Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Sadie
“ H ow do I look, Gary?” I replace his water feeder against the bars and grin at him. It’s been so lovely having him around, chattering obscene nonsense at me. He’s such great company, such a presence in my flat. I hadn’t realised how insufferably quiet my home was, and I’m glad that’s no longer the case. I’ve been letting him fly all around my flat a few times a day to get him out of his cage and give him some exercise and freedom. I’m so relieved his wings weren’t clipped; it would have been a tragedy.
“Cock,” he says in his raspy little cry.
I giggle. How anyone could bear to let him go, I will never understand. He seems to like me well enough, and I’m hoping that once he’s more comfortable with me he might allow me to pet him. But just his head; apparently, if you pet a bird’s body, they can take it as a signal to mate, and then they’re sexually frustrated when nothing else happens and can act up like crazy. Thank god I did some internet research after I got him home, because Tracy didn’t mention that, or anything else much. “Not on the first date, babe, but thanks for the suggestion.” Impulsively adopting him was a great decision. Just goes to show you that sometimes our most out of left field snap decisions can end up giving us something genuinely wonderful…
Speaking of which, there’s a knock at my door. I find myself feeling…nervous. In an excited way. In a way that has me checking my reflection before I open the door to make sure my hair and make-up both still look as good as when they had been freshly done.
It’s strange, how everything has turned around between Leo and me so naturally, and so quickly. Our brief texting session was so hot, and yet it felt so right, so normal, like we’d never done anything but.
I might even have grabbed my vibrator after his last message and had at it, refusing to question my actions and just going with it.
It felt good .
I find myself really hoping Leo likes my blue denim dress. I’m almost certain he will. It’s a bit steampunk-ish, using worn denim, a vintage crochet belt cinching the waist, and a frayed handkerchief hem. I made it myself by upcycling and personalising some charity shop finds the last time I went thrifting with Emily. The neckline is pretty, gently sweetheart-ish and just the right amount of tight. I’m pleased with it, at least, and I remind myself sternly that that’s still all that really counts.
I’ve started making a real effort for Leo, which I guess should clue me in on where I’m at with this whole thing. Normally, I’ve taken the attitude I’ve always had: that my buddy Leo can take me as he finds me, even if I’m in sweats and no make-up, but he’s not just my buddy now. And I want him to see me looking my best, every time. I want to justify his feelings for me, live up to them and the way he sees me, more than anything else.
When I open the door, he’s standing there looking carelessly terrific. Dark suit, open collar white shirt… Edible. He’s holding a round ball with coloured rings poking out of it in one hand, and a soft, pale mauve Sterling rose in the other, without a single thorn on its stem. I remember what he said about me being a rose with a shit ton of thorns, and wonder what he’s trying to say with this one. His hair is loose and looks freshly washed, still curling at the ends the way it usually does, and all without him needing to lift a finger to make it that way. He is delicious, and the way he looks me up and down, eyes glittering, makes me keenly aware that he wants the hell out of me. His gaze is so intense and expressive that I can almost feel the sensation of him licking my skin.
“Hey,” I protest to break the moment, gesturing down at my dress, “I kept to my side of the bargain. Why aren’t you wearing green?”
He grins, suddenly back to my old, familiar Leo, and bops me on the nose with the rose before handing it to me. He shows off his watch, and, yup, dark green leather strap. “And you haven’t seen my boxers…” The unspoken word, yet , hangs in the air.
Oh, boy. Now I want to see them. Now I can’t stop picturing them… “Fair enough,” I laugh, pretending to be nonchalant. “Come in. What’s that?” I point at the ball thing.
“It’s for Gary.” He pulls out one of the rings, and something resembling a miniature dummy comes out. “I found it at the pet store on Jubilee Street. It’s meant to be enriching for the little tosser. I’ve put some seeds in a few of the holes to make it extra fun for him.”
I don’t think he could have done any better in the gift department. Imagine having that amount of kindness and imagination… “Aww, he’ll love that! Come and give it to him, I’m sure he’ll thank you.” I grin. “In his own way.”
“How’s it going with him?” he asks as we head down the hallway to my kitchen and lounge combo.
“He’s brilliant. I just love him to pieces. Even the swearing. Especially - “
“Especially the swearing,” he says in unison with me, and we grin. He knows me too well, which actually feels comforting at the moment. This is Leo . He’s the best. He’s always been the best. Everything is going to be OK tonight, I know it. I place the rose in a glass of water while he opens Gary’s cage. “Hey, fella,” he murmurs, “Uncle Leo has a present for you.”
