Page 39
“She doesn’t want to sit around a pub listening to us talk about marking.”
“Well, you can report back to her that I went on a date recently.” I don’t mention the name. He doesn’t know about Claire. I couldn’t bring myself to share with him that I got hit by the “it’s not you, it’s me” line. Seriously. I hadn’t realised people still said that.
“It obviously didn’t cheer you up,” James tells me. “You need to try again.”
He snags yet another chip. A perfect specimen with the ultimate level of crispiness.
“Oi.” I wave a hand at him. “I wouldn’t let a girlfriend steal my chips and I’m definitely not letting you.”
He dunks it into ketchup anyway. “Eat faster then. You’re picking at them. That’s essentially an invitation for those of us with quick hands to get involved.”
“Whatever, I’m full.” I shove the plate towards him and he immediately starts polishing off the rest.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he says around another mouthful. Sadly we’ve spent enough time together that I can decode what he’s saying even though to most people it would sound garbled.
“You live exclusively on beige food.”
“Says the man who ate toast for dinner three nights last week.”
“It was sourdough,” I reply. “There’s a difference. Wild strains of yeast are very important to me.”
James snorts. “Jesus Christ. You need a woman in your life.”
The pub garden is full around us. It’s probably the last sunny day of the year, a surprisingly hot afternoon for late September, and it seems like the entirety of London is determined to make the most of it. People are balancing pints on narrow railings, and I’m pretty sure half of them will have sunburn by the end of the day, because we’re British and if the sun is out we have to revel in it, before then loudly complaining it’s too hot. I hear someone proclaiming that you can’t burn in September and scoff. I’ve definitely seen it happen before.
A group of teenagers in matching football kits walk past along the towpath and James nods towards them.
“Any of them yours?”
I glance at the group. “Nope.”
The boys keep walking, shoving each other towards the ice cream van while one loudly argues about penalties. A spaniel wanders hopefully between the outdoor tables searching for dropped chips and immediately heads for James like it recognises a tender heart.
“You should come coach sometime,” I tell James. “They’re always looking for more people to help with the charity, and you’re good at sport.”
James looks horrified. “Thomas. You’ve seen me play football.”
“You’re enthusiastic.”
It’s true. He’s enthusiastic, but maybe not the best at football. Tennis is another story.
“I’m bad. Have you forgotten that own goal I scored in the staff vs students match. I haven’t and neither have any of the pupils. It gets brought up at least once a term.”
“It was windy,” I say supportively.
He laughs and pushes dark hair back from his forehead.
“Actually,” I start, “I had a new idea about the proposal, and yes before you stop me, I know it’s already submitted. But—”
“Sorry,” a woman’s voice interrupts me, slightly breathlessly. “Are these seats free?”
I look up. She’s wearing sunglasses pushed into her dark hair and holding an iced coffee, a phone and bag in one hand. It’s impressive.
“Go for it,” I say, shifting my chair slightly so she can squeeze past.
“Lifesaver.” She smiles quickly before dropping into the empty seat beside us on the picnic table. Another woman follows behind her carrying drinks.
James immediately gives me a look. The look is not subtle.
