‘Normally I wouldn’t suggest such heresy as sharing a plate, but seeing as you’re doing all the lifting work here, shall I put a few bits on for you?’
‘Please,’ he says with a soft lopsided smile.
Concerned about structural integrity and maximising snacks, Haf adds a little bit of everything good. She fashions a few olives and a cocktail sausage into a suggestible vignette, and the plate wobbles as he tries to stifle a giggle.
Good, thinks Haf. Someone who is game for saying funeral rites over carbs and will laugh at her terrible humour is exactly the sort of person she needs to be hanging out with in the absence of Ambrose, who has still not returned.
‘Careful now,’ she says. ‘You’re supposed to be the stable one.’
He goes completely rigid, like a Queen’s Guard, as she adds the last few bits. It’s a little overfilled.
As she finishes, a group of people swarm into the kitchen. Half of them head straight for the table, while the others cover every surface in cocktail supplies, following a YouTube video they keep pausing and rewinding. There’s nowhere for them to comfortably stand and chat, and she kind of wants to talk to this nice tall man.
Two people come in through the back door, squeezing past Haf, and letting in a blast of icy Yorkshire night with them. In the tiny sweaty kitchen, it’s a literal breath of fresh air. Haf peeks out the door and spies some chairs, a little firepit and some lights that might be fancy outdoor heaters like you get at nice pubs.
He joins her at the door. ‘You want to go sit outside?’
‘Yeah, it’s boiling in here. We can bask under the lamps like big lizards.’
‘I’ll bring the food if you grab my coat.’
He tilts his head towards the coat hook, and they have a brief miming back and forth as Haf tries to guess which coat is his. It turns out to be a black long coat, with sharp lines and fine details. There’s something vaguely architectural about it.
She slings his coat over her shoulder and grabs a few M&S gin-and-tonic tinnies that have been set out on one of the counters, stuffing them in the deep pockets of his coat. But before she can follow him outside, Ambrose waltzes into the kitchen, holding two empty glasses.
‘Who’s the new friend?’ they say, squeezing around the cocktail makers to the sink.
‘How did you see that from the other room?’
‘I’m all-seeing. I know exactly what mischief you’re up to at all times,’ Ambrose says, rinsing the glasses under the tap. ‘Anyway, good work. He’s a snack, even if he’s a bit clean for your taste. What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Haf says, trying to sound casual and mysterious.
Ambrose places their hands on Haf’s shoulders and turns her to face them. ‘You little minx.’
‘I don’t think it’s quite that. I think just an opportunity to be a bit silly and have a little flirt, but that’s it.’
‘No? Not going to bring him home?’
‘Nah, I don’t think so.’
‘Too clean.’ They nod sagely. They get it. ‘You’re not leading him on though, are you?’
‘Nah, pretty sure we’re on the same page – unless his idea of flirting is watching me consume as much of a garlic-laden Camembert as possible.’
‘You never know. There’s a kink for everything and everyone.’
‘Plus, I’ve got big pants on.’
‘Precisely what I mean. Don’t underestimate the sexiness of big pants,’ Ambrose says with a deep seriousness. ‘Anyway, I came to find you to tell you I’m leaving.’
‘I’ve literally not seen you since we got here, which was only ten minutes ago. What have you been doing?’
There’s a pause.
‘Whohave you been doing?’
Ambrose rolls their eyes. ‘It’s just Paco.’
