‘What flavour?’
‘What would you want?’
‘Ready salted?’
‘Knew it.’ He smirks, shaking his head. ‘Although, I did have options just in case.’
He reaches into his backpack, removing a six-flavour multipack from it like the sword of Excalibur and chucking a pack across the table. I waste no time replying, tearing open the packet and shovelling crisps into my mouth. The salt soothes all my worries the second it touches my tongue, and I feel my shoulders unfurl and my breath steady. He slides a second across before I’m even done, waiting for me to snatch it before he indulges in one himself.
‘I told you I covered all bases. Isn’t that what organised people do? Have plans A to C ready to go?’
‘You bought a multipack of crisps– quite literally “small potatoes”.’
He flips his middle finger up at me, before taking a couple of crisps out of his own bag.
‘So, why so stressed?’ he asks, his tone gentler. ‘I thought you had the invite wording in the bag?’
Yes, the invite wording that I took a break from wine research to submit before close of play. The wording that I was about to start when the FGA finally replied to me. It’s 4.30. I promised Evie this would be with her by five and I currently have three words. They’re not even good ones:Dear Sir/Madam. What was I thinking? It’s too formal. I have to delete.
‘You’re probably overthinking it. Let me see,’ he says, mistaking my silence for a cry for help and reaching across for my laptop before I can stop him.
I try to snatch it back, but I’m not quick enough. He looks over my dubious Google search, eyes scanning it twice for good measure before emitting a deep-throated chortle.
‘I knew the jeans weren’t for work,’ he manages to say.
‘It’s not funny,’ I pout, reaching for it again.
I’m nervous enough as it is– the last thing I need is Aiden mocking me before I’ve even arrived. It’s insulting at best and degrading at worse, and souring up all the goodness of the snacks.
‘Who’s the guy?’ he asks.
‘Irrelevant,’ I answer.
‘Where’d you meet him?’
‘None of your business.’
‘So, an app.’
‘No, hate those.’
His eyes light up at the morsel of information. ‘In person? What was it. . . a bar? A club? Was he at Paint That Mate? What’s his name? I probably know him.’
I can practically see the possibilities running through his devious mind.
‘You don’t know him,’ I say, monotonous as can be.
‘Icouldknow him. What’s his name?’
‘You’re not in the same circles.’
‘You don’t know my circles.’
This goading is slightly lighter and friendlier than normal, devoid of our usual animosity. He’s not trying to attack me and I have no need to go for him. So, I retract my claws and throw him a small bone.
‘His name’s Benji.’
‘Rough name,’ he says immediately.
