‘Football every time.’
I tsk. ‘Honestly.’ I take one of the menus from between the salt and pepper pots in the middle of the table. ‘There’s loads of football and Wimbledon’s only once a year.’
‘In my defence—’ Tom puts his beer glass down and takes a menu too ‘—I’ve been a huge football fan – specifically Arsenal and England – since my early teens, initially because I wanted to fit in with my school friends and then because I just fell in love with the game. I like playing too. I’m in a five-a-side team that plays, badly, in a local league, and I love it. A great release from the rest of life.’
I nod. Fair enough. There are not many people who don’t need a release from life. In fact, I should admire Tom for the fact he can still be interested in football after his big Lola disappointment at the weekend.
Tom looks up from his menu. ‘I’m guessing you won’t be ordering the pea risotto or the broad bean and garden pea salad. Looks like it’s pea season.’
I laugh. ‘Yes, June’s a bad month for me to eat out.’
‘Kind of interesting to find out what your fake-other-half-for-the-evening’s going to choose?’ Tom says after a minute.
‘Totally,’ I agree. It’s strange having a fairly intense evening with someone the way we did on Saturday and feeling that you’ve got to know them quite well but also basically knowing absolutely nothing at all about them.
‘Easy choice for me.’ Tom puts his menu down. ‘Pie and chips.’ He glances up at the screen, which makes me realise that he very politely has not in fact looked at it for at least a couple of minutes. ‘With mushy peas on the side,’ he adds with relish. ‘You have to go classic pub food in a pub.’
‘Hmm,’ I say.
‘You planning to go non-classic?’
‘Kind of.’
I order linguine with prawns and chilli oil.
‘Not classic,’ Tom says after the server leaves us. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
While we’re waiting for the food, we order a second glass of rosé (me) and a pint (Tom). It’s no surprise to me that our drinks tastes are different, because it’s fast becoming apparent that we havenothingin common.
‘Wild camping?’ I repeat in horror when Tom asks if I like it. ‘As in with no campsite or loos or showers or electricity or anything? No. Definitely not.’
‘But there’s the beauty of waking up in the morning surrounded entirely by nature and absolutely nothing else,’ Tom says.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t mind a hike. And I said I’ll go glamping this summer for a long weekend with my brother and his wife and kids, and I’m genuinely looking forward to it, but I have no interest in being without a proper loo and running water for that length of time.’
‘Salsa dancing?’ Tom says a few minutes later, sounding aghast, when I mention how much I like it. ‘Certainly not for me.Pleasedon’t tell me that you’re going to need a plus-one for a salsa evening.’
‘Well, now you mention it… Next Friday…’
His eyes swivel and then he laughs when I say, ‘Joking.’
There’s a roar from a lot of people around us, and Tom looks over at the screen.
‘Yessss,’ he yells when he realises what’s happened.
He looks back at me, clearly having had to force himself not to continue looking at the screen, and I say, ‘That isverypolite of you but you have to watch the replay.’
He breaks into a wide grin, and says, ‘Yeah, I do.’
I watch it too and have to admit it was a very good goal.
The two teams are now one all, and there are only ten minutes left of the game.
‘So it’s a friendly? Is it important at all?’ I ask.
‘Kind of.’ Tom then – half an eye on the screen again – explains about preparation for the Euros and group stages and how England have been playing recently under their new manager and some other things that I immediately forget.
‘Let’s watch the rest of it,’ I say.
