Page 22 of Always the Bridesmaid

‘Oh, so being a comedian is your job, then?’ I don’t mean to sound as shocked as I do.

He does that scoffing thing again but doesn’t answer. He throws his empty carton into a pedal bin.

‘Right, I need a wee, then we can head off. Want to go first?’

‘Erm, yes, actually, thanks.’

‘Take ten steps forward, two to the right, and Bob’s your uncle,’ he says.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The toilet. It’s that first door on the right.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

Who the hell is Bob?

I can tell a lot about a person from the state of their toilet. In this case, I am unexpectedly pleased with the cleanliness of the bathroom, the neatness of the toiletries stacked in the shower bucket, and the immaculate toothbrush holder and soap dish. I am even more delighted with the clean, folded hand towels in a basket on the basin top, the luxury brand handwash and moisturizer combo, and the finely perfumed automatic freshener that sprays from the corner of the room when I close the door.

Who knew?

10

SARAH

The Tube is marginally less grungy than New York’s subway system but it is similarly hot, smelly and congested. We follow a black line on the Tube map, which is apparently the Northern Line. We stand for the duration of the ride, clinging on for dear life every time the train chugs out of a new station.

We get off at Leicester Square and I follow Charlie, weaving in and out of people, sidewalk repairs and other random hazards like trash bags waiting for collection, in much the same way as I would through Midtown Manhattan.

We turn into a street where people are standing outside of pubs, drinking light beer in pint glasses, and queuing outside of Asian restaurants. There’s a wonderful buzz and thrum in the area, smells of fragrant Thai and Vietnamese restaurants, even the smell of British ‘chips’ coming from the pubs.

‘What is that man eating?’ I ask, watching a hefty man shoving a ball of something bread-crumbed into his mouth with one hand, whilst the other holds onto a pint of what I suspect is Guinness.

It’s more of an aloud curiosity than a real question but Charlie answers, ‘It’s a Scotch egg.’ Then on seeing my confusion, he adds, ‘Boiled egg wrapped in sausage meat and breadcrumbs then deep fried.’

‘That sounds disgusting.’ Still looking at the stranger, I trip on a loose paving slab. I would have fallen but Charlie catches me by the shoulder.

‘Okay?’ he asks, his hand still on me, his touch unexpectedly gentle and, in the circumstances, welcome. I nod and he lets go.

‘They’re far from disgusting,’ he continues, as if my near accident never happened. ‘Trust me. That’s proper food right there. I’ll get you one to try.’

‘Oh, I’m good, thanks.’

He half-smiles, which is as good-humored as I have seen him for hours.

His tone has been clipped and his entire demeanor uptight and wired since we got off the Tube. I wonder whether it’s the crowds he doesn’t like, or my company. Probably both.

We stop outside a dark-grey-fronted restaurant. There is a short line of people waiting to be seated and I pray it won’t be long until we have food in our mouths.

Happily, two small wood stools and a similarly styled dinky table become free under an awning out front – Parisian café style. Two men Charlie describes as ‘scenesters’ settle their check and head out into the bustling street, both wearing skinny-fit jogging suits and chunky sneakers.

Occasionally, I follow fashion trends but this whole pretense that jogging suits are acceptable smart-wear is not something I can get on board with. Even Charlie, in his Marvel tops, is smarter than that. Oddly, Charlie’s T-shirts are starting to grow on me. Who doesn’t love a superhero? Today’s choice is a comic strip logo that simply says ‘MARVEL’. It is sort of nerd-chic.

As soon as we are seated, Charlie pours us both an ice-cold glass of water from a bottle a waiter has placed on the table after wiping down the surface top.

‘The bún th?t nu?ng is amazing from here,’ Charlie says.

‘It all sounds good and I’m so hungry, the choice is killing me.’

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