Читать книгу The Wedding Favour - Michele Gorman - Страница 11

He will not stop waving that pale, flaccid abomination in my face. Talk about going against all that’s civilised.

‘What, never?’ Rafael asks. ‘Not even once, just to see if you like it? You might like it. How old are you, twenty-seven? And never tried it even once?’

‘Get that thing away from me! No, never. I thought you were a nice bloke, but you’re just like the rest.’ I can’t even look at it.

He laughs as he slurps down the oyster.

‘That’s still alive, you know.’

‘Mmm, fresh. You’re sure?’ He holds out another one.

‘Disgusting.’

‘But how can you be from here and not enjoy what the sea offers, when it’s caught right there?’ He points at the glistening water beyond the restaurant’s terrace. ‘You won’t even eat cooked shellfish like mussels? Clams? Prawns?’

‘You can keep listing them off all you want. I’m telling you I haven’t eaten any of them.’ It’s like I’m the only person in the world who’s never been interested in shellfish. ‘I won’t like them.’

‘How will you know unless you try? You could be depriving yourself of some of your favourite foods. What if it’s as delicious as …’ His lips twist as he thinks.

‘Mini rice cakes with peanut butter,’ I fill in for him. Then I nod at his expression. ‘Yes, really. I even eat them for dinner. They’re delicious, and don’t knock them if you haven’t tried them. Isn’t that what you’ve just said?’

He laughs. ‘When can I come over for dinner? I can’t wait to try your rice cakes and peanut butter. That should pair perfectly with the bucket of water I’d need to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth.’

‘What’s your easy meal, then? And not takeaway, that’s cheating.’

He doesn’t hesitate. ‘Pasta. I’ve always got some kind of bacon or salami or something in the freezer. A little olive oil, whatever veg is handy to roast, frozen peas in a pinch, and a bit of grated cheese.’

‘Actually, that sounds good.’

‘We can have your rice cakes and peanut butter as a starter. Maybe we’ll invite your parents … Do they eat seafood?’

‘They can’t get enough of it.’

‘Well, there you go.’

‘There I go, what?’

‘It proves that seafood is delicious.’

‘No, it proves that some people like eating it. The same way I like my peanut-butter rice-cakes.’

He pops in another oyster.

‘They look like the kind of thing I’ve seen runners cough up in the park, and I don’t need to try that, either, to know I won’t like it.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m just saying that you’re from Cornwall, and it is famous for seafood.’

I glance again at the fluffy clouds skittering above the terrace. The wind has whipped up the waves on the beach below us.

It’s too hot to be out here, really. I’ve already gone to the loo twice to blot toilet roll under my arms. But we had to get out of the house this morning before Mum got the photo albums out. The less exposure to my parents that Rafael has, the better.

They are the UV rays of my life.

‘You’re from Bogotá but you don’t deal drugs,’ I point out, rather callously, ‘so not everyone has to do what a place is known for.’

‘Actually, there’s something I should tell you …’ he says. ‘Kidding.’

He throws his hand in front of my phone as I aim it at his plate. Just because I’d never eat those things doesn’t mean I can’t Instagram them in all their slimy glory. #notinamillionyears.

‘What are you doing?’ I delete the blurry photo of his palm.

‘What are you doing?’ He watches me snap a few selfies with the restaurant behind me and then backdropped against the sea beyond the terrace railings.

‘Taking pictures for my social-media accounts. Remember? Part of the plan?’

‘Fine, take your photos, but you’re only going to take the piss out of those poor oysters, no?’

‘And you,’ I tell him. ‘What better way to introduce my readers to our story? A romantic lunch with my new fiancé. Get your hand out of the way. That’s better. Don’t worry, you’re not in it. Well, you are, but you’re blurry. See? I’ll start with the photos this weekend and ease into some outtakes from the magazine story starting next week. You are okay with this, right? Because it’s really important.’

‘It’s fine, Nelly, don’t worry, take as many as you want. Sorry I got protective over the oysters. I didn’t want their feelings to be hurt if you took their bad angle.’

‘How caring you are,’ I say.

He makes a heart out of his fingers. That man is an Instagram natural. I can’t wait till I can post pics.

