Page 58 of Always the Bridesmaid

Now I’m smirking. ‘I’m going to take the same but I know how good those pistachio macarons are, so throw me two of those on the plate as well because I know she’s going to steal one.’

I’m all about managing collateral fallout.

We take a seat on two Italian-style conservatory chairs – at least that’s what they look like to me, woven wood of some sort and lacquered to shine under the soft lighting. We’re sitting on a table for two in the window, with a view of a boutique clothes store across the street.

‘That’s the first store Jess ever got her clothes into,’ I tell Sarah. ‘Before she got into the department store concession.’

‘Oh, wow, it’s cute. She’s done so well for herself with her clothesline,’ Sarah says.

Our drinks and macarons arrive and I immediately take the second pistachio macaron from my plate and place it onto Sarah’s, so we each have four. ‘Excuse my fingers. I haven’t washed them for a while.’

Sarah chuckles. ‘You’re so gross, Charlie.’

I smile and pick up my hot chocolate, slurping it then jumping when the liquid burns my tongue, as it always does.

‘You just burnt your tongue, didn’t you?’

‘No,’ I lie.

Sarah picks up her mug in two hands and gently blows to cool the liquid, her soft pink lips forming a small O shape.

Don’t go there, Charlie. Just friends.

She sips the drink, sets it down on the saucer with a ting, then rubs chocolate from the corners of her mouth. ‘It really is good hot chocolate.’

‘They make it by stirring actual chocolate into milk. None of that powder rubbish,’ I tell her.

‘It’s definitely up there with my top three hot chocolates I’ve ever tasted.’

‘Three?’

She smiles. ‘I’m being coy.’

I lean my head to one side. ‘Coy like you like me or coy like you’re teasing me?’

We seem to fix our focus on each other for a beat, as if my playful question had too much meaning. I pursue a new, safe line of conversation. ‘So, what have you been up to today, Sarah?’

‘Well, I went for an extortionately priced lunch at The Savoy. Then I sauntered around the National Gallery, had a walk down to Buckingham Palace, stopped at the Ritz for a brief and overpriced drink, then went to meet Joe Elvis with the suit.’

‘How is our friend? How’s the quiff?’

She shakes her head. ‘Very quiffy. That was when I saw a poster for your gig and decided to come and say the things I had wanted to say to you before you ran off from the house this morning.’

Maybe I was cowardly in not facing her but I’ve dealt with these situations enough times to know that people don’t often show remorse for their words. In this case, I was wrong.

‘I had to leave for my gig. I did bake pastries.’

‘They went down very well with the others. You certainly left on a high note with them.’

I read between the lines. ‘But not you?’

She takes another sip of her drink and this time doesn’t realize that she has chocolate on her lip. I reach across the table and she doesn’t pull away when I bring a napkin to her mouth.

‘You’ve got a chocolate tash.’

She makes to take the napkin from me, fingertips grazing mine as she does so and whilst I don’t want to sound as dramatic as I sometimes do, there is definitely something like a lightning bolt that snaps between her skin and mine. Either that or I’ve got a really bad itch.

I wonder, when she glances up at me sharply, whether she has an itchy finger too. Then she snatches the napkin from my hand.

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