Page 51 of Choose Us
I wouldn’t dream of it. Especially not Ashleigh. I still have high hopes for you and Francesca. I don’t want to see that perish because of your ludicrous holiday romance.
Paula was the champion of a future Francesca and Holly romance.
The journey was pleasant. The air-con on board was state of the art, so I forgot how hot it was until I stepped off the train thirty minutes later. I exited into a crowd of people, like cattle being herded off the platform. I moved with the majority until I came to a safe chaos free zone over by the ticket stand.
I felt a tap onmy shoulder.
“Hey,” I yelled, as I pulled myearbuds out.
“Hi.” Brooke grinned. “I waved at you from the stairs over there, but I think you were too busy trying not to get trampled.”She smirked.
I hesitated to hug her, and so did she. I motioned forward, and she followed. The embrace felt awkward and uncertain. How do you greet someone you used to be in love with? Arestillin love with? After having passionate sex in the back of a car? I suspected there wasn’t a one-size-fits-all answer.
Brooke’s appearance took me back to our previous train platform encounter in the London underground. She wore a khaki dress, but it was less formal this time. The jersey material was fit for a summer’s day. It was low-cut around the neck, sleeveless, tight around her hips, and holding her figure like a glove. Her long blonde hair was down and wavy. When I saw her at Nina’s coffee shop before she moved to Japan, she’d added some brown. That had fully disappeared now.
“It’s worse than London.” That is something I never thought I’d say.
“I know. It can get hectic.” She glanced at my outfit. I felt self-conscious. I had on a pair of New Balance trainers. They were much more comfortable than the Converse. I wore a pair of baggy denim jeans and a cropped vintage varsity style T-shirt. I felt attractive. I’d made the effort to wash my hair and curl my eyelashes. I didn’t want to apply any makeup because I was positive the sun would melt it off. Beth had been kind enough to lend me a Japanese fake tan mist, which happened to be one of the best on the market, no smell, no streaks, and a healthy glow.
“You look really good. I like what you’re wearing.”Brooke said.
I sighedwith relief.
“Thank you. I was about to say the same to you,” I replied.
My eyes rested on her lips for a moment. I’d kissed those lips two days ago, but the possibility now seemedterrifying.
“Shall we?” Brooke took the lead, and my nostrils were suddenly filled with a scent so unbelievably perfect that if I could’ve bottled it up, I would have. It was musky, with maybe a jasmine base.
I fell behind as Brooke rushed out onto the streets of Tsukiji. She eventually linked arms with me; clearly my slow pace was a hinderance. When we reached Tsukiji Market it was bustling with locals and tourists alike. Brooke led me towards a food stand with a giant green and yellow sign. I had no idea what it said, but I saw a queue of at least twenty people waiting for the little white tray. Each person dispersed carrying the large slab of omelette like it was precious cargo.
“This is the place?” I asked.
“The besttamagoyakiin town.” Brooke grinned.
“Is that what it’s called? I wonder what makes this one so good.”
“It’s the sweetness. I don’t know what they put in it, maybe sugar, but it’s so nice. It has this like custardy texture, which might sound disgusting right now, but wait until you’ve tried it.”
The queue went down within minutes. There were three different chefs baking and cutting thetamagoyakiwith impressive speed. We got ours and sat to the left on a row of benches forpaying customers only, as the sign stated in both Japaneseand English.
Brooke observed me curiously as I sliced the first section. It was fresh from the pan, so the heat required a few dramatic blows to cool it down. My mouth watered, and my taste buds went wild: the sweetness, the texture, the way it crumbled in my mouth; the taste wasmagnificent.
“Well?”Brooke said.
“Mmm.”
“Good?”
I nodded as I took another bite.
“It certainly beats my omelettes.” An omelette was my go-to single person dinner because it was easy. I would fry some mushrooms, onions, and peppers in a pan, add two eggs, salt and pepper, and a handful of cheese. It was a breakfast, dinner, or tea kind of meal. Well, it was for me. “Mind the pun.”
“Whenever I try to make an omelette, I always overcook it. It falls to pieces on my plate, and it looks disgusting,” Brooke added.
“You can’t be good at everything.” I smirked.
“You are.” She rolled her eyes.
