Chapter Six London Thursday 20 August 1998 #2
‘Really? Well, actually, I’m sure there’s a lot of us about. In life’s strange corners. Did you grow up addicted to books?’
‘Yes. I got it from my godmother, Gillian. Her house was full of books. And the library, of course.’ Charlie had taken her every Saturday morning, loitering in the doorway, smoking a cigarette while she made her weekly selection of six.
‘Great,’ said Leo. ‘I locked myself in the bathroom for hours, fleeing the tyranny of my childhood with other people’s stories.’
‘You’re kidding?’ He was talking like somebody in a book.
‘Yes,’ he replied, but she wasn’t sure. He smiled at her. She was obsessed by his mouth, actually. She didn’t think she’d ever been obsessed by a mouth before. Its shape, the frankness with which it curled into a smile, starting with a comma at one corner.
‘Well, you never know,’ she said, ‘we both might end up writing books. What genre would you do?’ She saw David turn from the bar, a mojito in his hand, clock her and Leo, and swiftly turn back again.
‘Crime,’ he said.
‘I would write romance, I reckon.’ Something about the love stories she’d read made her feel she could write her own.
He nodded. ‘Then we could get married and have an office each, at opposite ends of the house.’
‘You want to marry me? That was quick.’
He shrugged. Grinned at her. ‘We could be the perfect match. We could both be exactly what the other never knew they needed.’ It was her turn to grin. Ridiculous. She took another huge sip of his cocktail. ‘What’s your favourite Phil Collins song?’ he asked her.
‘Who?’
‘Phil Collins, you must know who that is!’
‘Someone that only deeply uncool people like . . . ?’
She wondered if she had spoken a little too far out of turn, but Leo laughed. ‘My dad got me into him. He plays him in the kitchen of his restaurant. I love a bit of Phil Collins.’
‘I like Britpop.’
‘A rocker?’
‘Occasionally,’ Olivia quipped, facetious. Leo laughed. ‘Your dad owns a restaurant?’ she continued. ‘Is he a chef?’ Leo pulled up one of his sleeves and she noticed he had a freckle on the inside of his left wrist.
He nodded. ‘Quite a famous one, actually.’
‘Anyone I might know?’
‘Yeah, probably. Isaac Feu.’
‘Isaac Feu! You’re joking?’
‘Feu’s not his real name, of course . . . Feu, fire, much more dramatic for a chef, don’t you think?’
‘Well, definitely. Confit, that’s his restaurant, isn’t it?’ Leo nodded. ‘So, you have a famous parent. Your mother’s not famous, too, is she?’ Olivia asked.
‘No.’ Leo shook his head. ‘She’s very much the wind beneath his wings. The silent partner. I can’t see you being that . . .’ he added.
‘Being what?’
‘Being underneath anyone’s wings. What does your father do?’
‘My dad?’ Here she had a choice. Sometimes she played up her working-class roots, sometimes she didn’t; she fudged them into something else.
Little white lies. It depended on her audience.
With Leo, she risked being honest. ‘He’s a carpenter.
Fits out pubs and bars.’ She realised she had announced it as a kind of challenge.
‘Oh, fantastic,’ he said. ‘A man who is good with his hands should always be celebrated. I’m good with my hands, you know.’ He gave her a cheeky wink.
It was Olivia’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Corny as hell.’
‘So, I’m deeply uncool and I’m corny. I feel I’m on to a total winner tonight . . .’
Twenty-five minutes later, they were pressed into a hot corner of the pub, kissing and kissing and kissing. Her hand was in his hair; his was gently cupping the side of her face. Her work blouse had come a little untucked. His denim shirt was crumpled.
‘You have to marry me now,’ she joked, when they finally stopped.
‘Absolutely,’ he replied, his handsome face flushed.
‘Just tell me when and where. Except . . .’ He hesitated.
‘Well, I kinda have a girlfriend,’ he said, looking sheepish.
‘I mean, she’s only a new one, only about a week.
I can get out of it . . .’ His face reflected that he had caught the look on hers. ‘Oh, God. I’ve blown it, haven’t I?’
Olivia pressed her lips together, still tasting him. ‘Are you a player, Leo?’ she asked, her eyes narrowed.
‘Yeah. Might be. A little bit. Sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m young, what can I say?’
‘No need,’ she continued lightly, ‘for any angst. I’m really not looking for anything right now,’ she fibbed. ‘Nothing serious, at least. Better to be upfront. If you have a girlfriend, you have a girlfriend.’
She was trying to quell the rise and fall of her chest. She was looking into those dazzling hazel eyes and trying not to show her disappointment. Wishing his lips were on hers again.
‘So, what do we do now?’ he asked. He attempted to put his hands in his pockets but missed one of them.
‘I think we can leave it there,’ she said. ‘You’ve been straight with me, which I appreciate. You’re a good kisser,’ she added, ‘but I guess that’s it. I guess this is goodbye, Leo.’
Damn, she thought. The chemistry and the banter had been on fire. She turned from the hot corner, shifted her little backpack higher up her back, and started walking away.
‘What if I never see you again?’ Leo called after her. She looked back and he was both satisfyingly incredulous, and incredibly gorgeous. ‘What if I never bump into you?’
‘If we do, we do,’ she called back. ‘If we don’t, we don’t!’
‘But it’s such a big city!’ he called out, already just a beautiful face in the crowd. ‘What would be the chances?’
‘Slim to none!’ she called over her shoulder – grinning to herself and cursing inside that he’d been so delicious, but so very, very wrong for her – and she was gone.