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‘Strange diner place around the corner,’ he says. ‘My mate who works just over there in the timber yard? He calls it BackDonalds. Back alley McDonald’s?’
I smile, despite myself, despite how embarrassed I feel that Chloe wouldn’t speak to me; that her friends ushered her away like I was a school playground bully; that it happened in front of cool, together Jack Shurlock. ‘And does it taste how it sounds?’
‘Better,’ he says. ‘Like a .?.?. Big Mac with a criminal record.’
I nod. ‘Like a .?.?. Big Mac you wouldn’t want to take home to your mum?’ I offer, and Jack gives a slow smile.
‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘They might just let you in with a vision like that.’ And as a waitress dashes out of the café holding Petra’s sandwich in a white paper bag high in the air like a flag, Jack says, ‘Let’s drop this first. Then .?.?.’
‘Dark Web Big Mac.’
Chapter Ten
BackDonalds (or Bob’s, as it’s really called) is like stepping into a time warp. It’s a tiny, little slice of a café, between a bathroom showroom and a garden wholesaler, and as if its location wasn’t random enough, inside, it’s like someone pressed a big button and froze time in 1968. The tables are thick sheets of Formica-like plastic, curving down at the edges, and the chairs are padded with squeaky yellow pleather, the backs like one thick arch of grey, paint-sprayed metal. It reminds me of a retro Wimpy restaurant, or a forgotten Little Chef diner that never got a refurb, and on the wall above where Jack and I are sitting, at a two-seater table which is nailed to the floor, there’s a lone, contextless framed portrait of Elvis, sweating into a microphone.
‘This is .?.?.’ I whisper.
‘Mhm,’ says Jack, turning a laminated rectangle menu over in his hand.
‘Like, it’s .?.?. I feel like I’m stuck in a dream or something.A movie. Who’s that director, who does all the artsy, colourful—’
‘Wes Anderson.’ A smile tugs the corner of Jack’s mouth. ‘And I agree.’
‘It’s all the yellow, I think? The yellow walls, the – oh, wow, yellowceiling.’
We order – two cheeseburgers and two drinks; a mug of tea for me, an espresso for Jack – from a waitress who looks like my nan, and within moments, the drinks are plonked in front of us as if they were already there, waiting in the wings for us.
I sip; take deep a breath.
This isa lot, isn’t it? And, also, unexpected. Not only me, drinking tea in a (very) wet ruffled lilac blouse Cate convinced me was ‘really in right now’, the puff of the heater in the weird diner’s ceiling slowly drying my frizzing hair, but Jack Shurlock sitting opposite me, sipping his espresso, the cup small in his large hand. I’m not sure what this is, really. But I’m grateful to him. The way he stopped for me, the way he asked no questions when Chloe emerged from the café. The way he suggested this place. Warmth, and lunch, but tucked away from everyone else.
‘There’s only twenty minutes left of my lunch break,’ I tell him across the quiet table. ‘Do you think we’ll have enough time?’
Jack gives a shrug. ‘What’re they going to do?’
‘Erm, fire me?’
‘Yeah, well, you’re with me so – we’ll just make something up.’ Jack smiles slowly at me over his espresso cup.
OK, I know he’s being all Kind Colleague, but heishot, isn’t he? It’s that cool, mysterious edge, he has. Lin once orchestrated a really poor Mr and Mrs style quiz on a charity day, just to quiz Jack on his love life. The whole office discovered, after Jack sat back-to-back with another member of staff – a mere pawn in Lin’s game – that he was ‘single’, ‘dates sometimes’, and his last girlfriend lasted four months and he met her when she sat next to him on a train and borrowed his phone charger. He eventually got off the ‘hot seat’ (a computer chair with a printed A4 piece of paper labelled ‘hot seat’ in Times New Roman, stuck to the back rest) when Lin asked him if he’d ever sent a ‘sexy photo’ to someone. He’d laughed, swiped a hand under his chin, in a cutting motion, and, said, ‘What sort of game is this?’ then, ‘And, for the record, because it’s for a good cause .?.?.only when asked,’ and the whole office floor had burst into laughter as he smirked and walked away.
‘Make something up?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, I’ll just say I wanted to, um .?.?.’ He gestures with a blasé hand. ‘Quiz reception about the visiting process. Bring it up to date. Get your take.’
‘Reusable entry passes, if you’re asking,’ I reply. ‘Like the ones we have, but for visitors.’
‘Mm. I’m always losing my passes .?.?.’
‘I just think it would be good for the planet and the company.’
‘Right. Well, there we go then, Millie. We’ve got a solid alibi.’ He sips, as two men in high-vis jackets bundle in, dripping with rain.
‘Long day, John,’ one of them yawns, as the other says, ‘Yiiiip.’
Jack leans back easily in his chair. ‘So, I found a – forum post?’
‘Oh?’
