Page 57 of A Night with Damien Spur

He went to the men’s room, had a pee, washed his hands, combed his hair and checked his face in the mirror. Good thing he had. There was a piece of spinach stuck between his teeth.

He’d made himself a smoothie before he left. Spinach and carrot.

Kate had laughed. ‘How could you drink that revolting mess? You’re such a masochist.’

‘Well, why don’t you cook me bacon and eggs instead?’ he said, pouring his juice into a Thermos flask.

‘You’re much better at fry-ups than I am,’ she replied. ‘And anyway, I don’t have time in the morning. Have to be at school at 8 a.m. And you know I like to have a lie-in on weekends.’

Nicholas averted his eyes. She used to be so different when they first met. Even made him soufflés.

No point in trying. She wasn’t going to change. ‘Bye, Kate,don’t wait up for me,’ he said.

Nicholas was nervous. Sophie seemed so cool before she’d left for France. And for two weeks she had barely answered his texts.

At last the Bordeaux passengers were coming through arrivals.

And here was Sophie. She looked happy. Striding through the lounge with her trolley.

Nicholas stood between the waiting minicab drivers holding up their placards. ‘Sophie,’ he shouted, and waved at her. She didn’t hear him.

He shouted again.

She turned round and saw him. He looked just as he always did. Bright eyed, smiling, wearing a white shirt and pale blue jeans.

Don’t give in, Sophie. What’s the point? You’ve made up your mind, now stick to it.

Sophie stood her ground as he made his way over to her.

‘Well, this is a surprise. What are you doing here? It’s Sunday,’ she said.

‘I missed you. There’s no other reason I’m up in London. I just needed to see you.’

‘It’s nice of you to pick me up, but there’s a minicab waiting for me.’

‘Not a problem,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ll pay him the cost of the trip.’

***

Back at the flat, Nicholas made himself comfortable. He was used to Sophie looking after him. ‘You don’t have any nibbles, do you? I’m starving. Nuts will do. Or we could get a takeaway.’

‘There’s a jar of olives in the fridge,’ she said, ‘and I’ve brought back some wine. Can you open it, please?’

‘Of course,’ he said, taking the corkscrew from the kitchen drawer. He pulled out the cork. ‘2016, a good vintage Merlot. Best to let it breathe.’

They sat and chatted, very civilised. Almost as if they were strangers. Nicholas kept his distance.

Maybe best until the frost had melted.

‘So then,’ he said, popping an olive in his mouth, ‘tell me all about the trip. Was it fun?’

‘Wonderful. Lots of painting and a lovely teacher.’

‘Meet anybody interesting?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Of course!’

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