Chapter 4
Olive Affair was quieter than normal for a Saturday afternoon. Clearly all the usual drinkers were still nursing hangovers from all the booze they’d imbibed over the festive season. Or else their bank accounts, rather like their heads, were feeling a little worse for wear.
It had been a couple of weeks since I had last been here. Then it had been under much happier circumstances ? meeting up with my girlfriends for good conversation and even better cocktails, and countless yummy little tapas dishes to help soak up the liquor.
Seb and I had found ourselves in one of the more comfortable booths, and I was now onto my third dirty martini, drinking fast and nibbling slow on a briny olive, like a despondent dormouse.
Seb studied me for a few seconds before reaching over the table and grabbing the hardbacked menu, which was about as thick as an encyclopaedia.
“You’re so quiet, Lila. Honestly, I would get more conversation out of a mime artist with laryngitis.”
He began to flick through the pages.
“You really need a sandwich or something to eat, to mitigate all that vodka you’re so intent on guzzling.”
I shook my head gloomily at him.
“No thank you, this olive is about all I can stomach for lunch. I’m far too upset to eat.”
“But not to drink, I see?”
His bushy eyebrows were raised disapprovingly. The man clearly had never owned a pair of tweezers.
“It’s not all tapas here, you know. They also run to a nice line in home-made pies, proper shortcrust ones with a top and a bottom, not just a stew with a flaky pastry hat perched on top.”
He clearly took the matter of pastry very seriously.
Pies? Did the man not know me at all? I haven’t eaten a pie since secondary school, when my grandmother forced a Fray Bentos minced beef and onion down me with a mountain of lumpy mash. OK, I did like the occasional quiche or tart, but stodgy pies were not really my thing at all. They were the least sexy of any foodstuffs. I could feel my thighs dimpling at the thought of all that lard and saturated fat.
He shut the menu with a firm snap.
“On second thoughts, I’m going to have a chip butty, real nostalgic comfort food; takes me right back to my old mum singing along to the radio while the chip pan bubbled away back in 1980.”
I could see his eyes misting over as he recalled this happy family memory. It all sounded a bit too Coronation Street for me.
“A chip butty?”
I shuddered physically.
“And you wonder why your abs are more breadboard than washboard.”
Seb grinned at me, not at all wounded by my words. He considered this to be my shtick; my signature way of communicating; to poke fun at him, engage in good-hearted banter.
He had once referred to my teasing him as “Lila’s love language”. I had quickly shut that down. I was incredibly fond of Seb, but that was as far as it went. In truth, I thought he was just a little too nice for me.
As my mother Veronica would put it, he was one of those “steady away fellows”, perfectly nice and all, but never going to set the world on fire. I had to admit she was right on that score. Seb waxing lyrical about the merits of fried potatoes and white sliced bread was never going to tempt me to lose my lingerie any time soon. Oysters and champagne are a guaranteed knicker dropper, but thick sliced bloomer and ketchup certainly are not.
Seb gestured to a passing waiter to get his attention.
“Well, I’m bloody starving. I could eat the arse end of a skunk unshaven. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want anything?”
I drained the remnants of my martini in one gulp. The alcohol was taking the edge off my gloomy mood, and I felt a little warm and fuzzy around the edges. Not the worst feeling in the world, and certainly a lot better than how I had felt an hour ago.
I pointed at my now empty glass. It clearly needed replenishing.
“Just more lady fuel for me, please.”
Seb ordered me another martini, his chip butty and a garlic and rosemary flat bread. Just in case I saw sense and relented, realising I needed something in my system other than a solitary stuffed olive to mop up all the vodka currently coursing through my veins.
I was still mortified by what had happened at the fashion show. At least Lottie had since been in touch. I was worried that she was going to be furious with me, but she had actually laughed, already able to see the funny side of things.
And like she had said, there really was no such thing as bad publicity. I wished I could feel the same, but I really didn’t imagine Mr Fluck was going to be of the same opinion when the piece written about the firm finally hit the press.
Lottie had been in high spirits for another reason too. She was excited about her “friend” Leo being back from Canada for a visit. I knew it was only a matter of time before the two of them started dating again. I just had a feeling in my gut that Leo would be moving back permanently to the UK sometime soon.
Their relationship had been doomed to fail before, as Lottie had been too recently out of her toxic marriage with her ex, the Dastardliest Daniel. But now things were different; she was in a much better, happier place.
I was convinced that second time around would be the charm for them. My lovely friend was well and truly healed from the emotional wounds inflicted on her through her many years of marriage. Lottie Potts was now her most fabulous self again, and I was truly happy for her.
She had excitedly invited me and Seb to accompany them both for dinner in a couple of days’ time. She felt that if we went out as a foursome, it wouldn’t seem like such a date for her and Leo. Just a little less awkward. She was still unsure as to where they stood relationship-wise: hopeful for a happy ever after for them both, but not wanting to take anything for granted.
Lottie felt it would be less intense if there was another couple along with them, who were also not an official couple. So that’s where Seb and I came into the equation: we were often out on the town together, but most definitely never on a romantic rendezvous.
