Me, You and Tiramisu. Charlotte Butterfield
and whether perspex platforms were going to make a comeback. Jayne had very little to contribute on either of these topics, so Marco being around actually worked in everyone’s favour.
How Jayne escaped relatively unscathed from the morning’s shopping she had no idea – in fact she was pretty certain Rachel and Marco would still be standing outside the changing room suggesting that if she leant forward, she could squeeze into the bodycon dress a little easier, had she not called time on the whole charade at about three. Jayne had got so bored she’d even resorted to taking armfuls of clothes into the cubicle with her, locking the door and then sitting in the corner playing solitaire on her mobile pretending to change, while her personal shoppers shouted out encouraging comments and questions, such as ‘what does the teal one look like?’ To which she’d replied things like, ‘what’s teal?’ while putting a three of clubs on top of a four of hearts.
They’d finally all decided that skinny jeans were not made for her – Jayne knew this after trying one pair on; why she had to try on a further three pairs was beyond her, ‘They’re different brands, so different cuts,’ was Marco’s reasoning, but she thought the clue was in the name. But the outfit that finally raised a smile from Rachel, jazz hands from Marco and an ‘Hallelujah’ from Jayne was a long maxi dress with a swirly paisley print in oranges and reds, which, according to Rachel, was very ‘retro-chic’ which was, apparently, a good thing.
That evening she teamed her new purchase with her failsafe denim jacket that had been a faithful staple of her wardrobe for a decade, big hoop earrings and, miracles of miracles, hair that seemed to instinctively know that it had to behave itself, and she was ready to go.
‘You look lush, Jayne, really lush.’ Rachel stood to give her a hug and Marco gave her a big thumbs-up from the sofa, where he was lounging, throwing cashews into his open mouth. ‘If you’re not coming home tonight, text me.’
‘Shut up, like that’s going to happen. It’s not even a date date. Just two friends talking about old times. Together. In a friendly, platonic, keeping-clothes-on kind of way.’
‘Oh okay. I’ll come too then, shall I?’ Rachel said mischievously.
‘Don’t you bloody dare. See you later!’
He was already sitting at the bar when Jayne walked in, and spotting her loitering at the door, gave a little salute. Oh God, he was gorgeous. She had a flashback to the restaurant last night, even once she had the gift of 20/20 vision, she’d been so overwhelmed with the reality of who he was she hadn’t fully comprehended quite how absolutely beautiful he was. The gaunt, lanky features of fifteen-year-old Billy had mellowed and softened, and thankfully his dark straggly mullet had since been ceremoniously lopped off. Even his childlike nickname had morphed into a more mature moniker that suited his new broad shoulders and strong silhouette. The ridiculously blue eyes that had once been hidden behind a centimetre-thick piece of glass were now dancing. He stood up as Jayne approached him – gentlemanly too, she thought – and he towered over her, which, as she was just shy of six foot herself, almost never happened.
‘Hey you.’
‘Hey.’
There was a semi-awkward moment where they both weighed up how to add an element of tactility to the greeting. Kiss, hug, both? Both it was. Excellent.
‘So we don’t see each other in eighteen years and then twice in twenty-four hours?’ He helped her shrug off her coat and hang it on the back of her chair. He even waited until she sat down to perch back up on the stool himself. ‘I ordered a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate. I know it’s essentially poor man’s fizz, but I thought this moment warranted something sparkly, and I am, lamentably, a poor man.’
Jayne grinned to put him at ease, and also to give her mouth something to do, ‘bubbles are bubbles to me, and that sounds super.’ Super? Super? Jesus, Jayne, why not just order lashings and lashings of ginger ale and be done with it.
After returning the bottle to the ice bucket on the bar he turned and held out a glass for her. ‘Here you go, Madam.’
‘Cheers, here’s to … erm … old friends?’
‘Old friends. And new beginnings.’ They tapped glasses, ‘Um, did that sound as cheesy as I think it did?’
Thankful that the first laugh of the night was aimed at his awkwardness and not hers, she giggled, ‘yes, a little bit, but I know what you mean.’ She could see his neck and cheeks colouring a little – if she didn’t know better she would say that he was nervous, which was ridiculous, he couldn’t be. That would be like Heidi Klum in awe at meeting Meatloaf. Rachel said she did this too much, exaggerate her flaws for comedic effect, and she knew she was right. Obviously she didn’t actually resemble Meatloaf, that would be incredibly unfortunate, but she was also fairly realistic that neither, sadly, would she ever be mistaken for a close, or even distant, relative of Ms Klum’s. Except perhaps in one of her annual over-the-top Halloween costumes. See? I did it again, Jayne thought.
‘So,’ Will said finally, taking a Dutch courage sip, ‘How were the last nineteen hours since I last saw you?’ Jayne started regaling him with the highlights of her day spent with the fashion police and soon they were both laughing, which proved to be quite difficult while balancing precariously on a barstool that was about half the width of her behind.
Thankfully, before too long a couple vacated the battered leather Chesterfield that was nestled at the end of the bar, so they could continue their inane banter in more comfort. They sat alongside each other, both turned inwards, he stretched his arm along the back of the sofa and Jayne kept getting whiffs of a heady combination of expensive aftershave that almost masked his coconut shampoo, and his natural masculine muskiness that made her want to run her tongue all over his face. She didn’t, though. Not yet.
He told her all about his day in the deli over a sharing platter of fried seafood, giving her enlightened observations on all the regulars that came in for a chat and a slab of stinky Italian cheese. It seemed to Jayne as if he’d built up a proper little community around his shop; she had no doubt that the quality of his produce was outstanding, but she was also absolutely certain that the Bugaboo Brigade found other reasons for choosing his establishment as their regular low-fat latte haunt – less to do with what was on the counter and more to do with what was behind it. He seemed totally oblivious to his own personal merits, though, just delighted that his carefully sourced prosciutto was garnering such a following. Bless him.
‘There’s this old dude called Bob the Boat because he lives on a canal barge,’
‘And his name is Bob?’ Jayne helpfully interjected.
‘Exactamondo. And by all accounts he was this proper Romeo back in the day, with a little black book of women that was not very little. He’s hilarious. He’s over eighty and is always entertaining different ‘companions’ on his barge – so he comes in for exotic ingredients for aphrodisiac canapés, dirty sod.’
‘Good on him.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Will raised his glass, ‘Here’s to Bob the Boat, and all who allow him to sail in them.’
‘Eugh! That’s gross! You’re gross.’
He paused for a moment, studying his glass before looking sideways at Jayne. He reached over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and said quietly, ‘And you’re beautiful. I thought it then, and I think it now.’
They half-walked, half-ran, doing a funny sort of power walk that Jayne had only ever seen lycra-bottomed mums with pushchairs and wrist weights doing along the towpath. Quickly weaving in and out of people meandering slowly along the pavement, Jayne didn’t know who was pulling whom along, they both seemed equally eager to reach their destination.
As soon as the door to his flat slammed behind them they’d collapsed on the stairs, ripping at each other’s jackets, buttons and belts. His fingers were in her hair, then tilting her chin so his lips could run around her neck, his teeth gently biting her earlobes. Her mouth desperately searched out his and their lips locked as they fumbled