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‘Why?’ George asked, looking up from the food.
‘The way the restauranteur fussed over you, like you are someone special. It’s like being out with a prince or a film star.’
‘Ah, you caught me out. I must confess.’ George tried to look guilty. ‘I guess it must have been my hair colour that gave it away.’
Millie stared at him, a puzzled crease dividing her eyebrows, and he leant across the table, whispering, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but my real name is Henry. Full name, middles names included, Henry, Charles, Albert, David. Harry for short, but I go by the name of George when I’m out and about for security reasons.’
Millie’s frown deepened, then all at once cleared. ‘No, it’s not,’ she laughed. ‘You are nothing like Prince Harry, and you’re older.’
‘Guilty as charged.’ George held up his hands. ‘But you’ve got to agree I’m more handsome.’
‘And so modest too.’ Millie grinned, eyes sparkling again.
George fizzed with excitement. She really seemed to like him. He could make her laugh, even be boastful in a jokey way and get away with it. He watched as she took a chunk of naan bread and dipped it into her curry, delicately trying the flavour.
‘Hmmm,’ she said, eyes closing in pleasure. ‘This is very good.’
‘I’m glad you like it. Cheers.’ He lifted his glass and clinked it against Millie’s.
She put down her bread and picked up her drink.
‘Slainte mhath,’ she said.
They drank together, each watching the other over the rim of their glass. George felt so happy. He didn’t think he had ever experienced such a bubbling up, a frothing over of joy. This had turned into a wonderful day.
Millie took a sip and asked, ‘What does your father do, George? And don’t you dare tell me his name is Charles.’
George choked on his beer. He tried to speak, he tried to breathe, but there seemed to be a blockage. The more he tried to talk, the tighter the constriction in his throat became. He coughed, swallowed hard, and made a sound like a door hinge in need of oil. ‘My fa-father? Actually, he’s… he’s–’ He wheezed and gasped for air. ‘He’s a–a… in business, lo-local b-business man.’ A rasping sound came from his throat and George swallowed and gulped, eyes watering.
‘Are you all right, George?’
‘Yes, yes…’ he swallowed. He coughed again and expelled some words, ‘Beer, the beer went down the wrong w-way, that’s all.’
Mr Patel appeared at his side, solicitously slapping George’s back, offering water, a doctor, his wife, the Heimlich manoeuvre … anything.
George shook his head, tears streaming down his face. ‘No, (cough) no… I’m fine. Really, I am. I just (cough) swallowed the wrong way, that’s all. Really.’
At last, his breathing settled and though his throat was sore, George could speak again. But Mr Patel was still mightily concerned, and insisted on supplying more beer, on the house.
George sat amid the diminishing crisis, dabbing his still watering eyes and decided the evening had been ruined.
