Chapter 18 #2
The wind hits me as I climb out and it takes a lot of effort to shut the car door.
‘Shit,’ Cian complains as we make our way towards the strip lighting of the Seahorse Fish Bar, our lone beacon of hope as the skies begin to spit. ‘Why is it so chilly here?’
Unfortunately, there’s no indoor seating, so we sit on a bench under the bird-poop-covered canopy outside.
‘I can’t believe you got me to bunk off work,’ he says. ‘Such a bad influence.’
‘I’m sure you were warned. How are your chips?’
‘Al dente.’
My jersey dress and denim jacket felt warm in London, though here I feel my skin goose-bumping over. A shiver runs through me, as the drizzle flirts with the idea of becoming rain, and I pull my hair over my shoulders and flip my collar up.
‘You’re cold?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie.
‘Why are we sitting outside? Couldn’t we have found a Nando’s?’
‘It’s the seaside, Cian. This is tradition.’
He twists a sachet of tartar sauce between his teeth, then moves up, putting his side against mine. Is this good or bad? I don’t know, but the body heat is great.
‘I can feel you shivering,’ he says. ‘Do you want my jumper?’
So I can spend the afternoon smelling him all over me? ‘No, thank you.’
‘Good, cause I’m also freezing.’
As his arm rests against my own, I rejig the boundaries in my head. We’re not that type of friends, but this type of friends, the type who sit close enough for bodies to touch.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ he says, oblivious to my turmoil, ‘it’s very bleak. This is why I hate leaving the city.’
‘I thought you liked exploring new places.’
He grows serious as two young men with dogs on thick chain leads walk past us. ‘When I said I want to travel, I meant travel from my city to another city. I like civilisation, not this shut-down-coal-mining-town vibe.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you whine this much.’ I try to pull my jacket down to block the draught and end up swishing around, knocking myself closer to him. ‘Sorry.’ His expression is questioning and when I slide further away, he seems almost hurt.
Why have I done this? I should have spent the afternoon alternating between editing videos of our mascots dancing for TikTok and screaming into my pillow. I gather the rubbish and walk over to the bin. ‘The rain’s stopped.’
‘Great. Let’s go and make a sandcastle.’ He pushes himself to standing and there’s a split second where he lifts an arm as if to take me in, then thinks better of it and puts his hood up instead. ‘Zoe, you look really cold.’
‘This wasn’t a good idea.’ I hope he can’t hear the disappointment in my voice or see the misery on my face. ‘Should we maybe go back home?’
‘Home? No. We just got here.’ He puts one arm lightly over my shoulder, friendly, platonic, meaningless. ‘Let’s find a pub. You need to warm up.’ I try to step away, but he pulls me towards him and puts his other arm around me.
I shouldn’t be letting him hug me like this and he should know not to hug me like this, because there’s no way he doesn’t know how I feel about him.
‘Why did you bring us here?’ he whispers.
I have no idea.
‘Was it so we could go and get addicted to heroin together?’
My laugh causes me to fall further against him.
‘Or you keep on with that laugh and we’ll probably end up getting stabbed.’ He squeezes me then let’s go. ‘Pub?’
Away from the sea and onto the high street, it’s slightly less bone-chilling.
We spend ages in a charity shop where Cian riffles around in baskets of old action figures and I search in a box that boasts All designer bags ￡3; the designers are SHEIN and Boohoo.
Cian finds an easy-use can opener, which he buys for Brendan, then spends ages listening to the woman at the till talk about her arthritis.
I walk on ahead and stop in front of a twee café called Rum Baba’s Rules. The window is filled with cake: fancy frilly things, big wedges of wholesome iced things, and there, tucked at the back on a tiered glass stand, is three quarters of a pineapple upside-down cake.
When Cian finally catches up, he winces and stares down at his leg. ‘My knee hurts, I think it’s the cold.’
I hold my hand out to take the bag from his wrist. ‘Do you want afternoon tea?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
He shifts his weight from one foot to another. ‘Because I’m not celebrating my eightieth birthday.’
‘Have you ever had afternoon tea before?’
‘I’m a man,’ he answers plainly, while putting his face to the window. ‘It does look good, though. The cakes, not the place. The place looks awful. What is the theme meant to be? The monarchy? And you don’t drink tea.’
I begin to walk away, and he grabs my hand. ‘Stop walking off.’ He keeps holds of it as we go inside, and just like that, we’ve crossed over into something else, this isn’t just friends.
A lady in very red lipstick and a brown vintage tea dress greets us. ‘Afternoon, do you have a booking?’