“Fuck you,” Gary says, but he says it almost pleasantly.
“I think that’s Gary-ese for ‘thank you very much’,” I joke.
“Well, in that case, you’re very fucking welcome, you feathered crapbag,” Leo says through the bars as he closes the cage. Gary gets straight to work pulling the dummies out, and lets out a delightfully startled, “What the fuck?!”, as he finds the treats in one of the holes.
We both crack up. Leo stops laughing before I do, and when I look at him, the way he’s staring at me brings the full weight of his feelings for me home. It’s as though the sight of me laughing is everything he ever wanted out of life. He’s not hiding anything anymore. Despite the comfort of the earlier moment when we were laughing, this is sobering. I might want to, but how on earth am I supposed to live up to whatever he sees in me, to deserve that level of affection from someone as brilliant and kind and generous and…OK, hot as him? I’m generally a confident person, or I was, but this is a lot. I’m just…me. A lippy, stubborn hot mess with, apparently, the perceptiveness of a sleeping sloth. How did I get here, with someone like him?
Leo shakes his head at me, like he knows what I’m thinking, and cups my elbow. “Come on,” he says quietly, “I’ve got a posh restaurant waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry, we have a strict no jeans policy,” the waiter says, giving me a thoroughly disapproving once-over at the waiting point of Chagall. He looks all of eighteen, and his floppy hair looks to be higher maintenance than any skincare routine he might have, judging by the blackheads smothering his face.
I frown at him. “That’s nice. Why are you telling me that?” I feel Leo tense up next to me.
The lad blinks, clearly a bit startled that his snooty attitude hasn’t reduced me to stammering apologies. “I mean, your dress is - ”
“So you admit she’s wearing a dress, then, not a pair of jeans?” Leo cuts in, teaming up with me and giving him daggers.
Snooty McGee’s eyes harden. He knows he’s bested, but makes it clear he doesn’t have to like it. “Fine. Mills, reservation for two. This way.”
Leo looks like he wants to tear his head off, but I touch his arm and shake my head a little. I’ve got this.
We’re seated at a small square table up against the wall, a beautiful painting of red flowers hung perfectly straight between us.
“Would you like to order some drinks?” Snooty says. He sounds bored as holy hell, and I think that’s enough of his attitude right now.
“We would love to,” I agree, “but not from you. I’d like a different waiter.”
He blanches, having only just realised that he really has fucked up badly. “Pardon me?”
“I said we’d rather deal with a waiter who isn’t a rude little shit with a disrespectful tone,” I say pleasantly, smiling at him. “The sort of prices this place charges, we expect at least to be spoken to politely, not like something you stepped in. I don’t have the first clue what makes you think you have the right to treat us this way, if you don’t like the way we look or something, but rest assured, we’re not tolerating it.”
His mouth opens and closes like a guppy, and after a few seconds, he walks stiffly away in the direction of the kitchen, clearly torn between indignance and embarrassment.
Leo holds up his hand for me to high five, and I oblige. “I love when you do that,” he says, grinning.
“What, put asshats in their place?”
“Yep. Nobody does it better than you.”
I shrug. “I’ve always been intolerant of being talked down to.” It’s something that has always driven my strict, dictatorial, equally intolerant father completely mad. Dad wasn’t always as bad as he is now, but he and I do not get along.
“True, you’ve always commanded respect.” He takes my hand and kisses my fingers casually. “Never change.”
It’s jarring in the best way, to have someone compliment the very parts of you that your ex and your father never appreciated. This is something new, I think to myself, and, damn it, Wendy, you were right: it could easily be what I’ve been looking for all along. “I won’t,” I promise.
He sighs. “I hope their food is good enough to make up for a rough start.” My heart melts at the disappointed look on his face. For this to happen on his first proper date with a woman he’s liked for years…tough break.
“I’m sure it will.” I didn’t want to say, but I always find restaurants like this to be over the top, overpriced, and overhyped. Then again, I can appreciate that he wanted to treat me to something special.
But if there’s anything with foam on the plate, I won’t be able to stifle my laughter. Cuckoo spit next to a couple of lettuce leaves is not a meal.
