‘Isn’t wildebeest a plural? What’s one wildebeest called?’
We both wrestle with this for a bit.
Andre clears his throat next to us. ‘Wildebeest is both the singular and plural noun,’ he says, before moving on to another group.
Zach leans across the table. ‘So, if you had to pick, which of your exes could be a murderer?’
‘What?’ I splutter, flecks of Malbec decorating the white tablecloth. Oops.
‘I was reading a feature in one of those real life magazines …’
‘Let me stop you there,’ I titter. ‘How did you find yourself reading a real life magazine?’ Zach’s eyes crinkle as he jots downnotes of wildebeestfollowed by a question mark. I think he’s growing suspicious of my wine musings.
‘I was at the hairdressers the other day and there was a bit of a queue and one thing led to another,’ he explains.
I laugh. ‘Makes sense. Do continue.’
‘I read an article about a woman whose ex-boyfriend had gone on to kill someone. He’s in prison now and she was saying how she had never suspected he could be capable of that while they were together. Isn’t that weird?’
‘Christ, yes. Imagine.’
‘So I’m wondering which of your exes could fall into the I-can’t-believe-he’s-a-murderer category.’
‘And to think that just moments ago we were discussing glitter pens for six-year-olds,’ I chuckle. My mind scrolls back through previous flings like a rolodex. ‘Hmm. I never got to know any of them that well but I did go out with a guy who insisted on having his pasta sauce served in a separate bowl at dinner …’
‘As an Italian, I can confirm that is truly murderous behaviour.’
‘And then there was Pete, who measured his biceps every day to check for progress. Something to do with gains?’
‘I already don’t like him.’
‘Yeah but, you know, none of them lasted. I dumped one guy when I found out his most-used emoji wasn’t the crying-with-laughter one.’
Zach laughs. ‘Wow. I’ve always known I’m incredibly lucky to get beyond date three with you and now you’ve proved it.’
‘Date W. That’s twenty-three dates! An absolute PB for me,’ I say, incredulous, as Andre arrives with a splash of German Riesling.
‘This Riesling brings tropical notes on the nose,’ he informs us.
Zach has a sniff. ‘Absolutely,’ he nods, flashing me a look that tells me he’s cottoned on to my game. ‘I’m getting mango and pineapple. Watermelon and coconut. Sun cream and a ninety-nine with a flake.’
Andre looks less pleased with Zach’s final two observations and moves over to a couple of middle-aged men who seem to be taking the tasting far more seriously.
‘Do you get ninety-nines with a flake in the tropics?’ I giggle.
‘I let the seaside theme go too far,’ Zach laughs.
‘I’d love an ice cream,’ I admit, stomach rumbling on cue. I’m feeling quite tipsy now.
‘Didn’t you eat before we got here?’
‘Nope,’ I chuckle.
The good news is I’m definitely not drunk. Nope. I’m as sober as a judge, if, for example, said judge was coming to the end of a booze cruise around the Mediterranean Sea. It’s that lovely kind of drunk, though. The one where you feel all soppy and so filled up with love it’s like someone’s attached you to a helium canister.
Helium. Like the birthday balloons when Zach took me to Avignon. God that was sweet, wasn’t it? Veeeeerrrrrrryyyyyyy romantic.
Discreetly, I disguise a hiccup with another sip of … what is this?
