Oh God. I knew what Alice was doing and however well-intentioned, it had the cringe-inducing whiff of trying to set me and Simon up.
‘That’s incredibly kind of you,’ said Simon, ‘I would love to – but can we give it a couple of weeks? I’ve got so many work meetings to organise.’
I tried not feel a bit slighted. Because even though I didn’t want to go either, Simon ducking out of time with me still stung.
‘Oh, Zoë’s like that,’ said Alice. ‘You either have to book her weeks in advance, or catch her on a night where her plans have been unexpectedly cancelled.’
An idea was dawning on Simon – I could see it on his face. ‘Are you guys free tonight, by any chance?’ Alice was nodding even before he’d finished his sentence. ‘Not for dinner, or anything,’ he continued, ‘it’s just that there’s a gig I was considering checking out.’
My professional antennae twitched and not in a good way. ‘Gig?’
‘I was chatting to Pete about bands we both liked and this one happened to come up.’
When had my brother discussed music with Simon? Pete’s taste ranged from Bruce Springsteen to the Village People, with a dash of prog rock for good measure. If Si was about to suggest we go on a group jolly to see Rush, I was going to scream louder than Geddy Lee.
‘What’s the band, Si?’
‘It’s actually the singer I knew from university. Do you remember Rydell and Jessica Honey?’
Her name was a blast of arctic air from the past. Jessica was the girl Simon had crushed on at university; how close they’d come to doing anything about it, I’d never been able to ascertain.
I’d been thrilled when Simon came back to theUKto do his degree, only to discover that he ended up at Edinburgh – about as far from Exeter, where I was, as it was possible to get.
And then he fell in with Jessica Honeywell. Or rather, Jessica Honey as the press soon dubbed her, because good-looking female musicians needed to be put in their place with infantilised nicknames.
‘Are you still in touch with her, then?’
I might have sounded accusatory, but no one seemed to notice.
‘No, I just follow her on Instagram,’ he replied. ‘She posted about this gig. I was up early because of my jet lag and was trawling social media to pass the time.’
Pete returned with the coffees, followed by Mum who was carrying a giant fruit bowl and motioning at me to offer it to Simon.
‘Have some clementines, Si,’ I said, happy to distract everyone from Jessica Honey with citrus fruit.
‘I couldn’t,’ he replied, tapping his stomach.
‘I have bananas and kiwis, too,’ said Mum, undaunted. ‘And a watermelon in the garage.’ Without waiting for anyone to respond, she went on. ‘I’ll tell your father to go and get it.’
She called my dad over, who muttered something about the watermelon not being very good because Mum had gone to the wrongbakali(grocer). ‘I can drive to the Kurdish shop,’ he said. ‘His watermelons are the best.’
‘Only if you know how to pick them,’ said Mum. ‘You have to look at the stem. You never do unless I remind you.’
‘No, you have to tap it. A ripe one makes the perfect sound.’
‘You can’t go round smacking every watermelon in the crate,’ said Mum. ‘That man in Wembley told you off last time you tried. That’s why we don’t shop there anymore.’
‘No, the reason we don’t go there is because he gets his watermelons from Holland.’
Mum nodded and muttered something in Greek that sounded suspiciously like: ‘Blessed Virgin Mary save us from Dutch watermelons.’
‘Why don’t you get amelonmelon instead,’ suggested Pete.
‘I can’t eat melon,’ said Dad. ‘Too sweet.’
Pete rolled his eyes. ‘Says the man who mainlines Ferrero Rocher.’
‘Right, I’ll go and get the car keys,’ said Dad, whose appetite had no doubt been whetted for a spot of chocolate, too.