A new, older waiter walks up to us with a toothy smile and two leather bound menus. “Good evening, sir. Madam. I understand there was an issue with your waiter. Allow me to apologise on behalf of Chagall. Most unfortunate, and I hope you will accept your first round of drinks gratis, as our guests.” His voice is dripping with contrition, and any opinions he has about my dress are neatly concealed by his professional veneer.
That’s more like it.
“Excellent. We accept. And I would suggest that management considers sending that guy on a customer service course for the future,” Leo says evenly.
“Indeed, sir, we shall be updating his training as quickly as possible.” He hands us the menus, and I am immediately a bit suspicious that the prices are not listed against any of the meals.
“Sadie, what would you like to drink?”
“A glass of white wine, please.”
“Excellent, madam,” the waiter replies. “May I recommend the Chateau d’Yquem?”
“You may,” I smile.
“And I’ll have the same.” Waiter Mark Two bows - actually bows - and rushes off to bring us our complimentary apology drinks.
I glance through the menu, and as suspected, style over substance.
“Order anything you want, and don’t worry about it,” Leo says to me quietly and firmly.
I look up at him. “The fact that you are able to afford a place like this isn’t the point, babe,” I reply.
“Babe, huh?” His face breaks into an ear-to-ear grin, and it gives me a few tingles. Leo is sex on legs whether he’s in a suit or tracksuit bottoms, but moments like this, where I’m single and he wants me and he’s smiling like I’m the hottest thing walking, serves to dress it up with fairy lights.
“What?” I tease. “I’ve called you babe before.”
“Yes, but you don’t normally look at me like I’m a total snack.” He raises his scarred eyebrow playfully.
“Speaking of snacks,” I deflect, because he’s putting me off my banter game with those burning hazel eyes that see right through me, “what are you planning to order?”
He smirks, knowing what I’m doing, and looks back at the menu. “Probably the Langoustine to start, followed by the lamb.”
I look at the listings, and they do look delicious. “I think I’ll join you in the lamb, but have the, ah, heritage tomato with the parmigiano reggiano and Genovese basil to start.” I close my eyes so I don’t roll them. Tomato and basil with parmesan, for crying out loud. And I bet it costs as much as two main courses elsewhere. Enough to pay for a decent meal for more than one person at the homeless shelter I’ve volunteered at before. I know he’s trying to treat me, and I’m not ungrateful. He’s treating me like a queen. I’ve just never been a fan of expensive restaurants inflating their prices for small portions of basic fare.
We order when the new waiter brings us our wine, and he's a model of efficiency. The wine is, I have to admit, excellent, the flavour perfectly balanced between the richness of dried fruit and a floral lightness. It seems like the Chagall experience is looking up, which relaxes us both enough to sink into our usual easy banter.
Well, close to it, anyway. Although we talk about the same shit we’d discuss if we were still just good friends - Gary, the parlour, when we think Dean will propose to Liaden - there are these moments of heated eye contact, and I can’t stop glancing at his lips. They’re gorgeous, beautifully shaped and smooth as silk. I kissed them on a kind of whim at the wedding, like my body took over the controls because it knew something my brain didn’t. Or wouldn’t acknowledge.
I’m not going to be able to hide behind fear of losing the friendship much longer.
In a rather longer time than is really warranted, our first course arrives, the waiter showing his teeth again in a nearly smug smile. Clearly they have a lot of confidence in their menu and their chef’s abilities, and it is very attractively presented.
“How’s the langoustine?” I ask.
“It’s good,” Leo says, swallowing. “How’s your heritage tomato?”
I snort. “It’s fine, very - ” Oh. Oh, eww.
“Everything OK?”
“Ah…” I look a little closer, and, yup, there’s an ant on my basil. And another.
Leo looks over and scowls, dropping his fork and standing abruptly, striding over to where the waiter is speaking to a bartender. I don’t try to stop him. It’s satisfying to see him speak, quietly but furiously, to the blanching waiter, who is stuttering with embarrassment. Without bothering to listen to his frantic apologies, my lion man walks back, necks his wine, and offers his hand to me.
“Come on,” he says clearly, “I’m taking you somewhere where the food is better.” He glares at the staff. “Like a McDonalds drive-through.”
I grin and take his hand, squeezing it to comfort him. “Sounds good to me.” We stride out of there, heads held high, but I can hear him muttering darkly to himself. His shoulders are hunched as though he’s ashamed, and his face is tight with anger. It wrenches my heart.
