bucket.’
‘Not sure my liver’s worth stealing,’ he says, draining the last of the wine. ‘I’ll take my chances. How long’s the walk, twenty minutes?’
‘Twenty-five?’
‘That gives us just under an hour. Can we do another bottle in fifty minutes, do you think?’
We’re walking, well, wobbling, into Chinatown from the pub we went to after the cinema. I’m still clutching the roses, though I wonder, if I ditched them now, would Adam try to hold my hand?
This day is turning out so much better than I could have planned. Half a custard doughnut is betterthan no custard doughnut. Half a custard doughnut shared with an extremely cute, funny man is much, much better than a whole custard doughnut eaten alone. Half a custard doughnut, and then wine, and a walk, and a film, and another bottle of Rioja, and now a stroll into Soho as the sky turns to night . . . This might just be the perfect Sunday.
‘Ridley Scott will never do anything that touches Blade Runner ,’ says Adam as we cross the road and he moves to walk on the pavement side.
‘ Thelma and Louise is much better than Blade Runner .’
‘Ivan, one of the guys I work for, is trying to make a film. He keeps flying to LA, telling us he spotted Arnie in Malibu and Clooney down at Whole Foods . . .’
‘What’s the story?’
‘He’s hoping for Scorsese or Coppola to direct but he’ll be lucky toget some talented kid out of film school.’
‘No, I mean what’s the film about?’
‘Oh – it’s his life story: Russian makes his first five million in a dodgy gangster deal, then goes on to run incredibly successful global business, buys mansion in Holland Park, marries trophy wife, applies for planning permission for a double basement extension . . .’
‘Rags to riches, hold the rags . . . And thisguy’s your boss?’
‘One of three, yeah.’
God, I absolutely wish this guy did not work in the City. He must be a hedge funder or some other blood-sucking Master of the Universe vampire type.
‘Please – let’s not talk work,’ he says. ‘I’ve got at least twelve hours before I have to go back in, and I’m having such a good time right now.’
Me too.
‘Those roses are starting to look the worse forwear,’ he says, taking them from me. ‘They don’t smell of anything, do they?’
I shrug. ‘I’m more of a tulip girl myself.’
‘Why don’t we give them to whoever at that bus stop looks most in need?’
Of course, how sweet. ‘You do it? I’m quite shy about talking to strangers.’
‘Apparently not when there’s a doughnut involved . . .’
‘How about that woman in the grey coat?’
He walks over and thewoman looks up warily. He starts explaining, points to me, then she nods, shrugs and takes them. After he’s headed back I see her smile the sort of shy smile that can’t help itself. It’s the same smile that’s on his face.
‘Why did you buy them, though, if you don’t like them?’ he says.
‘I didn’t . . .’
‘I knew there had to be something wrong with you . . . doughnut thief, organ thief, flowerthief, is there no end to your bad behaviour?’
‘Someone bought them for me.’
‘Oh.’ He’s about to say something, then stops himself. His face looks exactly the way mine would if he’d just turned around and said he had a girlfriend. Slightly crushed, slightly confused, trying to work out what to say next.
If I wanted to be mysterious or try to make him jealous, I could tell him about Russellin a way that made me look more desirable. ‘Some guy I’m seeing . . . nothing serious of course . . . though clearly he thinks I’m flower-worthy . . .’ But I’m not mysterious, and I would hate someone to try to make me jealous in that way. And besides, why wouldn’t I tell him the truth? I’m not a liar.
‘I had a date this morning . . .’
‘First date?’
‘Fourth.’
‘Going somewhere.’
‘No. Not really.I mean, not now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Basically he went out
‘Not sure my liver’s worth stealing,’ he says, draining the last of the wine. ‘I’ll take my chances. How long’s the walk, twenty minutes?’
‘Twenty-five?’
‘That gives us just under an hour. Can we do another bottle in fifty minutes, do you think?’
We’re walking, well, wobbling, into Chinatown from the pub we went to after the cinema. I’m still clutching the roses, though I wonder, if I ditched them now, would Adam try to hold my hand?
This day is turning out so much better than I could have planned. Half a custard doughnut is betterthan no custard doughnut. Half a custard doughnut shared with an extremely cute, funny man is much, much better than a whole custard doughnut eaten alone. Half a custard doughnut, and then wine, and a walk, and a film, and another bottle of Rioja, and now a stroll into Soho as the sky turns to night . . . This might just be the perfect Sunday.
‘Ridley Scott will never do anything that touches Blade Runner ,’ says Adam as we cross the road and he moves to walk on the pavement side.
‘ Thelma and Louise is much better than Blade Runner .’
‘Ivan, one of the guys I work for, is trying to make a film. He keeps flying to LA, telling us he spotted Arnie in Malibu and Clooney down at Whole Foods . . .’
‘What’s the story?’
‘He’s hoping for Scorsese or Coppola to direct but he’ll be lucky toget some talented kid out of film school.’
‘No, I mean what’s the film about?’
‘Oh – it’s his life story: Russian makes his first five million in a dodgy gangster deal, then goes on to run incredibly successful global business, buys mansion in Holland Park, marries trophy wife, applies for planning permission for a double basement extension . . .’
‘Rags to riches, hold the rags . . . And thisguy’s your boss?’
‘One of three, yeah.’
God, I absolutely wish this guy did not work in the City. He must be a hedge funder or some other blood-sucking Master of the Universe vampire type.
‘Please – let’s not talk work,’ he says. ‘I’ve got at least twelve hours before I have to go back in, and I’m having such a good time right now.’
Me too.
‘Those roses are starting to look the worse forwear,’ he says, taking them from me. ‘They don’t smell of anything, do they?’
I shrug. ‘I’m more of a tulip girl myself.’
‘Why don’t we give them to whoever at that bus stop looks most in need?’
Of course, how sweet. ‘You do it? I’m quite shy about talking to strangers.’
‘Apparently not when there’s a doughnut involved . . .’
‘How about that woman in the grey coat?’
He walks over and thewoman looks up warily. He starts explaining, points to me, then she nods, shrugs and takes them. After he’s headed back I see her smile the sort of shy smile that can’t help itself. It’s the same smile that’s on his face.
‘Why did you buy them, though, if you don’t like them?’ he says.
‘I didn’t . . .’
‘I knew there had to be something wrong with you . . . doughnut thief, organ thief, flowerthief, is there no end to your bad behaviour?’
‘Someone bought them for me.’
‘Oh.’ He’s about to say something, then stops himself. His face looks exactly the way mine would if he’d just turned around and said he had a girlfriend. Slightly crushed, slightly confused, trying to work out what to say next.
If I wanted to be mysterious or try to make him jealous, I could tell him about Russellin a way that made me look more desirable. ‘Some guy I’m seeing . . . nothing serious of course . . . though clearly he thinks I’m flower-worthy . . .’ But I’m not mysterious, and I would hate someone to try to make me jealous in that way. And besides, why wouldn’t I tell him the truth? I’m not a liar.
‘I had a date this morning . . .’
‘First date?’
‘Fourth.’
‘Going somewhere.’
‘No. Not really.I mean, not now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Basically he went out
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