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“We’re not a couple,” Jonathan and I say at the exact same time, which honestly isn’t the best evidence of our not-a-couple-ness.
“But yes,” Jonathan continues, “that’s probably the best option. We’ll get one half Wagyu Beef, one half margherita.”
“Oh come on,” I protest. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”
“There’s nothing wrong with margherita.”
“Of course there’s”—I realise the waiter is still, well, waiting, probably for drinks, so I order a coke and Jonathan orders a water—“of course there’s nothing wrong with a margherita,” I continue when the waiter’s gone. “There’s also nothingrightwith a margherita because a margherita is a nothing pizza. It’s just a cheese and tomato sandwich with extra steps.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a cheese and tomato sandwich either.”
Now I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose. “There is when you’re paying twenty-four quid for it in a restaurant in Shoreditch.”
“You’re the one who picked this place.”
“You’re the one who lives in a town where they charge you thirty quid for a pizza.”
I’m a bit startled when he flares up and not in the way I’m getting used to where it’s not exactly playful but it’s the closest he seems to come to it. “Can we not do the”—he lapses into a full Sheffield accent—“ee, by gum, that London’s right terribleroutine.”
My eyes have gone wide. “I’m just saying things are bit expensive down here. Because they are.”
“Yes, yes.” He frowns extra craggily. “Everything’s overpriced. People aren’t friendly enough. The ground’s too flat and the sky’s the wrong shade of grey. I’ve heard it all before. And, even with all that, ten million people choose to live here.”
There’s genuinely a part of me that thinks ten million people are very,verywrong. Or at least don’t know any better. But I’m getting the feeling it’ll go over badly. I decide to let it go, in the name of harmony and not getting everyone fired, but after we’ve sat there in silence for a few good minutes, I have to admit that letting it go isn’t what I’m doing. I’m more sort of wondering and maybe having one of those in-your-head-arguments you have when someone on telly says something you don’t agree with.
“Hang on a second,” I start. Well. Restart. “I thought this place made you feel unwelcome. You know with the rock star’s kids and the English students and that.”
“I’m not saying it’s perfect. I’m just very tired of people from the north banging on about how much better things are in a place they left for good reasons.”
“Jonathan,” I say gently. “Not to go out on a limb or anything, but am I right in thinking you’re not actually talking about me right now? You do remember I still live there, right? And I’ll be going straight back the moment the amnesia clears up.”
“I’ve seen where you live, Sam. I’m not entirely sure what the north is offering you.”
The pisser of it is, he’s got a point, and he doesn’t even know how much he’s got a point. “Hey, we have no idea why my flat’s like that. I could be in witness protection. Or it could be temporary. Tell you what, though, if I lived in London, I couldn’t afford a place as luxurious as that.”
The frown’s turned into a glower. Which is a frown that intends to stay for a while. “Firstly, you could. Your flat is dreadful. Secondly, in London you’d have better opportunities. At least you would if you had the initiative to take them.”
“Not everybody in London’s a millionaire.”
The waiter comes back nervously with the pizza. I’m sure he still thinks we’re a couple. Just now he also thinks we’re a couple who’s having a domestic.
“Thank you,” says Jonathan, and all the hostility goes out of his voice immediately. And it strikes me that being able to go from bollocking one person to being polite to another without missing a beat is a highly specific skill that I’m very glad I’ve never felt the need to develop.
“Your pizza,” the waiter tells us. “One half margherita, one half air-dried Wagyu Beef, truffle crème fraîche, cipollini onions, and salsa verde. Can I get you anything else?”
He can’t, so he goes. And we’re left eyeing each other over frankly too much pizza for which we’re paying frankly too much money.
“I know”—I can tell from Jonathan’s tone he’s trying to be conciliatory and I can tell from experience he’s not going to bevery good at it—“that not everyone in London is a millionaire. I’m an arsehole, not an idiot. But I’ve thrived in this city in a way my family could never have thrived in Sheffield.”
God, he’s a contradictory man. No wonder he’s grumpy all the time. “If Sheffield’s such a worthless dump, why’d you open a shop there?”
He’s silent for a long moment. “Sentiment.”
Then he cuts himself a slice of very boring pizza and eats it without further comment.
CHAPTER 15
Meeting on portobello road made a lot of sense when it was just going to be me coming in on my own on the tube and shanks’ pony, but it makes a whole lot less sense when it’s me and Jonathan and Jonathan’s car that he has to stick in long-stay car park whose prices I think even he would’ve complained about if we’d not been fresh off a row about exactly that sort of thing.
