Page 14 of Love ad Lib
‘I can’t be disturbed, even by someone as lovely as you, Lib-Lob.’
She nodded. They were both creative people. She understood.
‘Do you think you would be free on Tuesday night to come and see our show?’ she asked. ‘We’ve been working on new material, and it’ll be done by eight. It won’t take up your whole evening.’
He raised his eyebrows as if she was mad to have asked such a question, then shook his head.
She turned to the grill to hide her disappointment, accidentally touching a finger to the hot metal tray. ‘Aghhh!’
‘You okay?’
She pasted on a smile. ‘Yes, fine—just burnt myself a bit.’
‘Thank fuck.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘If I didn’t have you feeding me up, I’d waste away.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Do you need any help? I’m not being much use.’
‘No, no, you’re fine.’ She placed the rice and curry dishes on the table. ‘Help yourself. I’ll just grab the naan bread.’ She put them on the table, then ran her finger under the tap.
Lucas groaned with his first mouthful of food. ‘Lib-Lob, you’re the best.’
As usual, she’d gone to town with all his favourite dishes. There was chicken tikka masala, mutter paneer, saag bhaji, tarka dahl, tandoori lamb chops and a raita. She wanted to try making different dishes, but once Lucas had found his favourites, he didn’t want anything else.
‘Talk to me,’ he said as he chewed. ‘Tell me about your day. I like your voice. It’s comforting. Like white noise.’
Libby let the cold water flow over her burn as her mind took the best bits from his sentence and discarded the bits that didn’t fit her fantasy. She told him about the workshop in a vague way, how Claire’s pregnancy was going, the ideas they had for their improv show, and news of her siblings from home.
‘And my parents were asking if they could come to the opening night of your show?’
Lucas continued shovelling food into his mouth. After a few seconds he looked up.
‘Sorry, love, what was that last bit again?’
‘Can I get tickets for my parents so they can come to the opening night of your show?’
He took his bottle of beer and finished it, then placed it back down, flicking at the edge of the label with his paint-spattered thumbnail.
‘Lib-Lob, you know I would get them in if I could, but that decision’s not mine to make. I only wangled a ticket foryoubecause you’re going to help serve the drinks.’ He sighed. ‘Come here.’ She went to his side, and he took her hand, rubbing his thumb in her palm. ‘It’s out of my hands, Lib-Lob. I’m just one of the proletariat. I don’t get to make those decisions.’
‘Yet.’
‘That’s my girl. You’ve always believed in me. Next stop, the Turner Prize.’
He held her gaze, and she held her breath. Her hand was still in his. Was this it? He looked over her shoulder and jumped to his feet.
Disappointment drenched her. ‘Are you leaving already?’
He looked penitent as he nodded. ‘I’ve got to get back to the studio. One of the models is coming in later. It’s the only time they can make.’
He pulled her in for a hug and she smelled the combination of white spirit and body odour that had always seemed so perfect for an artist.
‘You’re the best, Lib-Lob,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘The show will be done soon.’ He released her and picked up the two bottles of beer that had remained unopened. ‘No point in leaving these for India. Nobs like her only drink Bolly.’ He winked as if they were in some secret Marxist scheme to destroy the establishment, then wandered out towards the front door.
She followed him.
He turned. ‘Lib-Lob?’
‘Yes, Lucas?’ Was this finally the moment when they transitioned from friends to lovers?
‘You don’t have any of your sourdough left, do you?’
