to you beside car. I had seen wedding ring in bar. So this way, with note, I think if she call perhaps she not so happily married. Perhaps I have chance.’
‘Perhaps,’ I hear my mother say.
I am lost for words.
‘So what do we do?’ he whispers, and he grins that mayhem-causing grin again.
‘ What do we do with the drunken sailor? What do we do with the dr–’ my dad sings until I bark at him.
Then I look at Andrey again. ‘We don’t do anything. You’re forgetting something. I didn’t call.’
His smile falters, like a man who is not used to having to take a cold shower. ‘Of course. You are married.’ His mouth moves in to my ear again making a warm breeze that sends a tickle around my neck and for some totally mad reason I think he’s going to kiss me. ‘Happily married, right?’ He pulls away, his pupils impressing on mine, starting little flames in me. ‘He’s a lucky guy. Nice meeting you heh?’ he says, and then he turns and he walks away.
‘Oh he’s going? Shame.’ My dad doesn’t take his eyes off his paper. ‘Let’s call him back. I was starting to like him.’
Chapter Four
Newcastle beat Millwall 2-0. It was a good match, as football matches go. Last of the season. Free tickets are one of the perks of my job. I grab Rob’s arm and dodge Arnold Swinburn and his wife coming out of the private box from where the Manager’s family and the other bigwigs view the game. ‘With an arse on her like that no wonder he’s after you,’ Rob says. We file out with the crowd that’ll soon be stampeding down Northumberland Street like a herd of manic, dyspeptic zebra chanting Howay the Lads!—the local anthem. Then they’ll barge into the Bigg Market pubs where they’ll drink beer until closing time before staggering onto the last Metro home with all the wasted twelve-year-olds in their underwear.
Rob’s going away tomorrow to suss out a contract job for some show-homes in Penrith so we won’t be late home. Besides, we feel a bit guilty about leaving the puppy. ‘Don’t want him getting depressed,’ as Rob said.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘or then he might do something really terrible like phone the Samaritans and hang himself with his rope toy when they can’t make sense of his bark.’
‘You’re a hard-hearted woman,’ my husband playfully scolded me. But this is our Saturday date thing: my rule. Nothing gets in the way of that, be it animal, vegetable or mineral. Speaking of animals, we go to that Italian ice-cream place that’s run by a couple of horn-dog Italian brothers, in the gorgeous building that used to be Lloyd’s Bank. The younger one sits by the espresso machine and says ‘Ciao bella!’ to my breasts. Rob deliberately plants himself in front of the Italian, arms crossed manfully over manful chest, (‘penis-measuring’, as Leigh calls it), waiting to be greeted too. But the Italian completely ignores him. I order coffee. Rob swaggers to the freezer to look at ice-cream flavours, sending me sidelong glances as the Italian carefully flirts with me. I can’t look at my husband or I’ll laugh.
We take my coffee and Rob’s espresso gelato and claim an outdoor table overlooking the majestic Theatre Royal that’s just turning out its crowd of matinee goers. The sun is high and bright, but it’s crisp out, not nearly as warm as it was. ‘Come here,’ Rob picks a hair off my eyelash. ‘Another one of the flies is he?’
I slump across the table. ‘Could be.’
‘You get them don’t you? The real lookers.’
‘Ooh! Mee-ow!’ I mimic clawing and watch his lips fasten around the spoon.
He narrows those sapphire pools for eyes. ‘Wha’? Me jealous of an ice-cream man with a funny accent? That’ll be the day.’
‘Yeah but they say Italians are good lovers.’
‘What with? Their average height’s only four feet three. You’d probably need an ultrasound to find it.’ He shoves another spoonful in his mouth while I chuckle. ‘He’s generous
‘Perhaps,’ I hear my mother say.
I am lost for words.
‘So what do we do?’ he whispers, and he grins that mayhem-causing grin again.
‘ What do we do with the drunken sailor? What do we do with the dr–’ my dad sings until I bark at him.
Then I look at Andrey again. ‘We don’t do anything. You’re forgetting something. I didn’t call.’
His smile falters, like a man who is not used to having to take a cold shower. ‘Of course. You are married.’ His mouth moves in to my ear again making a warm breeze that sends a tickle around my neck and for some totally mad reason I think he’s going to kiss me. ‘Happily married, right?’ He pulls away, his pupils impressing on mine, starting little flames in me. ‘He’s a lucky guy. Nice meeting you heh?’ he says, and then he turns and he walks away.
‘Oh he’s going? Shame.’ My dad doesn’t take his eyes off his paper. ‘Let’s call him back. I was starting to like him.’
Chapter Four
Newcastle beat Millwall 2-0. It was a good match, as football matches go. Last of the season. Free tickets are one of the perks of my job. I grab Rob’s arm and dodge Arnold Swinburn and his wife coming out of the private box from where the Manager’s family and the other bigwigs view the game. ‘With an arse on her like that no wonder he’s after you,’ Rob says. We file out with the crowd that’ll soon be stampeding down Northumberland Street like a herd of manic, dyspeptic zebra chanting Howay the Lads!—the local anthem. Then they’ll barge into the Bigg Market pubs where they’ll drink beer until closing time before staggering onto the last Metro home with all the wasted twelve-year-olds in their underwear.
Rob’s going away tomorrow to suss out a contract job for some show-homes in Penrith so we won’t be late home. Besides, we feel a bit guilty about leaving the puppy. ‘Don’t want him getting depressed,’ as Rob said.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘or then he might do something really terrible like phone the Samaritans and hang himself with his rope toy when they can’t make sense of his bark.’
‘You’re a hard-hearted woman,’ my husband playfully scolded me. But this is our Saturday date thing: my rule. Nothing gets in the way of that, be it animal, vegetable or mineral. Speaking of animals, we go to that Italian ice-cream place that’s run by a couple of horn-dog Italian brothers, in the gorgeous building that used to be Lloyd’s Bank. The younger one sits by the espresso machine and says ‘Ciao bella!’ to my breasts. Rob deliberately plants himself in front of the Italian, arms crossed manfully over manful chest, (‘penis-measuring’, as Leigh calls it), waiting to be greeted too. But the Italian completely ignores him. I order coffee. Rob swaggers to the freezer to look at ice-cream flavours, sending me sidelong glances as the Italian carefully flirts with me. I can’t look at my husband or I’ll laugh.
We take my coffee and Rob’s espresso gelato and claim an outdoor table overlooking the majestic Theatre Royal that’s just turning out its crowd of matinee goers. The sun is high and bright, but it’s crisp out, not nearly as warm as it was. ‘Come here,’ Rob picks a hair off my eyelash. ‘Another one of the flies is he?’
I slump across the table. ‘Could be.’
‘You get them don’t you? The real lookers.’
‘Ooh! Mee-ow!’ I mimic clawing and watch his lips fasten around the spoon.
He narrows those sapphire pools for eyes. ‘Wha’? Me jealous of an ice-cream man with a funny accent? That’ll be the day.’
‘Yeah but they say Italians are good lovers.’
‘What with? Their average height’s only four feet three. You’d probably need an ultrasound to find it.’ He shoves another spoonful in his mouth while I chuckle. ‘He’s generous
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