He takes a step closer and drops his voice. ‘If it’s any help, the goalie in our Sunday league side spent timeinside. If you know what I mean.’
What’s he getting at? Is he trying to set me up with a friend? Leading with the fact he’s been in prison is hardly going to set my heart aflutter.
‘Right.’
Stav swallows. ‘He can make problems go away.’
‘Go away?’
‘He’s got access to an industrial concrete mixer.’
For a moment, I’m not sure I heard right. ‘You’re asking if I want Rich bumped off?’
Surely he’s joking? I’ve heard about their jailbird goalie. He went to prison for VAT fraud. He’s hardly Don Corleone.
‘Nah, just a quick roughing up. Nothing permanent. Unless—’
I grab his arm to stop him. ‘Rich did a shitty thing, but I can handle it. I don’t need him fitted for concrete shoes.’
He grins reassuringly; he’s been pulling my leg.
‘Just thought I’d mention it.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment.’
‘He’s a shite goalie, but we can’t kick him off the team.’ He looks serious again. ‘For obvious reasons.’
I look around for Yan so I can ask him to discreetly check if Stav was joking, but he’s not here. Has the cheeky bugger bailed early? Pen appears with a tray of crudités, and I ask if she knows.
‘Oh, the agency rang. He was needed to cover a chef at the last minute.’
Yan works undeniably hard, pulling evening shifts as a chef while his days are spent renovating an old pub to turn it into a bistro, but I suspect his early departure is less about making endsmeetand more about getting endsaway.
If I have to stand around eating mini pittas with low-fat houmous while concerned family members cast me pityinglooks, the least he could have done was keep me company. Instead, I have to fend for myself, a fake smile plastered to my face so no one assumes I want my boyfriend murdered by Ealing’s cut-price Godfather.
My aching face muscles are saved by Tig doing what Tig does best: demanding attention. Looking her usual glamorous self in a black sequinned jumpsuit and strappy gold heels, she taps her wine glass and clears her throat. It’s like a bat-signal that brings Mum and Auntie Toulla rushing from the kitchen.
‘Hey, guys,’ Tig begins. ‘Theo and I wanted to thank you for coming at such short notice and helping us celebrate our very special news. It’s been a whirlwind six and a half months since Theo walked into my office to complain about a mistake on his tax return.’
‘I was very polite about it,’ Theo interjects.
She smiles at him. ‘Of course you were, babe. I was supposed to be working from home that day, plus he wasn’t one of my clients, but something told me I needed to help him.’
‘Imagine if you hadn’t,’ he says, gazing at her.
‘You would have overpaid HMRC five hundred pounds.’ This raises a laugh. ‘But obviously, the main benefit was meeting me.’
He leans down and kisses her on the cheek.
‘Okay, that’s not the reason I wanted to say a few words.’ She glances at Mum, who nods in encouragement. ‘As some of you know, Theo’s Dad recently suffered a massive heart attack, and when stuff like that happens, it really puts things in perspective.’
She’s rosy-cheeked from Prosecco as she gives Theo a shy smile. ‘So, for that reason, we’ve already set a date for the wedding – the thirtieth of July.’
She’s talking about next year, right? She can’t mean in three weeks’ time.
Granny Maria has the same question.
And when Tig confirms it’sthisyear, she shakes her head, and tells her she’ll never get the church at short notice. Not if Father Michalis is on annual leave in Greece.
