by Dunn, Matt
‘That’s fine,’ Simon said. ‘It’s late, anyway. For coffee, I mean. Because of the caffeine. Not because I wouldn’t want to . . .’
‘Tea?’
‘It’s got caffeine in it too,’ said Simon. ‘Depending on the kind of tea, of course.’
‘Well, did you want to come in and wait for a cab?’ Lisa said, curtly.
‘What?’ Simon narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, then he looked aghast. ‘Oh my god, I’m sorry! I thought when you said “tea” you were asking me about tea. Not asking me for tea. Well, not for tea, exactly. I’d be several hours too late. But if I wanted to come in for a cup . . .’ He glanced up at the heavens, then folded his arms. ‘As you can see, my smoothness hasn’t improved at all since lunchtime.’
‘Do you want one or not?’ said Lisa, mock angrily, as she fished her keys out from her handbag.
‘I could force one down,’ said Simon with a grin, and Lisa felt her heart leap a little – stupid of her, she knew – and she hurried down her garden path and fumbled to get her key in the front door, surprised by her sudden nervousness.
‘Only thing is . . .’
Simon was hovering on the doorstep, so Lisa frowned at him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t want to make a mess on your carpet.’
‘Hello?!’ Lisa stared at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Euphemism alert!’ Then, when Simon went red so quickly it would put a traffic light to shame, she laughed even more raucously, and realised she was a little drunk.
‘My trainers,’ he said patiently, once she’d calmed down. ‘They’re still a bit wet from the sea. I don’t want to ruin your . . .’ He nodded at the hallway carpet, and Lisa smiled.
‘Take them off, then. We can put them in the tumble dryer.’
‘Right.’
He did as instructed, then hesitated on the mat, so Lisa said, ‘Yes?’
‘And my socks are a little damp.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, now you mention it . . .’ Simon pointed down at his calves, the lower halves of each one a darker blue than the rest of his jeans.
‘Well, take them off too!’
‘I would. But . . .’
Lisa suddenly twigged what was wrong. ‘Hold on,’ she said, shutting the door behind him, nipping into her bedroom and retrieving a sarong – one of her Cancún beach purchases – that was hanging over the chair in the corner. ‘Put this on and I’ll just . . .’ She nodded at the bathroom door and Simon stared at her, dumbfounded. Lisa wondered whether she had to explain everything to him, then she remembered he had no way of knowing that her bathroom was behind that particular door. ‘Ladies’ room,’ she said, by way of an explanation, then wondered why she’d called it that. Then again, it had been a while since any man had set foot in there.
‘Are you sure?’
Lisa made a face. ‘I’m sure I can resist you. The kitchen’s through there,’ she said, pointing to the other end of the hallway. ‘You go in and put your wet things in the tumble dryer, stick the kettle on and I’ll just . . . like I said . . .’
‘Go to the toilet.’
‘Exactly.’
As Simon headed dutifully along the hallway, she popped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her (then – rolling her eyes at her own behaviour – unlocking it again almost immediately), reapplied her lipstick and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. This had really turned into the strangest of days. She’d started out hoping – no, believing – she was going to meet someone amazing; and in a way, she had, yet she’d ended up . . . Lisa frowned at herself. She wasn’t sure where she’d ended up. Then again, the evening wasn’t over yet, so perhaps she hadn’t reached the end.
She flushed the toilet for good measure, then wondered why she’d felt the need to pretend she’d just disposed of her own bodily waste, and made her way back out and into the kitchen. The kettle clicked itself off – just the right amount of water for two cups too, according to the display on the side – and Simon had laid all the required tea-making implements out on the kitchen worktop: two mugs, two teaspoons, a carton of milk from the fridge and a bag of sugar. Now he was standing in front of the open cupboard next to the oven, dressed in the unlikely combination of his sweatshirt and her sarong, staring in awe at the contents of her top shelf.
‘That look suits you.’
‘Thanks.’ He did a little shimmy, grabbing frantically at the sarong as it threatened to fall off as a result, then returned his gaze to the interior of the cupboard.
