Will looks disapproving. ‘I’m not sure I want a melting pig in my mouth. I’m not David Cameron.’
The waiter looks panicked. ‘It’s just a saying, sir. I mean it’s delicious.’
Will nods excessively. ‘I see, I see. But you’re saying it’s unlikely the pig has any royal connections whatsoever?’
The waiter pauses. He cannot tell if Will is an inbred moron – like so many of the other guests I can see around us in the room – or if he is being played.
I take a long sip of my wine to stop me laughing.
‘As far as I know, the pigisof noble breeding,’ he says slowly, like he’s talking to a rich, spoilt child. ‘But not, er, royalty.’
Will tuts loudly, and the waiter adds hastily, ‘But I will double check on that for you.’
Will nods again and closes his menu. ‘We’ll both have the fifteen-course disgusting menu please.’
‘Um...’ The waiter pauses. ‘Do you mean the degustation menu?’
I can’t help it, I snort, immediately covering my mouth with my napkin and pretending it was a cough.
‘That’s the one, my good man,’ Will says jovially. ‘And more wine, if you please.’
He grins at me and I feel all warm inside. Sure, it might be the wine, or it might be what a great time we’re having, and how much-needed this time away together really, really was.
We’re in one of those hotel restaurants where you pay an insane amount of money to have a million tiny courses of nonsense food hand-crafted personally by a Michelin-starred chef, and then it comes out and it all basically tastes like watercress. You know the one.
We decided yesterday – spur of the moment – that we were going to ignore everything and run away for the night to a super posh hotel, thirty minutes away. Will suggested it. He said we both needed a break and that it would be good to finally get some time alone together. There was the tiniest hint of a passive-aggressive tone to his voice, but I chose not to acknowledge it, and immediately went upstairs to pack my one black lacy, frilly thing.
But then I unpacked it because I was worried Will might take it as a sign that I wanted to have loads and loads of sex, when actually the one time would be perfectly sufficient, and then I mostly wanted to sleep, eat and lie down in the hotel spa.
I can’t say enough how much Will and I really needed this. We haven’t had a break in ages, and all our money seems to go on family and friend commitments instead of each other. We’ve always talked about travelling together one day, but Mr Barclays and Mr Natwest might have something to say about me deep-diving further into their credit system.
Genuinely, at this point, I feel like I could singlehandedly bring about another financial crash. Hmm, I wonder if they’d consider giving me a government bailout?
Don’t think about it. Denial ain’t just a river in the world somewhere (should’ve paid more attention in Year Nine geography lessons).
Luckily Will insisted on paying for this, and I was so excited, I let him. I even called in sick to work so I could go get my hair done to look nice for the trip. It really needed doing properly anyway – I haven’t been for ages. I was too traumatised after my last visit in January, when this new hairdresser kept touching my hair way too erotically and making noises that seemed inappropriate. Then, when I asked for a trim, he insisted I ‘trust him’ with a ‘funky look’ he wanted to try out on me. I weakly protested and told him I’m too old – or possibly too young – for ‘funky’, but he didn’t listen. I sat there watching the situation in the mirror get increasingly dire and not being brave enough to stop him. I mean, gawd, going to the hairdresser is such a horribly stressful experience as it is, having to stare at your own stupid damned face under yellow lighting for hours on end, and then trying to work out if you’re allowed to accept their compliments on your hair, or whether you have to go, ‘WellYOUdid it’.
It’s all totally ugh. So I definitely didn’t need a fucking rogue hairdresser turning me into Rod Stewart.
After three hellish hours he got the tiny ta-dah mirror out to show me the back, and I told him it looked ‘really great’. I thanked him profusely, tipped him generously – and then went to the loo to cry at my reflection. Lauren picked me up for lunch afterwards, and was so nice when she saw how upset I was. Firstly, she told me it didn’t look that bad at all and that Rod Stewart is actually a pretty big inspiration for the autumn/winter catwalks, and then she went into full-on Lauren Bolt Rage Mode, insisting on storming back into the hairdressers and screaming legal words she’d heard onAlly McBeal, while I hid around the corner. She got my money back and a big fat voucher that I’ve obviously been way too scared to cash in. But still. She was truly amazing.
I feel a bit sad, suddenly, at how far away all that feels.
I didn’t even tell Lauren I was going to the hairdresser today and I haven’t mentioned this spontaneous mini-break either. I used to tell her every minutiae of my life, and now I’m too scared she’ll get cross with me for taking a night away from her to-do list.
The waiter returns with our first plate, which looks like a blob of dead jellyfish and tastes like – yes – watercress. I thank him, resisting the urge to put on a Russian accent. In posh hotels like this, I’m always desperate toPretty Womanthe shit out of the situation. Try to somehow convey to everyone around us that Will is my rich client and I’m here to do his bidding.
Ooh, maybe I should buy a blonde wig.
I turn to ask Will if he’s up for doing the sexy stranger thing in the bar later and find him staring misty-eyed across the restaurant. A stressed-out-looking family are hissing at each other in low voices a few tables away, telling their two kids to ‘shut the fuck up and sit the hell down’ as they run in a circle around the table, trying to stab each other with butter knives.
‘Cute, huh?’ he says and smiles at me dopily.
‘Hmm,’ I say, as vaguely as I can, taking a mouthful of watercress jellyfish and feeling fear creeping up my spine. First a non-proposal, now... what even is this? Is Will getting broody? Children are basically aliens to me. They’re so far off my radar that the other day on my train platform, I thought it was a group of dwarves waiting a few feet away. My brain went to that place long before it reassessed them as school kids.
‘Hey, after this,’ I say, trying to distract him, ‘shall we order in McDonalds to our room? You know they do deliveries now, right?’
He smirks. ‘Are you not excited about the purple caterpillar dish that’s coming up next?’ he says and we both laugh. We laugh a lot, and it’s not at the joke, but relief at being here together and having fun.
