Chapter 9
FREYA
I’m genuinely very pleased for Lizzie about how she and Dan seem to be hitting it off so well. He seems like a nice guy. She’s an incurable romantic and she needs a bit of good luck on the dating front, and this could be it.
So I am pleased, I really am.
But now? This Tuesday evening? In Sevenoaks? With Jake’s very close friend?
Selfishly, I’d have loved this date to have been a lot closer to home and a lot shorter, and – the big thing – not involve Jake.
But it is what it is, and it is lovely that Lizzie seems to be having such a good time.
She and Dan have been talking to each other, eyes locked, apparently oblivious to anyone and anything except each other, for a good half hour.
Jake and I, by contrast, have not addressed a single word to each other for a long time, at least five solid minutes, I think. We’ve each glanced in the other’s direction a couple of times, but that’s it.
Lizzie and Dan probably won’t have noticed the stony silence from our half of the table given how they’re gazing into each other’s eyes and physically mirroring each other’s head tilts and hand gestures and generally looking besotted with each other, but in case they do, I feel as though Jake and I should make some small talk.
This could be a memorable evening for Lizzie and Dan, in a good way, and we don’t want to introduce any negativity to it.
So I address Jake. ‘Great vegetables.’
‘Vegetables?’
‘The broccoli and carrots. They’re very nicely done.’
He raises his eyebrows superciliously and then says, ‘Yes, they are.’
‘I’m enjoying eating them,’ I persist.
‘I’m so pleased to hear that.’
I draw a deep breath and remember that I am doing this for Lizzie, my very good friend.
‘Are you enjoying yours?’ I ask.
‘My vegetables?’ Jake tilts his head to one side for a moment as though considering, and then says, ‘Yes.’
I want to kill him. Why can’t he contribute at all to the conversation? For the sake of Lizzie and his close friend Dan?
‘Great,’ I say. ‘How’s your steak?’
‘Not bad.’ He looks at me for a long moment while I glare at him, and his lips twitch the tiniest of amounts, which makes me glare even more. ‘How’s your sea bream?’
‘It’s very nice, thank you. Cooked just the perfect amount and I like the sauce.’
‘Excellent. That is great information.’ He forks a piece of steak and puts it into his stupidly well-shaped mouth and begins to chew.
I’m really irritated by his chewing. I’m just sitting here watching him, and normally when you watch someone chew they do actually look quite weird and they also usually get quite self-conscious.
Not Jake, however. Firstly, he doesn’t look at all weird.
Secondly, he seems completely fine with me watching him eat.
He chews for a while, and I have to admit that it’s a good length of time, not too long and not too short, and then he swallows.
‘Before you ask—’ he cuts another piece and puts it on his fork, together with some broccoli ‘—that was a very nice mouthful.’
‘Great.’ I spear some of my fish on my fork and put it into my mouth, and, oh bugger. That was a mistake. I have just given Jake the opportunity to stare openly at me while I eat. And, unlike him, I do not have the ability, it seems, to chew nonchalantly away while someone watches me.
He puts his cutlery down, leans back, folds his arms across his chest and continues to watch me.
I chew a few times while he carries on watching.
I do not like this. I do not like it at all.
I’ve chewed enough. I’m sure I can swallow now and end this being-watched-while-I-chew misery.
I swallow, and, gaaah, I hadn’t chewed enough. I can’t… I’m choking… I…
To give Jake his due, it does seem that he doesn’t actually want me to die, or not right now anyway.
Probably because of the hassle of getting my body home from Sevenoaks.
Also, maybe he’d get done for manslaughter for staring me into choking.
He stands up and takes one big step round the table and gives me a massive slap on the back, and the fish flies out of my mouth and lands exactly halfway between our plates.
While Jake sits back down, I stare at the half-chewed fish mouthful for quite a while, wondering if this day could get any worse. Then I recall that I do not like Jake and should not care what he thinks.
‘Thank you.’ I take my napkin from my lap and pick up the fish and fold it all up and put it under the side of my plate.
‘My pleasure.’ Jake’s lips are twitching again.
Astonishingly, Dan and Lizzie have not looked even once in our direction.
Jake moves his chair towards the table and then leans in towards me and speaks softly, so that – if they did suddenly notice that we still exist and are still right next to them at the same table – Dan and Lizzie would not hear.