‘Everything okay?’
He spun round to face her, a look of bewilderment on his face. ‘You’ve got the biggest collection of tea I’ve ever seen!’
Lisa beamed at him, then wondered whether that was, in fact, something to be proud of. ‘Choose one.’
‘I’m not sure I can!’ Simon was picking up boxes, peering at the labels, sniffing them and putting them back where he’d found them. ‘What do you recommend?’
Lisa walked over to stand next to him, then regarded the various options. ‘Depends what you like.’
‘Well, I like coffee, but I can’t see a coffee-flavoured one, so . . .’
She elbowed him gently in the ribs. ‘In that case, you might as well just shut your eyes and pick one at random.’
‘I’m blind-dating tea now, am I?’
‘Just do it, smart-arse.’
Simon side-eyed her for a moment, then he closed his eyes and did as instructed. ‘Ah,’ he said, showing her the box, where bedtime was written in large white letters. ‘Maybe I’d better choose another.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Lisa, then she blushed. ‘I didn’t . . . I mean, that’s a good one. It’s supposed to help you – you know, relax.’
Simon handed Lisa the box. ‘I could have done with one of those earlier.’
‘You and me both!’ she said, retrieving two teabags and dropping them into the mugs on the counter.
‘Sugar?’ he asked, handing her the bag.
‘Yes, honey?’
‘No, I . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
Lisa did an exaggerated fist pump at catching him out. ‘You don’t need it.’
‘Because I’m sweet enough already?’
‘Because it’s herbal tea.’
‘Good to know,’ said Simon. ‘Milk?’
‘And you’re not really supposed to add milk.’
‘Because I’m not . . .’ He frowned. ‘Sorry. Can’t think of anything appropriate except for something to do with cows,’ he said, then he picked the carton up and sniffed it apprehensively. ‘It’s off.’
‘As you’ll be, if you keep those jokes up!’ she said, mock sternly. ‘But like I said – not really the done thing.’
‘Good to know.’
Lisa smiled to herself as she made the tea. Simon seemed to have relaxed, at least – though perhaps that was because he didn’t feel any more pressure regarding the ‘date’ part of the day, and the thought made her feel a little disappointed. Okay, she’d already decided the two of them probably weren’t compatible, but she’d also wanted him to at least show a little interest – or rather, disappointment – when she turned him down. Then it occurred to her that wasn’t actually a very nice thing to think, especially given her new positivity, and she immediately felt bad.
She found a packet of Jaffa Cakes in the fridge, considered putting them on a plate, then remembered she didn’t have the Queen round for tea, so instead handed the box to Simon, picked up the mugs and indicated he should follow her through to the front room.
‘Nice house,’ said Simon, giving the room a quick once-over before sitting down on the far end of the sofa. ‘Do you live here alone, or . . .’ He stopped talking again, and adjusted the sarong to protect his modesty. ‘Sorry. That’s the kind of thing a murderer would say. And, despite what you might have thought when we first met, I’m not. Honest.’
Lisa sat down in the armchair opposite him. ‘Hey
. I seem to remember I went on to accuse you of being a potential date rapist too, so I’ve got a lot of apologising to do myself.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Simon picked his mug up, and Lisa nodded at it. ‘It’ll be hot.’
He gave her a ‘ya think?’ look, sniffed his tea tentatively, blew across the top, then took a sip. ‘Not bad,’ he said, fanning his mouth with his hand. ‘The temperature of molten lava, mind you, but not bad.’
Lisa smiled smugly. ‘I knew I could convert you.’
‘How is “not bad” a conversion?’
‘Just you wait.’ She pushed the box of Jaffa Cakes across the coffee table towards him. ‘Biscuit?’
‘What?’
‘Biscuit. As in “would you like one”.’
‘Oh-kay. Well, that was a “what” as in “but they’re Jaffa Cakes”.’
Lisa stared blankly at the box for a moment or two. ‘So?’
‘So they’re not biscuits.’
‘What are they then?’
