Twist Of Fate

Thirty Four

I stop dead in the middle of the path, feigning shock. "Oh my God," I whisper, holding my hand to my chest. "Did you just - was that... an apology?"

"What?"

"You. Just then. You said the 's' word."

"The 's' word?"

I look over my shoulder, as though making sure we are not being overheard, before leaning into him (he bends his head towards me, his expression the picture of seriousness). 

"Sorry," I repeat, in a loud stage whisper, and he straightens up immediately and looks away as I begin to laugh.

"You're a dick," he huffs, but he has half a smile on his face as he says it, and I laugh harder.

"Hey look - there's an Italian up ahead." I point up the road at the red, white and green signage above a little glass-fronted restaurant with tables and chairs outside and the words De Luca's written in swirly font. "Shall we give it a go?"

"Yeah, if you want."

We head over and are seated inside the main restaurant; the tables outside are all already full on such a beautiful evening. The waiter brings us two menus and a wine list, before lighting a tall, thin candle stuck into a rustic looking wine bottle with months of melted dried wax dripping artfully down the neck. I deliberately avoid catching Harry's eye, as I can just picture the look of horror he is no doubt wearing on his face right now at this obviously romantic setting.

I cast my gaze down the menu, my mouth watering and my stomach growling at the idea of all this beautiful food. Pizzas, pastas, salads, steaks, fish... garlic bread, bruschetta, sweet potato fries, onion rings.... I want to sample everything on the menu, it all sounds so delicious.

When the waiter comes back I order a king prawn linguine and Harry orders his pizza, and when the waiter suggests some garlic bread to start we both nearly snatch his hand off. Harry asks for a pint of beer to drink, so I ask for a glass of pinot grigio (working in the pub had its advantages, although most of the house wines at the Flute were from the reduced end-of-line section at the cash-and-carry). When our drinks arrive I close my eyes as I take my first sip, relishing the icy cold on this warm evening. I set my glass on the table and look across at Harry, feeling instantly more relaxed.

"This was a great idea," I smile.

He looks at me suspiciously. "OK," he says slowly.

"I'm serious. It was."

"So you've snapped out of whatever mood you were in earlier?" he asks.

"I wasn't in a mood earlier," I lie.

"Don't lie. You had a right face on. You never did tell me why."

"I didn't have a face on. And it doesn't matter now, anyway."

It doesn't matter because the stupid blonde girl from reception is far away from here, with her stupid flashy nails and her stupid white teeth. Harry is sitting opposite me, looking at me, having dinner with me. I'm not deluded - I know that if she were here in my place it would be a very different situation. It would be a date, that would involve flirting and laughing and smoldering looks. Not two people who can just about tolerate each other sharing the same table to eat their dinner because they were thrown together by a twist of fate. 

But even so, no matter how reluctant our partnership may be, I'll take it, and just for tonight I can pretend that I am the sole object of Harry's attention. 

Our garlic bread arrives, a sliced baguette dripping with garlic butter, tomato puree and topped with mozzarella cheese. One bite tells me this is the best garlic bread I have ever tasted in my entire life, and judging by the look on Harry's face (eyes half closed and a little glazed, mouth relaxed as he chews) he is thinking the same. We devour it between us in less than five minutes, barely saying a word while we eat. My pinot grigio is slipping down far too easily, and I tell myself I need to slow down or risk being half cut by the time our main course arrives.