‘No booking,’ Cian says, as he lets go of my hand. ‘Are you full?’
She runs a nail, also red, along the page of an open jotter. There are a few people inside, though most of the chintzy tables are empty. ‘Happy?’ Cian asks me.
With what? With us talking again? With the hugging and hand-holding?
‘I can fit you in the private chamber,’ the lady says.
‘Private chamber?’ Cian mumbles as we follow her upstairs to a small room with three empty tables. ‘Sounds like we’re about to get ripped off.’
We sit in the bay window which overlooks the sea and sky, the entire view gradients of grim grey.
There’s a slight draught and rattle from the glass, and a strong smell of vanilla, bergamot and old-fashioned furniture polish.
It’s an odd place, bunting and flags are draped from every square foot of ceiling and the walls are covered with images of former prime ministers, Monty Python actors and monarchs.
There’s also plunky forties music playing from a smart speaker partially hidden behind a boxy wooden antique radio.
‘What’s with these prices?’ Cian whisper-shouts, as he reads the menu. ‘Do you think she’s given us the Londoner menus? We must look like we have money.’
This feels too intimate, sitting in an empty room across from him like this, our legs almost touching. I grab the single pink rose from the centre of the table and dump it on the window ledge.
‘From London, are you?’ a waitress asks.
‘That obvious?’ Cian beams.
‘Very nice. Romantic break by the sea,’ she says.
Yes, way too intimate.
‘Though you wouldn’t get me on the seafront in this weather, not for all the tea in China,’ she cackles.
‘I’ll have the pineapple upside-down cake and a Coke please, and he’ll have—’
‘They have Manhattans,’ Cian says, still glued to the menu. ‘For men. No, I’ll have the bottomless Prosecco.’
‘Bottomless? It’s a Monday afternoon.’
‘Now who’s the judgemental one?’ he retorts, before thanking the waitress and handing back the menus.
Once alone we look across at each other, smile, and look away.
‘All the tea in China,’ he repeats. ‘What a strange micro-aggression. And I can’t believe they themed a café on the British Empire.’
‘The theme is quite clearly the Commonwealth.’
‘Also problematic. So many flags, it’s like being at work.’
Work is such an easy, safe topic and we talk about it, well mostly moan about it, through most of our tea.
We also cover the weather, a series we’ve both been watching and can’t guess where it’s going, and his renewed recovery schedule.
My cake is disappointing, the sponge cloying and pineapple too sweet.
Cian stretches his leg out straight and I sit to one side to make way.
The waitress clears the table and places the bill down. ‘I’m sure you two are desperate to be getting back to your room now?’ She guffaws as she goes to get the card machine.
‘That was a bit suggestive,’ he says. ‘She thinks we’re here for a dirty weekend.’
‘Well, that was actually the next part of my surprise.’
He laughs, then stops cold. ‘Zoe,’ he scolds. ‘Maybe you should cut that out.’
‘I apologise,’ I say, embarrassed at how little control I possess over what comes out of my mouth. ‘I’ll never flirt with you again. I promise.’
‘It’s not the flirting.’ There’s a beat where he stares at me, and I wait for him to explain, to outline all the reasons he thinks we should remain nothing more than friends. ‘Just know if I didn’t love being with you so much, I’d have you fired.’
That’s what I said to Nicole. I love being with him. And I almost say it now, but he’s getting ready to leave. ‘Let’s go before the local joyriders steal your executive car.’
Cian falters as he stands, and I take both of his hands to help.
When he comes to full height, he’s close enough I can smell the alcohol on his breath and the slight camphor on his clothes.
I swear he tightens his grip on me, and I want more than anything to kiss him right now, to kiss him and for it not to destroy what we have.
‘Thank you for getting me out today,’ he says.
‘You’re welcome. It’s been—’
‘Cold?’ he suggests.
This is clearly more than friendship, yet I can’t keep putting myself out there for him; he needs to meet me somewhere.
‘Should we get going?’ I ask, hoping it’ll prompt him to make a move, any kind of move. He smiles at the ground and releases my hands.
On the drive back he complains of a Prosecco-induced headache yet is in high spirits, rapping and singing along to every song. I pull in at the M&S Simply Food petrol station near home, my debit card ready to take a hit on a full tank of petrol and expensive snack food ahead of Eric’s return.
‘Can you get me a caramel protein bar?’ Cian asks as I fill the tank.
‘Only if you promise to never rap again.’
‘I thought you were enjoying it?’ He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car. ‘My leg’s cramping. Need to stretch.’
‘I’ll be quick.’