Page 2 of Not in a Million Years

‘Oooh,’ he said. ‘Ambitious. Driven. Although not in the passenger seat of a banker’s Porsche.’

‘I mean, it’s not like I’d say no. I’m not too sure about the Gucci slippers though. They sound kind of naff. And who wears slippers, anyway, if they’re under sixty?’

Andy looked wounded. ‘I do, as it happens. Nothing I like better, after a hard day selling bad art to people who don’t realise it’s bad, than getting home, slipping into something comfortable and mixing myself a perfect dry Martini.’

‘You don’t play footie with this lot then?’ I asked, although I already knew the answer – it was as impossible to imagine Andy wearing shin pads and covered in mud as it was to imagine Ryan drinking a cocktail in designer loungewear.

‘Heaven forbid! I’m just here for the craic, although it seems to be in short supply. You’re the most interesting person here by far.’

I smiled, flattered but immediately feeling the pressure to do – or say – something that was actually interesting. I could quote Shakespeare, except I didn’t know any. I could buy a round of flaming sambucas, except I’d probably singe my own eyebrows off. I could rip my kit off and dance on the bar, except in a place this dodgy they’d probably think I was paid entertainment provided by the management.

I settled on, ‘So. Tea or coffee?’

Andy shouted with laughter. ‘Oh, so we’re playing that game. Coffee, of course. You?’

‘Coffee.’

‘Cats or dogs?’ he asked.

‘Cats, I guess. I don’t really have time or space for either right now – certainly not a dog. But we had a cat when I was growing up. It was cute.’

‘What was its name?’

‘Wanda. She was all-over black.’

‘No fucking way! I had a cat called Wanda growing up, too. After the John Cleese film?’

I nodded, feeling a massive smile spreading over my face.

Andy said, ‘And you wear an analogue watch, I see, not digital. That’s good. I could never be true friends with a tea-drinking, digital-wearing dog-lover.’

I racked my brains for my next question. ‘White bread or brown?’

Andy frowned. ‘I oughtn’t to eat bread at all, really. It’s so bloating. But oh my God, the joy of a plastic white sandwich on a hangover, with—’

‘Fish fingers?’

‘Yes! Or sausages. The really cheap lips-and-arseholes ones that are so, so wrong but also so right.’

‘Red sauce or brown?’ It was a trick question – I hoped it wouldn’t trip him up.

And it didn’t.

‘Red or brown sauce? What kind of heathen do you take me for? Mustard. The very hot English kind, to—’

‘Disguise the taste of the lips and arseholes?’

‘Precisely. Ideally eaten in bed, alone, so no one you want to impress sees you dripping butter on the sheets. Correct?’

‘It’s like you’ve got CCTV installed in my flat or something. So, next question. Do you—’

‘Oi!’ Ryan’s voice penetrated the increasing volume of the busy pub. ‘Why don’t you two bring over our drinks, instead of standing there yakking away? We’re all dying of thirst here.’

‘Sorreeeee.’ Andy gave me a theatrical roll of his eyes and I giggled conspiratorially.

Together, we ferried over the drinks and snacks.

The dynamic of the group had changed now that the men had turned up.

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