Читать книгу Me, You and Tiramisu - Charlotte Butterfield, Butterfield Consul Willshire - Страница 6

Fate was supposed to throw them together again in Rome, standing in the shadow of the Coliseum, exchanging guide-book-gleaned titbits on the tyrannical reign of Nero. Or often, in another one of her daydreams, they’d be in the grand lobby of the Royal Albert Hall, swapping polite apologies as they jostled into each other a few minutes before the lights dimmed at the Last Night of the Proms. Sometimes they’d be smiling nervously at each other as they prepared for their hot-air balloon to slowly lift off the ground over the sun-soaked sand of Queensland, or occasionally sitting at sunrise on neighbouring blankets watching turtle eggs hatch on a beach in the Florida Keys. Jayne had never been to Italy, Australia or America and, truth be told, she didn’t actually like classical music. But regardless of these small, and insignificant, realities, not once had she imagined that her reunion with Billy would be accompanied by a lingering smell of analgesic and mouthwash on a dark February afternoon in Twickenham.

**

Jayne had arrived uncharacte‌ristically late; her cheeks were flushed from getting off the gridlocked bus and deciding to run the remaining half mile with her satchel containing thirty dog-eared exercise books bashing violently against her hip the whole way. The door let in an icy gust before slamming behind her, rudely announcing her arrival to the packed waiting room. Flustered and overly apologetic, she sandwiched herself into the only available seat, which was under a graphic poster screaming the words Disorders of the Teeth and Jaw.

She tried to keep her elbows close to her body as she took off her glasses to de-steam them and yelped as her bag slipped to the floor, scattering books and papers across the waiting room. Twelve pairs of eyes looked up at the unexpected commotion as Jayne fell to her knees reaching under the plastic chairs and leaflet-laden coffee table. ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she kept uttering while plunging her hand between boots and shoes.

‘Here’s a few more,’ a man’s deep voice uttered to her side. He was holding a pile of books and papers. ‘I think that’s the lot.’

‘Thank you so much,’ Jayne replied, accepting his outstretched hand to help her back onto her feet, ‘What an idiot.’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s fine.’ He looked at the top sheet of paper he was still holding and read its title aloud. ‘Terry Pratchett has been called the Shakespeare of today, discuss. Wow, now that’s the kind of essay I wouldn’t have minded writing when I was in school, or even now, actually!’

Jayne blew her hair out of her face as she took the papers off him, stuffed them in her bag and sat in the empty seat next to him. ‘A Pratchett fan?’ she said.

‘Have been for years,’ he replied. ‘Is that really what kids are learning nowadays?’

‘Not officially, but it’s a bit of light relief after the mocks. For me more than them, I think, although I may have converted a few of them. What was it he once said, ‘The trouble about having an open mind is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it’?’

‘My favourite quote of his was, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword if the sword is very short and the pen is very sharp’.’ They both laughed. Jayne retrieved a bottle of water from her bag and took a big gulp. She’d wanted to nip to the bathroom and give her teeth a quick brush before her appointment, but then she’d lose her seat, and she thought that it might seem a bit rude if she just got up in the middle of her conversation with this random man. She settled for swishing the water around her mouth like a wine-taster; that would have to do.

The man courteously waited for her to swallow before adding, ‘So what else do you normally like reading, then?’

‘Anything really,’ she shrugged. Being in London, talking to a stranger, albeit one that you’re touching shoulders with, was a rare phenomenon. She hadn’t yet dispensed with saying ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ when she mistakenly jostled someone on the tube, which immediately singled herself out as an outsider, even after fifteen years in the city, but there was a difference between proffering up instinctive apologies and actually having a conversation with someone she didn’t know. She didn’t have anything better to do, though, apart from a quick floss, but then, that’s what she was just about to pay someone to do.

‘I usually have a few books on the go, which I know you shouldn’t do, respect for the author and all that, but, um, biographies, classics, I guess, and I try to read a few of the Booker list each year, because I feel that I should, historical fiction, some science fiction if it’s not too weird, a bit of crime, if it’s not too gruesome, um, poetry, I do like a good poem.’

‘Who doesn’t?’ He replied smiling. Up until then their exchange had all happened side-on, giving a nod to the unspoken English rule of respecting one another’s personal space, quick side glances punctuating the questions and responses. Jayne swivelled slightly in her seat to face him; he smiled and then, embarrassed, they both quickly looked away. This didn’t happen to girls like her. Strange men in public places didn’t just strike up a conversation about literature.