Matt never let me post about him. I couldn’t even use his name. He’s known only as BF (boyfriend) on my blog. At first I wondered if maybe I could just swap Matt for Rafael, like the substitutes that Tesco does in my online shop. Sorry, we’re out of stock of your usual boyfriend, so we’ve sent this Colombian Supremo instead. But that won’t work because Martha is going to start with how we fell in love despite me already being engaged.

It’s all got to come out. Carefully managed, of course, but out nevertheless. I’ve already written the blog post. It goes up first thing in the morning.

I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight.

***

This isn’t a big birthday for Dad, but my parents do love an excuse for a party. All their neighbours are here, but luckily Gran isn’t coming and my brother is still working in Abu Dhabi, so Rowan is back in London with the children. Not that I’ve got anything to worry about with Rowan. She understands this family. I know she’ll back up my story. We’ve told the children that I was hibernating on their sofa because I’d dumped Matt, not the other way around.

Naturally, my parents’ friends all want to meet Rafael. Even if he wasn’t such a looker, some of them knew Matt, at least by reputation, and everyone is dying for gossip about Sheila and Bob’s daughter. Not to blow my own trumpet, but I’ve been their main source of entertainment since I first failed all my A levels. I’m now a cautionary tale in this part of Cornwall. How Not to Live Your Life. Updated and reprinted annually, it seems.

Don’t believe me? Let me give you the highlights so far, starting soon after I moved to London.

I got a call from Microsoft about someone trying to hack into my computer. Can you believe it?! Well, I did. The scammers got into my bank account online and cleaned it out. Dad had to loan me two thousand quid. I would have paid it off quicker if I hadn’t got fired from my first job after accidentally ‘replying all’ to my work friend on a particularly colourful boss-bashing email. And that wouldn’t have been so bad, except that it meant I was home during the day in my shared flat when the police raided it, looking for my housemate. That was my housemate, the drug dealer. I thought she just had a very active social life. It all got cleared up, for my part, but not until I’d spent time being questioned.

That all happened within my first year of moving to London. Let’s just say I haven’t slowed down since.

Well, for once I’m coming off as the winner.

Ha, I laugh in the face of your unconvincing concern and shrug off the little digs about how sad it is that things didn’t work out with Matt. Oh no, don’t pity me, for behold my even better fiancé!

But the men whisk him off while I’m stuck fielding questions from their wives. By the time I find him in the kitchen with Dad, it’s too late. Dad’s got the shot glasses out.

‘What are you doing?’ I hiss at Rafael. I should have warned him that alcohol can send Dad down some strange paths.

‘Having a drink with your father. Here, have one.’ He pours another shot.

‘That’s not a good idea.’

‘It was his idea.’

I bet it was. ‘Dad, go easy, will you?’

‘Woah, Nelly, lighten up.’ He goes into hysterics at that old chestnut.

It’s worse than I thought. But when I go to find Mum, she’s not interested in coming inside because she’s too busy smoking in the garden with her friends.

What are my parents, fifteen years old?

By the time I get back into the house, Dad has Rafael in a headlock. ‘Come on, try to break it, son. Really try. Aw, you’re not trying. Don’t go easy on me just because it’s my birthday.’

I shake my head when I catch Rafael’s eye. How was he to know that this is Dad’s favourite party trick? It should have been in the family briefing under the headline: ways to be humiliated by my parents.

He ignores my warning and starts to struggle. That’s what Dad’s been waiting for. With the agility of a ballet dancer, Dad pulls Rafael’s arm behind his back, flips him around and pins him to the ground.

Unfortunately, Rafael is a bigger bloke than Dad is used to wrestling. As his free hand flails to help right himself, it catches the edge of the worktop, then sweeps across it.

Dad’s birthday cake, all three buttery layers of it, plops on the linoleum.

For just a second, there is stunned silence. Dad’s friends are used to the show, but not quite such a big finale.

Dad lets go of Rafael, who immediately cradles his hand.

‘Mum is going to murder you,’ I tell Dad. ‘She ordered that especially from Mary’s. Are you okay?’ I ask Rafael.

‘Your dad’s got a good grip,’ he says. Then he gets to his feet and, with his right hand clasped against his chest for safety, sticks his other one out to shake. ‘Well done.’

Dad ignores the gesture, pulling Rafael in for a hug. ‘Welcome to the family.’

‘Thanks. Could I please have some ice?’ he murmurs.

I have to step around the pile of smeared icing to get to the freezer.

This is going about as well as I’d hoped.