‘Well . . .’ Simon took another sip of his tea. ‘They’re cakes, obviously.’
‘Cakes?’
He tapped the side of the box. ‘The clue’s in the name.’
‘Right.’
‘No problem. Easy mistake to make.’
Lisa sipped her tea and regarded Simon over the top of her mug. ‘Cakes.’
‘That’s right.’
She put her mug down, picked up a Jaffa Cake, and regarded it like an antiques expert might if checking out a potential fake. ‘What makes them cakes, exactly? Apart from the name.’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘They’re made of sponge,’ he said, as if delivering the killer blow in an argument.
‘But they’re the size of biscuits.’
‘Size isn’t important,’ said Simon, meeting her gaze across the coffee table. ‘It’s what they’re made of that counts.’
Lisa glared good-naturedly at him, then something occurred to her. ‘What about sponge fingers?’ she said, triumphantly. ‘They’re biscuits.’
‘Hardly.’
‘Well, they’re not cakes.’
‘They’re fingers.’
‘Like Cadbury’s Fingers. Which I think you’ll find are most definitely biscuits.’
‘But they’re made of biscuit!’
‘If you don’t want one, you just had to say . . .’
‘No, I’d love one,’ said Simon, quickly helping himself to a Jaffa Cake. ‘Might help take the taste of this disgusting tea away!’
Lisa’s eyes flashed at him, then she saw he was joking and she smiled. ‘I bet you never thought this evening’s conversation would be so . . .’
‘Stimulating?’ Simon laughed. ‘I suppose it beats “What’s your favourite colour?”’
Lisa turned red again, remembering that had been one of the questions he’d teased her about earlier. She sighed and, as if to make a point (though she wasn’t quite sure what point), she popped the whole Jaffa Cake in her mouth.
‘So, listen,’ she said, once she’d chewed and swallowed it. ‘Should we do our review of the date now, seeing as we’re here?’
‘Why not? Seeing as it’s going to be a good five or six hours before this tea has cooled down enough to drink.’
‘Excellent. We should make sure we get our stories straight. That way, when Jess . . . you know . . . So we look . . .’ Lisa found herself faltering a little. Somehow, it seemed a little disingenuous to talk about this now, after everything that had happened between them today. And a lot had happened, so unless they agreed between themselves what exactly they were going to report . . . ‘For example, this Jaffa Cake debate would make an amusing “Any awkward moments?” alternative to our actual awkward moment earlier.’
‘Which one?’
‘It hasn’t been that bad, has it?’
Simon took another tentative sip from his mug. ‘I suppose not,’ he said with a smile.
‘What was the highlight?’ Lisa said, before catching herself. ‘Was there a highlight?’
‘Actually, this last couple of hours has been pretty good.’ He indicated the two of them. ‘Just talking. Getting to know each other. Without any . . .’
‘Pressure?’
‘I was going to say “agenda”, but you’re right too.’ He grinned again. ‘And actually finding we do have stuff in common.’
‘We do?’ said Lisa, then she looked guiltily across at Simon. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so much like a question.’
He smiled. ‘We do,’ he said, dipping his Jaffa Cake into his tea, holding it there for a moment, then a moment longer. ‘Although there is one, possibly insurmountable, difference.’
‘Which is?’
Simon removed the Jaffa Cake to find the chocolate had melted clean off the dipped part, like the dirt from a half-dunked dish on a television washing-up liquid advert might.
‘This is definitely not a biscuit,’ he said.
Chapter 27
Simon watched Lisa suck absentmindedly on the end of her pen as she pored over the Gazette’s questions, the thump-thump of his trainers in the tumble dryer providing them with an almost-hypnotic drumbeat soundtrack. He wanted to help her look her best when the article came out – of course he did – but that meant putting himself out there as some sort of ‘catch’ too. And that was the last thing he wanted to do.
