‘Oh wow, this is delicious,’ I said, taking another large sip. ‘Remind me to ask Mateo for the recipe.’
‘Ha, he’ll never give it to you! They make a bit of a thing about it on their social media. They run regular competitions for people to try and guess all the ingredients but no one ever has.’
‘Smart.’
I sipped again, trying to think of something to say, though Tom beat me to it.
‘So, how’s your article coming along?’
Earlier in the evening, I’d been tempted to finally get back to Elle and tell her what had happened today to wangle my way out of writing the article at all. But I wasn’t sure I could bear her inevitable sanctimony about the fact that her worries about me coming here had come to fruition.
‘Urgh. It’s not. The last few days have all been a bit of a blur. I’ve barely had a moment to sit down and write anything. But, well, I’ve got twenty-four hours before the deadline and I had an idea on my walk earlier that I hope might make the piece vaguely interesting.’
‘You’re way too modest, you know. Speaking of which, me and Becky were chatting about how much you smashed it at the pub yesterday. Not just by getting us in the private dining room, but also putting that bastard developer in his place.’
I didn’t know if it was the crangria or the knowledge that Tom and Becky had been talking about me that was making my belly feel all warm and cosy.
‘I’m always happy to help.’
‘Yeah, you are, aren’t you? So, how are you doing after, y’know, this morning and everything?’
I still couldn’t believe that all of that had happened just this morning. Being in this restaurant with Tom felt like a different decade entirely.
‘I’m okay. It was so helpful going round to your mum’s place and chatting to her about everything – thanks for suggesting that.’
‘Honestly, there’s no need to thank me. Her years working at the playgroup were some of her happiest. I know she would’ve got a lot out of reminiscing about those times, too.’
‘She’s so amazing, Tom. I bet she made your childhood Christmases really special.’
‘Yeah, she absolutely tried her best. But, well, as I unsubtly hinted at the other night, my dad was a twat, regardless of the time of year.’
‘I’m guessing it’s not something you talk about that much?’
‘You’d be correct. But I kind of feel like I could tell you anything. Is that a bit weird?’
I felt a rush of recognition at his choice of words. The very words that had screamed themselves loudly inside my own head just a few minutes ago. I had the sudden compulsion to reach over the table, unbutton the top of his shirt and slip my hand down the back of it, rub the base of his neck with my thumb and tell him he could tell me anything, forever. I wanted him to rewind back to his earliest memory and share every thought he’d ever had. About his life. About all the books he’d read and words he’d written. About what he made of the world. About what he made of me. I’d quite happily sit here and listen to him all night – and some. Instead, I gripped my glass tightly with the hand in question and replied simply, ‘No, I feel the same.’
‘Cool.’ He grinned widely and took another sip. ‘So, yeah, Christmases were fine, but it was usually just the three of us, although every so often my uncle would join us for the day and drink himself into a stupor until he and my dad would come to drunken blows. Mum would always stay sober so she could drive my uncle home. In the meantime, I had to stay and listen to my dad mouth off about what a dick his brother was.’
‘Urgh, not nice. Christmases can be a really shitty time for families, can’t they?’
‘Yeah, I mean they obviously had some unresolved stuff between them. But, in a way, I always admired my uncle for standing up to him.’
‘Your dad… he… wasn’t violent, was he? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
‘Nothing like that, no. But he had this knack for making absolutely everything about him. I mean, believe it or not, at first he even managed to make my mum’s condition abouthisbad luck.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah, he’s a prick. And then he convinced me to study business, maths and biology at sixth form instead of the arts subjects I was obviously more interested in. Never outright told me to do so, but there was this constant drip-drip-drip of derision about my writing and the “girly” books I used to read.’
The more Tom spoke about his past, the more it all started to make sense. His choice of A levels had been a massive disappointment for me at the time. I’d always fantasised about how we’d bond over books and poetry in English literature, maybe even getting put on a project together like some kind of American teen rom-com where the jock falls for the nerd. Alas, it hadn’t happened that way. But was something happening now? Who knew.
I suddenly noticed my hand was resting on his. I gave it what, on reflection, was a rather motherly pat before helping myself to an olive. They really were the tastiest olives I’d ever eaten.
‘I was always surprised you didn’t pursue English, I must admit,’ I said.
‘Oh? How come?’
