Читать книгу Creep - R.M. Greenaway - Страница 12

The Greek Taverna was close enough that he could walk down. Lonsdale was wide, six lanes including parking. Sometimes it was busy, and other times it stretched out empty like the main drag of a ghost town. Now it was busy, with cars, buses, taxis, delivery trucks, bicycles. A lot of people walking, too, as he approached the harbour. He saw the restaurant ahead. Hadn’t changed a bit since his last visit, which wasn’t as long ago as it seemed.

Could it have been only two years? Seemed more like a decade.

The young hostess gave him a dazzling smile, and he smiled back at her. She offered a small table for two, stuck in a nook shaded by palm fronds, and left him with the menu. A waitress came by soon after and took his order for a bottle of beer. She congratulated him on his choice of brew, said it was her favourite, too, and went off to place his order.

After studying the menu, he studied the restaurant. Warm and aromatic, the lights down low for ambience. Plucky traditional Greek folk music was playing, just like at every other Greek restaurant he knew. Not too busy, but it was early yet. If it was still as popular as it was when he used to come here with Kate, Looch, Looch’s girl Brooke, and whoever else happened to be in his circle at the time, then by seven o’clock, there would be a lineup for seats.

When the waitress came around to take his order, he asked if Farah Jordan was the chef tonight.

“Yes, she is.” The waitress was even more delighted than she had been at his choice of beer. “Are you a friend? Would you like me to pass on a message?”

In the space of a pause, he lost momentum, and his yes turned into “No, don’t bother her. I was just wondering.”

Probably it was best to chicken out, anyway. Farah Jordan was too offbeat for him, with her brazen attitude and her talk of ghosts. He smiled at the waitress, and the look she flashed at him was keen and interested. Maybe the message would get passed on, anyway.

He said, “I guess it would be Chef Jordan’s souvlaki, then?”

“It is. And she makes a spectacular souvlaki.”

When the dish arrived and he’d had a few bites, he decided it was good, if not the best he’d ever tasted. Looch had been fussy about food, an Italian snob. Himself, not so much. He ate diligently, ploughing through the dish, forking it in, chewing carefully, self-conscious, alone at this table for two. He ordered another beer to wash it down. The restaurant filled and became noisy, and he wished he had stayed home.

He pushed his plate aside, and a shadow fell over the table. He looked up. The woman gazing down at him wore the standard double-breasted white jacket, knots for buttons, no chef’s hat. Her gold-black hair looked even golder under this light. It was neatly tied back, and there was nothing hippy about her now.

He stood to greet her and noticed the changes right away. Not just the uniform, but the way she averted her eyes from his. She was flustered, not the woman who had invited him into her house that blustery, rainy night. She said, “Jen told me a really cute guy was asking about me. Her words. So I had to come and check it out. I mean, I couldn’t let that one go, could I?”

Dion read disappointment in her laugh. He was disappointed too, at her reaction and the underlying insult. He said, “I didn’t mean for her to bother you.”

“I know. You’ve just got a bunch more questions. No problem.”

“Questions?” he asked. Then he got it, or at least part of her reaction, which made him grin. “No questions. Actually, I was just hungry.”

Now they were both smiling broadly. Along with pleasure, Dion could read relief in her face. The relief vaguely worried him.

“Then you came to the right place, officer. I hope you were satisfied.”

“Very. Can you have a coffee? Have time?”

“You’re not rushing off?” Her eyes shone. “As it happens, I’m allowing myself a bit of a break. Hang on. I’ll get it. Is decaf good?”

“Great.”

She brought two cups and sat across from him. He asked how long she had been a chef, and she told him how as a teenager, she had worked in her dad’s diner on a windblown byway in Richmond. “Just burgers and stuff,” she said. She had a slow, velvety voice, with the faintest trace of an accent. “But one thing led to another, and I eventually went to college, got my learner’s ticket, landed a real job, and have been working my way up since. I’m still a journeyman. No big hat!”

Just like that night at her house, she was almost supernaturally nice. She was inviting him to make a move, and this time he was going to do it right. It was something he should be good at, flirting. A little out of practice now, but still … “You’re off at eleven tonight?”

Instantly he knew he had blown it, and her supernatural smile faded. He couldn’t blame her. He had blurted it out like an amateur, putting her on the spot, leaving no graceful exit. He was worse than out of practice, he was back to Flirting 101.

He went babbling on, seeing it coming, but too late to pull out. “If you wanted to go for a beer or something. Only if you felt like it, of course, though I know it’s late.”

She reached out to almost touch his arm, but drew back. “It’s not you. It’s completely me. I didn’t expect this really kind offer. You see, I’ve just gotten myself out of a few binds, and I’ve promised myself to take a year off, kind of thing.”

Dion’s only goal right now was to pay his bill and leave. “It was just beer,” he assured her, wallet out. He could feel himself blushing, even as he smiled at her. “That’s all. No strings.”

“No strings? Is there any such thing?”

“No, I get it, sure,” he said, knowing he sounded like a man who didn’t get anything. “I understand. It’s a messed-up world. Even one damn beer can turn into a custody battle, right?”

She nodded, but doubtfully.

“In fact, I’m the same. Strings make me nervous. So there we go. Lucky us.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“And, of course, there’s Stef.”