She started scrabbling through her bag for her phone, under the pretence of checking the time but actually just to break the silence. Thank God he didn’t know that without her glasses she could barely see the screen, let alone the numbers on it, but she didn’t want to put her specs on and spoil the illusion of being a seductive temptress. She was pretty sure he was incredibly attractive, but admittedly, at that moment he resembled a beautiful pastel drawing that was delicately smudged around the edges. To keep up the charade of having the power of sight she sighed, prompting the man to venture, ‘They seem to be running late today.’

She nodded and took one of the essays out, but deciphering the swirled swags and tails of teenage penmanship didn’t really cut it as a distraction technique, particularly as she was only pretending to read. Her eyes began straying to the side, at exactly the same time as the man looked up from the page of his book.

‘You know, reading shouldn’t really be so much of a chore,’ he teased. ‘If your forehead got any more furrowed you’d start to lose things in there.’

‘Is it that obvious?’ she smiled, ‘Here I am trying to earn an honest living and all I get is mockery.’

She could sense his mouth turning up at the edges at her feeble attempt at being affronted, and he held his hands up, ‘Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your obvious dedication to education; it quite literally seeps out of you.’

‘I hate the word ‘literally’,’ Jayne rolled her eyes, ‘Like it literally kills me. And ‘seeps’, now you come to mention it.’

‘I’m like that with ‘gusset’.’ He shivered theatrically. ‘Eugh.’

‘I have a theory about that, actually.’

‘This’ll be interesting. A theory about gussets.’

‘Indeed. I think, in the case of gusset, it’s purely because of what it describes, so if it swapped its meaning with a nice word, it would be okay – like if Judy Garland had sang ‘Somewhere Over the Gusset’ it wouldn’t be a horrible word.’

‘Okay, so by that reasoning, and I grant you, it’s a valid theory, we’d be sitting here saying ‘I loathe the word ‘rainbow’, bleurgh. Vile word. Yuck’.’

‘Exactly!’ They both sat back in their seats smiling. The room had relaxed; it felt lighter, more convivial.

Jayne started to feel butterflies building inside, a sensation she hadn’t really experienced since she was a teenager. It was quite an achievement to get to the age of thirty-three and to never have experienced anything resembling a light storm, let alone a thunderbolt. She’d even tried match.com recently, at Rachel and her friend Abi’s insistence, which she thought should really be renamed lookingfor‌aquickbonk.com because every bloke’s interest had evaporated once she’d made it clear that she wanted dinner first. She didn’t think it was too much of a hardship for a man to endure a meal with her if mediocre but enthusiastic lovemaking might be on the menu after, but it turned out that it was.

‘Okay, Mister, I’m going to enter into the spirit of this because, well, we’re clearly not getting our teeth seen to any time soon. Quick-fire round. Favourite character of all time?’

‘Huckleberry Finn. You?’

‘Jane Austen’s Marianne Dashwood.’

‘Predictable, but it’s your call. Favourite book from childhood?

‘The Magic Faraway Tree.’

‘Excellent choice. I loved Moonface. And Mr Saucepanhead.’

‘Saucepan Man.’

‘What?’

‘His name was Saucepan Man, you said Saucepanhead.’

‘You say tom-arto, I say tom-ay-to.’

‘Well, no, we both say tom-arto, because we are not from the Land of the Brave.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ He comically puffed out his chest and affected a deep baritone voice, ‘I am incredibly courageous.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she quipped back without missing a beat, ‘but just to prove it, what was the last macho thing that you did?’

Still in character as Johnny Bravo he said, ‘well, I asked an attractive stranger sitting next to me in a waiting room for her number so we can meet up and celebrate our clean teeth by drinking red wine and coffee.’

The invitation had been so unexpected Jayne almost had to sit on her hands to stop them from applauding. Quickly composing herself, she replied with what she hoped was a tone of flirty sarcasm, ‘Wow, you are a charmer.’

The elderly lady next to Jayne who had been following their exchange with a barely concealed smile reluctantly left her seat after being called by the clipboard-wielding receptionist, but not before giving Jayne a little wink.

Jayne moved her coat and scarf off her lap and onto the warm vacant seat. ‘I need to save this for my twin, she’s meeting me here after my appointment,’ she felt the need to explain.

