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It’s possibly the weirdest thing he could have said. “No. Also it’s fucking nachos. Also it’s America, so technically it’s all foreign.”
Jonathan shakes his head like he’s trying to clear out a cobweb. “Sorry, private joke. When we used to come here with Granddad John, he’d always refuse to get the nachos because they were too foreign. He felt similarly about pizza.”
“But burgers are somehow inherently British?”
“In his defence, he’d usually get the steak. But either way he can’t really clarify because, well, he’s dead.”
“Sorry.”
For a moment Jonathan stares at his cutlery. “It’s been a long time. I barely remember him, to be honest.”
“Still sad, though.”
He nods. “A bit.”
“So Pauline’s been on her own a while then?”
I’m just trying to make conversation, but I worry I’ve gone somewhere a bit too personal, because Jonathan gets all withdrawn and introspective. “I’ve tried to get her to come to London, but she won’t have it. And the home’s the best I could find.”
“I’m sure you’ve done right by her,” I say, partly to be comforting and partly because I’m sure he has.
Things have that air of being about to get awkward, but then we’re saved by the arrival of the waiter. It’s a pretty simple operation, nachos to share, a burger each, a strawberry milkshake for me and—after a moment’s hesitation—a vanilla milkshake for Jonathan.
“A vanilla milkshake?” I ask, as the waiter departs.
Jonathan frowns in a way I’ve learned to recognise as the fun kind of angry. “What’s wrong with vanilla milkshakes?”
“You could have had any other flavour.”
“Yes, but I’m not six.”
I laugh. “You’re having a milkshake. Sophistication has very much left the building.”
“I like vanilla,” Jonathan says defensively. “It’s a milkshake at its…milkshakiest.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. But I feel very strongly about it.”
I’ve still not figured out how to tell when Jonathan Forest’s trying to be amusing. Mind you, I’m not sure he knows either. So I smile at him anyway because, even when he’s not trying, he makes me happy. Happy in a way I’m well aware can’t last but I like anyhow.
“What?” Jonathan demands.
“Nothing,” I tell him. And it’s not really nothing. It’s a complex mix of somethings, not all of which I’m entirely able to put names on. Because, at the end of the day, he is still planning on firing Brian. Which makes it a bit hard to just sit here enjoying milkshake-themed banter. Except that’s exactly what I’m doing.
And maybe Jonathan’s got his own mix of somethings going on because this silence falls across the table. Finally, he tries, “I can’t believe you’ve lived in Sheffield for two years and never come here.”
I think about saying I might have but I can’t remember. The problem is, though, it feels wronger and wronger to lie to him, even about stuff that doesn’t matter. Not that the truth is much better. “I don’t eat out much,” I say.
He seems to consider this for longer than necessary. “Because of the cost? Or is it a health thing?”
He’s being peculiar, even for him. “No, I just really want to see the restaurant industry collapse out of pure spite.”
“Sam, I know I’m not good at small talk, but I am genuinely trying.”
“Trying to what? We’re just getting something to eat.” Fuck, I think I might be lying to him again. But, in my defence, I’m lying to myself too. “It’s no different from that time I had a Wagyu Beef pizza.”
And, once again, he’s quiet. “But it is, isn’t it?”
