what he’s trying to convey.
‘Morgan! Captain Morgan. Rum! With the pirate on the label.’ He shakes his head and titters. ‘Gosh, Chrissie.’
‘It’s Christina.’
Morgan shrugs. ‘I like Chrissie. I also like pizza, so…’ He waggles his menu before dropping his gaze to study it. ‘Do I want the Privateer’s Pepperoni or the Mutinous Margherita?’ He taps his chin while he mulls over his choice. ‘What are you having?’
I study my menu. As well as the ‘Pizzas of Eight’ section, there’s a ‘Landlubber’s Lasagne’, a ‘Scallywag’s Spag Bol’ and a selection of ‘Sea Dog Salads’.
‘I’ll go for the chicken and sweetcorn pizza.’
Morgan frowns and consults his menu. ‘Ah, you mean the Shanty Chicken.’ He leans towards me, his face alight. ‘Do you know that when they bring it to you, they actually sing you a sea shanty?’
‘Oh. Then I’ll have the Americano instead.’
Morgan’s lips twitch. ‘Do you mean the…’ He giggles. ‘Americaaaaaarrrrgggghhhhno?’ He adopts a gruff voice for the ‘aaarrrrgggghhhh’ bit and if there was a plank leading to shark-infested waters here, I would happily walk it.
He can’t be The One. The universe couldn’t be that cruel. But I did have a meet-cute with him after my wish, so I have to give him a chance. Don’t I?
‘Ahoy, mateys.’ A waiter stops by our table, dressed in thigh-high boots over red-and-black striped pants and a belted tunic.
He has a painted-on moustache and goatee and a Captain Hook-style hat.
I check for signs of distress: Morse code blinks, tears in his eyes, that kind of thing. ‘Are ye ready to order?’
‘We aaarrrrgggghhhh!’ Morgan makes a sweeping-punch movement with his fist, his face lit up with glee. ‘Can we get the Privateer’s Pepperoni and the Americaaaaaarrrrgggghhhhno, please?’
‘Any grog for ye both?’
I order a large glass of wine and when the waiter catches my eye, I know he gets it. He would probably appreciate one too.
‘And for the lad?’
Morgan rubs his hands together. ‘I’ll have a Swashbuckling Strawberry Milkshake.’
No, I think as the waiter strides away with an ‘aye, aye!’, Morgan is definitely, a million per cent, not The One.