‘Oh my, there are two of you?’

‘Yep, non-identical. The only thing we share is a birthday, though, so you can put your seedy thoughts back in their box.’

‘Seedy thoughts, indeed. Jeez, a second ago I was a charmer and now I’m a pervert. How did that happen?’

‘It’s a delicate tightrope you walk. Right, back to books. What’s your favourite last line of a book?’

‘Oooo, good question, but very easy. ‘The president of the immortals had ended his sport with Blank.’ Who’s Blank?’

‘So simple you’re embarrassing yourself – and the answer is Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’

‘She shoots, she scores. Okay, maybe that one was too easy, how about …’

He was cut off mid-sentence by a woolly mammoth smothering Jayne in a bear hug. ‘Oh my God, Jayney, I’m so sorry I’m late!’ Rachel shrugged off her huge fake-fur coat, and plonked herself down on the spare chair. ‘Rubbish day, didn’t stop, so sorry, were you waiting long? She suddenly stopped, aware that she’d interrupted a conversation. ‘Oh Jeez, sorry, who are you?’ she stuck her hand out over Jayne, and he slowly took it.

‘Will.’

His name was Will. They’d been talking for a quarter of an hour and her sister had managed to get this information in under a minute. It had never even occurred to Jayne to ask him his name; maybe this was why she was still single. Finding out his literary preferences seemed much more important than what his parents had decided to call him.

‘I know you – I’m sure I do,’ Rachel was peering at him, eyes narrowed.

A little part of Jayne started to wither and die inside. Please, please let Will not be one of the multitude of men she had seen making the walk of shame from her sister’s room as she was leaving for work in the morning. The trouble with having a flatmate whose aim in life was to horizontally rumba with all of London’s bachelors, and much to Jayne’s disgust and Rachel’s annoyance, some who were bachelors only in mind and behaviour, but not in the eyes of the law, was that it didn’t leave many men who were untouched for Jayne. Not that it had ever bothered her before, but at that moment, it really, really did.

‘Will? Jesus, it’s Billy!’

Oh God.

Jayne decided that she didn’t want any part in their cosy reunion, so started to fidget in her seat, packing her pathetic little belongings back in her bag before they started doing whatever it was people did after one-night stands.

He shrugged apologetically, offering up a polite smile to compensate, ‘Um, sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,’

‘Billy, Billy, I’m Rachel, Rachel.’

Jayne suddenly felt really bad for her sister. Having a person who’s seen you naked not remembering, or even worse pretending not to, was really humiliating, and she knew all about that. For it to happen to Rachel was actually quite unheard of; it was normally her sister feigning ignorance in a corner when a dubious pull popped up, never the other way round.

‘Jeez, Billy, this is Jayne. Jaayynne,’ Rachel implored.

‘Jayne? Jayne? Oh my God!’ Before she had the chance to duck out of the way, or at least prepare herself, Will had lunged at her, enveloping her in a huge hug and burying his face in her neck. She had no idea why a conquest of Rachel’s would be so emotional, but she let him carry on holding her because he smelt of coconut. She chose to put to one side the fact that he’d slept with her sister, because this was the closest she’d come to male contact for nearly two years, and up until four minutes ago, she was going to marry him.

Rachel suddenly started hugging both of them over the top of his hug, so she was trapped in some strange kind of pyramid embrace. What the hell? Jayne started wriggling free of the pair of them and finally extracted herself from their bizarre outpouring of affection.

‘Jayne? What’s wrong? I thought you’d be really pleased to see him after all this time? Why are you being weird?’

Me? The world has just gone crazy, she wanted to shout, but ever the diplomat, settled instead for, ‘Um, sorry, I just think it’s a bit inappropriate, and I should probably leave you two alone, to … er … reminisce without me.’

‘Jayne. Put your glasses on.’

‘What?’

‘For the love of all that’s holy. Put. Your. Glasses. On.’

She did.

‘Now look at him.’

Jayne’s heart flipped over and she thought she was going to be sick. It had taken eighteen years, but she’d finally found the first love that had slipped through her inexperienced fingers. Speak she willed herself, say something amazing, something heartfelt and articulate. Show him what he’s been missing for nearly two decades. Opening her mouth to speak, to add to the magic of the moment, Jayne’s first words were suddenly indecently smothered by an officious voice shouting, ‘Jayne Brady, ready for your scrape and polish?’