Of course, that’s not to say that Seb didn’t want more. He had even come out and told me as much on several occasions. But for me we were strictly good friends. I knew he held a candle for me, one that didn’t seem to be fizzling out any time soon. And in return, I was very fond of him. He was good-looking in a lovable, loyal family pet sort of way. And if you could get past his dubious dress sense, he cut quite an elegant figure.
I had occasionally toyed with the idea of us dating, just to see if we would make a good match; but I had always hastily discarded the notion as foolish. To use the most elegant of terms, I didn’t want to shit where I ate. I worked with Seb, and we were such good friends as well as colleagues. Was it really worth jeopardising all of that?
The waiter returned with our food. Seb was practically salivating as the chip butty was placed down in front of him. He grabbed a couple of the little packets of vinegar and ripped them open eagerly with his teeth before dumping the pungent-smelling liquid all over his beige food. He picked up his bap and began bolting it down like he hadn’t seen solid food in weeks.
A strange feeling came over me briefly, and I crossed my legs awkwardly in my seat. Seeing the way he was devouring his food with such enthusiasm, I wondered for a fleeting moment what he would really be like in the bedroom. Would he tear my lingerie off with his teeth with such wild eagerness? I felt my cheeks flame. What the hell was I thinking? I was the one who was always saying to all and sundry that Seb and I would never be more than friends; and then that image had popped unsolicited into my head.
I pushed away my now empty martini glass. Definitely no more booze for me, thank you very much. That was the trouble with me: one too many alcoholic drinks, and my morals would loosen as quickly as my Spanx would.
I gave my head a little wobble to try and sober myself up. Maybe Seb was right: I needed something to soak up all the vodka. The rosemary bread did look exceedingly delicious, and the tantalising smell was making my mouth water. I picked up the smallest end slice. I would have this little sliver just to be sociable.
Five minutes later and the plate was empty. The bread appeared to have mysteriously vanished. I quickly glanced around the bar, expecting to see David Copperfield sinking a pint of lager and scoffing a packet of salt and vinegar crisps somewhere. Surely, I hadn’t eaten it all myself? But it appeared that I had literally sucked down the entire 12 inches, if you pardon the pun.
“I knew you must be hungry.”
Seb smirked at me as he blew on a rogue chip that had fallen out of his butty.
“I’ve clearly had a little bit of a ‘snaccident’.”
I informed him huffily.
“I blame the booze. I don’t even remember eating it all.”
I reached over and helped myself to the last chip from of his plate, ignoring his protestations.
“So just the four of us on Tuesday then?”
He drained the last of his lemonade in one gulp.
“You, me, Lottie and this fella Leo?”
I nodded at him fiddling with the stem of my martini glass. The little devil on my shoulder was whispering in my ear to have another.
“Yeah, I reckon they’re made for each other; they just need to figure it out for themselves in their own good time. Lottie has been so burned by her ex, Daniel, that she’s scared to trust her heart; but I’ve got a good feeling about the two of them.”
Seb nodded and gave me a rather tender smile.
“I think Lottie has always thought the same about us two.”
I shut him down instantly with my most withering glare.
“Absolutely not.”
Seb smiled slightly to himself and held up his hands in a mock gesture of defeat.
“Well, you can’t blame a chap for trying.”
I returned his smile, taking in his twinkling blue eyes and kind face. I didn’t want to be too sharp with him; I just didn’t want to travel down that particular road either. It was full of potholes and banana skins to slip you up and make you fall flat on your arse.
Relationships just never seemed to work out very well for me in the long term. And after my mind wandering off course a few minutes previously and me nearly imagining us getting down to our scanties and sexy time, I wanted to steer well away from that particular avenue.
So I deftly changed the subject, which I was well skilled at.
“I’m dreading seeing Fluck on Monday. He’s going to be in a foul mood with me, well even fouler than usual if that’s possible.”
Seb reached over and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. I appreciated the gesture, it felt kind and caring. I couldn’t help but notice how strong his hands were, his nails tidy and well groomed. I couldn’t imagine that he had ever had a manicure; maybe he was just genetically blessed with handsome hands. Some men really aren’t; they have mitts like those little sporks you get in fish and chip vans at the seaside.
I dropped his hand as I realised he had been holding mine for a little too long for my liking, and I was beginning to feel somewhat awkward. I rummaged around in my handbag to give my hands something better to do.
I should probably check my make-up, touch up my lippy and give myself the faintest wee sweep of powder and a bit of a freshen-up. I grabbed my compact and gave my reflection a quick once-over. It was fair to say that I was not looking my best. I appeared to have fragments of flatbread stuck to what little was left of my new scarlet lipstick. The woman at the beauty counter had promised it was “invincible” and would last a minimum of twelve hours guaranteed, irrespective of how much you drank, ate or snogged in it. Clearly all lies, as it had barely survived a slice of bread and a few sips of cocktails before disintegrating.
I noticed with horror that one of the crumbs was right at the edge of my lip line, horrifyingly resembling a witchy-like wart. That would simply not do. I was just extracting the bready blemish when a high breathy voice that sounded like it wouldn’t be out of place as a sex line operator rang out across the bar.
“Fancy seeing you two here.”