Will was always telling him he needed to ‘get back in the saddle’. That dating was ‘like riding a bike’. And while he knew Will meant that it was something you didn’t forget, you surely had to have been good at it in the first place, and Simon wasn’t sure he had been: before Alice, that kind of ‘riding a bike’ had never been something he’d felt completely comfortable about, as if he’d had his stabilisers removed a little too early in the learning process and was still a bit wobbly as a consequence.
Besides, if his experience over the last nine or so hours with Lisa was anything to go by, it was a miracle he’d even managed to get Alice to go out with him in the first place. It had been the weirdest day – and evening – of his life (well, second-weirdest, if you counted the night Alice died), and he supposed he’d be pleased when it was finally over. Though while he could see the logic in Lisa’s plan, he wasn’t actually sure he wanted to be a part of it – though he was worried that reluctance was purely for selfish reasons.
Lisa was alternating between frowning at the questionnaire and him now, so he drained the last of his tea and put his mug down, careful to locate it on the coaster rather than the polished wooden surface of the coffee table. A joke Will had made once about ‘putting a ring on it’ sprang to mind, and he thought about telling it to Lisa, but given her reaction to Chris and Cat’s engagement, he quickly decided against it.
‘Problem?’
‘The last-but-one question.’
‘What about it?’
‘See for yourself.’
She slid the paper across the table towards him, so he picked it up and scanned down to near the bottom of the page.
‘Ah.’
‘Yes. Ah.’
‘Shouldn’t we just put “no”?’
‘Well . . .’
‘It says “And did you kiss?”’
Lisa nodded, in that way people did when someone else was stating the blooming obvious. ‘I know.’
‘But we didn’t. Kiss.’
‘Ri-ight.’
Simon raised both eyebrows at Lisa’s elongation of the word. ‘What’s that supposed to mean.’
‘Well, here we are, giving each other a glowing review, having had a fabulously fun and romantic date, supposedly fancying the pants off each other, and we haven’t even kissed?’
‘So?’
‘Don’t you think that’s a little weird?’
Simon made a face, because what about today hadn’t been? ‘Don’t you think people are going to think it’s weird that we’ve had such a nice time and we aren’t together at the end of it?’
‘We’ll just tell
them it didn’t work out.’
Simon scrunched his face up. ‘Tell them?’
‘When they ask.’
He scrunched his face up even more, not sure who ‘they’ were. ‘Oh-kay.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I suppose you’re making a valid point.’ He realised he was still making a face, so he relaxed his features. ‘We’re constructing this fabulous date, and people are supposed to believe it’s come to nothing. Why wouldn’t it work out?’
‘Maybe you’re a lousy kisser?’
She’d obviously meant it as a joke – or, at least, he hoped she had – but Simon bristled a little. Particularly because Alice had always assured him of the opposite. ‘Maybe you are.’
‘I’ve never had any complaints!’
‘Neither have I!’
‘Perhaps it’s not the kind of thing people complain about. Did you think about that?’’
‘I think I’d be able to tell if I was doing it wrong.’
‘How?’
‘Trust me. I haven’t been.’
‘And neither have I!’
‘You do realise we’re arguing about a fictional event here?’ Simon rolled his eyes. ‘So let’s just put “yes”.’
‘Really?’ Lisa indicated the questionnaire’s various sections with her pen. ‘All I’m saying is, we did go on the Ferris wheel, have champagne in the pub, enjoy a romantic stroll with an ice cream on the Harbour Arm . . . We’re not lying about any of that.’
‘So, do you want to kiss?’
‘It’s not really a case of “want”, is it?’
‘So, we should?’
‘Don’t you think?’
‘Fine!’ said Simon, then he realised he sounded a little petulant. ‘So should we stand up, or just . . .’
He indicated the sofa, though he worried it might come across as suggesting they lie down on it. In any case, before he could correct himself, Lisa nodded.
‘Standing is good, I think.’
‘Right.’ He got to his feet, slid his mug away from the edge of the coffee table just in case, moved round to where Lisa was standing, then found himself doing that weird neck-rolling-loosening thing people did in films before attempting a particularly difficult rifle shot or fighting move. ‘Ready?’