Call Me Back Again

CHAPTER 4

"Sure: truly, madly, deeply. Heard that before, I have. You're always in love, Johnny." Ringo chuckled at his own joke which, like all good jokes, found its foundations in reality. John was an insufferable romantic, who was always fawning over someone at any given time. "Trouble is, you fall arse over elbow for someone else every other day."

John huffed indignantly at the implication. "I do not. Twice a week, at most! Anyway, this time's different. I think I just met my future husband, mate."

"I'll take your word for it, Johnny. But, didn't you say he's on a date with a bird? Sounds like you're barking up the wrong tree, son." Ringo took his eyes off the plate he was dressing and shot a meaningful glance at John, who quickly looked away in favour of going over his appearance to see if he was presentable. John wondered if Paul would notice if he'd remove his tie and unbutton his shirt a bit. Just two buttons... Or maybe three? Without realising, he'd started to hum the Savage Garden song Ringo referenced, though he briefly stopped when Richie addressed him. "There's a spot on your sleeve."

Indeed, there was, right on the cuff. There was even a smudge of it on his skin. Tomato cream sauce, by the look and smell of it, John concluded. Must've happened when he was clearing table nine and that snarky tone in Paul's voice had nearly made John drop the plates. Either way, it stood out like a sore thumb against the dark fabric of his shirt and of course, he didn't have a clean one to change into. Cursing his boss for the posh, all-black uniforms, John rolled up his shirt sleeves a bit further to hide the stain, revealing the half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm in the process.

Perhaps, he mused, glancing at what was visible of his ink, it wasn't the worst outcome anyway. John was dead proud of the art he wore on his skin. Then again, his tattoos were the very reason Brian wouldn't allow him to roll up his sleeves that far. For some reason, the codger didn't think them presentable. Oh well, John mused, between showing some ink and walking around with a soiled shirt, chances were Brian would prefer the former. Besides, the colourful tattoos kind of spiced up the otherwise not very exciting uniform. Speaking of spices...

Casting one final glance at his appearance, John adjusted some wayward hairs before straightening his back and ever so surreptitiously edging his way to the shelf where Ringo kept the dried spices. There were smaller containers within grabbing distance of the stoves, but John had no need for those. What he wanted, were the big tubs in which they came. The little devil inside his mind had just come up with a fiendish plan to get rid of the girl - Natalie, or something - who'd been so rude to Paul, who by now John found himself beginning to think of as 'his Paul' because well... Maybe if he thought it often enough, it'd end up being true?

Realistically, he knew those little tense moments weren't meant to be witnessed by him, and he supposed it was none of his business either, and yet, he felt offended on (his) Paul's behalf. What's more, that pretty little thing with the nasty case of entitlement stood between John and the man he wanted and thus, she had it coming. A simple case of adding two and two, really.

Humming the 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' song a little louder, John unscrewed the tub which contained the dried chilis. For most recipes, Ringo used fresh spices, being an honest-to-god chef who took pride in only using the best, and all that. In some cases, however, the dried ones worked better and thus, they always had some at hand. The whiff of them made John's eyes water a little, which only made him feel more determined. He casually sauntered towards the order for table 6, and-...

"John, what the fuck are you doing?"

A devilish smile played across John's face as he faced his friend. He never even flinched, he was that sure of his plan. However, he'd have to think fast if he wanted to actually be able to pull it off. "That bloke we've been talking about, Rings? He's gonna have one hell of a first date tonight, and it isn't with that bird he brought in. Which plate is hers? I'm gonna give it some more seasoning..."

"No, you bloody well aren't!" Richie yanked the spice from John's hands and peered through the tiny window, into the restaurant where he probably couldn't see more than the top of one head, and the back of another. As he turned back to face John, he squinted at him, apparently wondering why John was so sure of himself. "Why, what's she ever do to you?"

"I didn't want to tell you, Ringsy," John said solemnly, hoping a kitten wouldn't drop dead somewhere as a result of his lies. He lowered his voice, silently crying victory when Ringo automatically leant in closer. This was exactly the kind of response he'd been hoping for: once that seed of doubt was planted, John could get Richie to do anything. He'd even talked him into baking marijuana brownies -
during opening hours, no less - a few months prior: the very same he'd tricked Geo into eating.

It had required the both of them to utilise their combined imagination to convince Brian, who'd been alarmed by the weird smell, they were just trying out a new recipe. Thank fuck the man was so gullible, John thought. Pulling himself back into the present, he adopted an expression of deep regret as he made himself hurt his friend's pride. "I didn't want to say anything, mate, but she's been in here before. She said... Christ, how do I tell you? She said your Carbonara was the most disappointing thing she'd ever had. Gritty, she called it, like scrambled eggs, you know. And, well, she thought it was bland too..."

The little chef's head towards the restaurant and back to face John turned so fast, John was sure he'd get whiplash from it, and his big, blue eyes grew to twice their normal size. John couldn't have picked a softer spot to hit: Ringo took a lot of pride in his sauces, especially that one, and rightfully so. John loved Ringo's Carbonara; all silky and smooth with bags of flavour... He'd worked years to perfect it. No plate ever left his kitchen without being seasoned to perfection; he personally made sure of that. So, to hear someone thought his food was lacking was enough to send good old Ringo into a cold fury.

"She said that? The bird who came in with that bloke you fancy said that? You're sure?"

John nodded quietly, biting his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood. It killed him to hurt Ringo's feelings, but it was too late to backtrack now.

"That bitch," Rich finally grumbled, tearing the top off the pepper pot and sprinkling a generous amount over a nearby plate of lasagna. To John's delight, he didn't stop there but took it a step further by adding copious amounts of garlic before hiding the crime with some freshly ground Parmesan, all the while muttering some choice expletives about vegetarians and how impossible they were.

John didn't mind them, as opposed to vegans whom he hated ever since he'd had a terrible time dating a rather militant vegan a few years back, but he wasn't about to say anything to snap Ringo out of his mood. After all, it wasn't exactly his habit to deliberately sabotage the food he worked so hard to cook. Moments later, the disgruntled chef thrust the plate at John, who struggled to hide his amusement and swiftly made his way to his victim before his conscience could stop him.

So far, his plan was coming together very nicely indeed.