And I hit him. ‘Cos even though I don’t care how much I eat and the food was delicious, I’m not turning into a porker like Olly Goddard. Not for anyone.
* * *
After we’ve dozed a bit, Posy ’s getting uncomfy and I have an idea.
“Let’s walk to the Country Kitchen.”
It takes some persuading, ‘cos Taff’s stiff and burning in places I don’t want to think about. But he grunts and heaves off the sofa and stretches his incredible arms out. We gather ourselves and our wits and our mitts and our coats, ‘cos it’s cold outside, and shouldn’t we take the Lamborghini or just stay in? He says with a grin. And again, he is nuzzling and pressing, caressing, but even though everything in me says ‘yes’, my outside is strong and well done, Miss Mint, I think, ‘cos eventually we leave. I’m wearing the peacock coat from last Saturday. The military boots. My chignon’s in place.
Well, maybe a little bit messy.
The Arts Centre’s rammed. We push through the jammed up weekenders, all down from the buzz of The City, which I think sounds fun, and settle for something light: maybe a bun.
We sit in the corner. Martha’s by herself, rushing round tables; a sinewy elf. But then she stops, sharp. The cake stand’s unclean; she gestures at someone.
I know it’s Miss Mint well before I see her. She’s wearing my top with the stain on the back and she’s using a mop by the counter. She puts it down, sighs, goes and sees what Martha wants. I can lip read but even if I couldn’t, I’d know it was about chocolate fudge.
“So what would you like?” I fold my arms and he says I look business-like, though his rippling, tweedy shoulders make me want to unfold them again and reach over macramé and ... but part of me’s feeling professional.
“So, what would you like?” breathes Miss Mint and I take a long gaze, though I know exactly what’s down on menu card.
He looks at her briefly, and I’m back at the fountain; that wink. He’s searching the card, though, after a drink. We choose ginger beer.
“Oh, right. Not Mint tea?”
His eyes sip her slowly. Almost tea-singly.
He can’t know her. Can he? Impossible. Surely.
Miss Mint’s face is blank as the page on her pad, ‘cos she’s a professional.
* * *
He tells me of races and rowlocks and drinking and men barking through loud loudspeakers; boats sinking and rude stories told over late curries. It’s like year 8 camp used to be and I think it’s quite funny how training means basically having a laugh with your friends. I tell him and he takes a second ... then says, “you’re right, Pheebles,” and laughs. And then it’s like adverts, where couples just laugh for no reason.
Miss Mint’s look reads treason as she comes towards us with the bill. I feel ill.
And he takes it and makes it still worse ‘cos he goes, “you’re a smart girl,” to Miss Mint and touches his nose in that way that means, “I know you know,” and my pulse starts to quicken. But then if I listen, he’s saying, “keep the tip, yeah?” and slipping ten pounds on the plate.
It’s quite late by the time we’ve shared lavender cake and I make a quick calculation: it’s half six now and he’ll want sex soon if I’m not the cox in this boat and I text Miss Mint. ‘Cos what I’m doing sux. But here goes. And I wonder if he and Miss Mint go for rows. Anyway, I say,
“I’m Miss Mint,” and he looks cheeky and says, “yes, Pheebs, I know.”
And I take a breath that has the potential to blow his mind, and I say,
“but inside I’m a girl. I’m fifteen.”
He drinks and then chokes. “This beer’s lively,” he says. “Quite a kick.”
And I stare at him hoping I won’t be sick and I know there’s no turning back now. And I wonder if he and Miss Mint often row. Martha’s put the ‘Closed’ sign up.
I tell Taff we’ve swapped.
He looks over towards the place that’s been mopped and itches his skull and flexes his knuckles and says, “god, I’m full. I’m not sure I’m up for much more, honestly. So how ‘bout we go home ...” his voice gets sexy.
“That’s what I’m trying to say: we can’t.” I don’t speak any more. I just watch myself swabbing down the tiled floor. “I’m underage really, and you’re nearly fifty. It’s all just so wrong.”
And he looks at me now, like I’m from Hong Kong.
“You’re serious,” he says, like I’ve turned on a light. And slowly he watches Miss Mint take a bite of the chocolate fudge cake, then put it back down.