‘Did I just beat you at your own game?’ Jake enquires.
I close my eyes and summon up every single ounce of self-control I have and give a tinkly little laugh.
‘Ha.’ I don’t say anything else, because I would like to be very cool or very cutting, but words have failed me, possibly because there is literally nothing cool or cutting I could say at this point.
Jake laughs out loud and I tap my foot under the table in irritation.
I’ve got a dilemma now. I want to eat the rest of my fish, because it’s delicious and I’m still hungry. But I don’t want to be stared at while I eat.
It’s very, very annoying when you’re in a tricky situation and you have only yourself to blame. Although I do also have Jake to blame, because if he hadn’t irritated me so much I wouldn’t have started this.
He leans in again. And says nothing.
‘Yes?’ I say after a few moments, a little tetchily if I’m honest.
‘Shall we…’
‘Yes?’
‘Both eat without staring at the other?’
‘Fine,’ I say.
And we do, without speaking at all.
We finish at about the same time – I think we’ve both been keeping pace with the other kind of on purpose, with sneaky glances across the table – and we then look at each other.
‘I hope you enjoyed the rest of your steak,’ I say, very, very politely.
‘I did, thank you. I hope you enjoyed the rest of your fish.’ Jake’s demeanour is also that of great politeness.
‘I did, thank you.’
‘I’m so pleased that you didn’t choke again.’
‘Thank you.’ I do want to kill him.
Dan and Lizzie have also finished. So we should be able to go home soon, thank goodness, and put an end to this torture.
‘Desserts?’ the waiter asks.
Jake and I both shake our heads and begin to speak, just as Dan says, ‘That would be wonderful. Or coffees, at least?’
Yay.
I order a fresh mint tea. Jake orders an espresso.
And Dan and Lizzie order an apple tarte tatin to share, and when the waiter tells them that it will take an extra fifteen minutes to make, they smile and say that that is not a problem at all.
And yay again.
After a couple of minutes of further silence, I feel guilty again in case our blatant not-getting-along might make Dan and Lizzie feel awkward, and say, ‘I’m glad they have fresh mint here. Some restaurants only have peppermint tea bags. Which I do like, but I prefer fresh.’
‘That is… fascinating,’ Jake says.
I swivel my eyes towards Dan and Lizzie and mouth, ‘Don’t want to be obviously silent and miserable.’
‘Oh, right,’ Jake replies.
‘Did you assume that I had an incorrigible desire to talk about food and drink with you?’ I ask.
‘Nothing to do with me if your conversation runs entirely on fish and tea,’ he says.
I smile at him. ‘I have thoughts on coffee too.’
‘That’s wonderful to hear.’
I nod and then look at the other two and then back at Jake.
He looks at Lizzie and Dan, then raises his eyes ceilingward and says, ‘I do like espressos.’
We maintain a stilted beverage conversation until our own beverages arrive, and then we both sip slowly until I’ve finished my tea. Obviously an espresso is small and vanishes quite fast but I have a whole teapot so I drink two and a half cups, as slowly as I can.
By the time I’ve finally finished, Lizzie and Dan’s tarte tatin has arrived, so it feels as though the end is in sight.
‘Guessing you might have observations on apple-based desserts?’ Jake asks me.
‘Many,’ I confirm, smiling to indicate to Lizzie and Dan – should they spare the odd second or two to look away from each other in our direction – that Jake and I are getting on very well.
Jake raises his eyebrows, and off I go. Tarts, crumbles, strudels.
Jake nods and smiles, clearly having reluctantly bought into the idea of not making the others uncomfortable.
Occasionally he makes an apple-based comment himself, but basically he leaves the heavy conversational lifting to me, which I do not appreciate, because I’m getting a very dry throat, and I have no more mint tea and – as I’m slightly losing the will to live – I can’t really be bothered to try to attract the waiter’s attention to ask for more tap water.
Eventually, thank goodness, Lizzie and Dan finish their bloody pudding.
‘Wow, it’s a lot later than I thought,’ Lizzie says, staring at her watch.
Dan’s phone is lying right next to him on the table, but he leans over to check Lizzie’s watch rather than just turning the phone over. Cute.
‘What time’s the last train?’ asks Jake, clearly pretty much as desperate as I am to get home and wanting to nudge them in the direction of thinking strongly about leaving rather than, for example, spending an eternity cutely drinking coffees together.