Once we’re out of there, I pull him to a stop. “You know what I’d really like right now?” I ask, hoping to brighten his spirits. He lifts his eyebrow for me to go on. “A bag of chips. Just a shit ton of salty, vinegary chips, with those stupid sachets of ketchup that never open properly, and a walk along the seafront, under the stars.” And I mean it, as well. One corner of his mouth lifts, and I know I’m on the right track. “You and me…we’re much more Lady and the Tramp than High Society or whatever. So screw these pretentious knobheads, let’s have fun instead.”
Leo
Sades was so right when she suggested this.
I wanted to give her the sort of high quality experience she’s always deserved, but I mistook pristine tablecloths and piss taking price tags for class. But this , eating crisp and fluffy chip shop chips with a tiny wooden fork, strolling along the seafront under the clear night sky festooned with stars, watching the gentle evening breeze ruffle her hair…
This is the highest quality experience there is. For me, anyway.
I could not be more embarrassed by what happened at Chagall, but at least it led us here, where we’re both laughing uproariously together in a beautiful place on a beautiful night.
“You’re so full of shit,” she scoffs, her eyes glowing with humour.
“I’m really not! That song is about wanking.”
She shakes her head, giggling. “I’m gonna need you to walk me through that one.”
I give her a seriously look. “The song is called Beat It ,” I say drily, “and he’s singing about watching porn. What more do you need?”
“Oh, he is not ,” she says scornfully.
I whip out my phone and tap on the YouTube app, loading a video of Michael Jackson singing the song in question. I skip it to the chorus, and we huddle together to listen to the lyrics. “See? He sings show some hot fucking . And keeps saying ‘beat it’. He’s like the host of a self abuse competition.”
“There’s no way!”
“Alright, what are the lyrics, then?” I challenge her.
She cracks up, leaning against me, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life than I am at this moment. “You are such a tool .”
“Come on! You wanna be bad, so beat it …” I can’t keep a straight face either.
She screws up her empty chip bag and bins it. I offer her the rest of mine, not that there are many left, and she takes a single one. “Someone else’s chips always taste better,” she says.
“They really do. We should have swapped bags halfway through.”
She shrugs. “Maybe next time.”
“Next time, huh?” She wants a next time. We grin at each other, and I finish my chips off before binning the paper.
I want to try something.
“You have a little…” I rub her lip with my thumb to clear a tiny trace of ketchup, and then bring it to my mouth, maintaining eye contact. “Mmm.” It’s gratifying when I see her bite her lip as she looks at my own. Pushing my luck a little further, I take her hand, and my insides tingle when she laces her fingers with mine, pressing our palms together.
By some unspoken mutual agreement, we’ve been winding our way towards Aunt Lucinda’s bench on the clifftop, and I regret that the stone stairs are too narrow for us to remain side by side.
“Holy shit,” I hear her exclaim behind me, and she sounds delighted. I turn, and she points up at the dark sky. “Shooting star. First I’ve seen in years.” She beams in the moonlight.
Hello, new core memory. This is one of those rare moments that really stay with you, the sort that you come back to again and again throughout your life. If I end up on a deathbed at the end of mine, I know this is a scene I’ll think about as the world fades: the love of my life, smiling at shooting stars.
We sit on the bench, which is rapidly becoming one of my favourite places in the world, and I place an arm around her shoulder, pulling her a little closer. She settles in, getting comfortable under my arm, and we watch the scene across the bay, hoping for more. Sure enough, another shooting star darts across the sky, gone in a split second. “You gonna make a wish?” I ask her.
“I already did.” She rests her head lightly against my chest. “And don’t worry, I don’t believe telling people what I wished for stops it from coming true.”
It’s a clear invitation to ask her, and my chest heats up as I wonder where this is going. “OK, what did you wish for?”
She looks up at me, and her eyes are warm, soft, but serious. “I wished for everything to be as genuinely good with you…with us …as it seems to be.” She swallows nervously before stretching up to give me a soft, slow kiss on the mouth. I can feel my pulse skittering in my chest with each agonisingly blissful second, until I’m almost lightheaded. We smile at each other, and she rests her forehead on my chin.
“So what did you wish for?” she asks me.
“That kiss,” I joke, and I’m not lying. I just don’t say the whole truth: that I wished I could kiss her under the stars like this every night for the rest of my life.
As Eli always says, all we ever have is the present moment, so I live in it, in this moment where I can .
Lifting her chin up, running my thumb across her cheek, I lean in and kiss her again.
Only this time, I don’t stop until we’re both breathless.