‘Go on then, you’ve got me curious.’
‘I work in finance.’
‘Oh dear.’ Haf clutches her side in mock pain and cries out. ‘You’ve got to warn a girl before you bring out the banking chat. It’s potent stuff.’
He laughs. ‘God, don’t I know it.’
‘So, you’re a posh boy who lives in London and works in finance.’
‘I know, I’m probably a cliché.’
‘You’re exactly every cliché about southern people I’ve ever heard. No offence.’
He laughs. ‘None taken. I know what it sounds like.’
‘Do you like it?’ Haf asks, crunching on a carrot stick covered in unspecified yet delicious dip.
‘It pays the bills.’
‘That’s more than I can say.’
The salary was a step up from the last shop she was at, but it’s barely enough to get by in York even if she cycles everywhere. Whenever the temperature starts to drop, her dad sends her a twenty and an encouraging text to get the bus.
‘You’re telling me that mid-level charity work isn’t lucrative? I’m shocked.’
‘I know, right? Perhaps I’m doing something wrong. I need to launch a coup and take over one, get me an unscrupulous six-figure salary that people can whinge about. So are you up here for long?’
‘Just overnight.’
‘Pity.’
She doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but apparently she has.
‘Pity?’ One of his eyebrows arches slightly, and there’s a tiny smile playing the corner of his mouth. He takes another pair of tinnies out of his pockets and hands her a fresh one. ‘Be truthful, it was my plate-carrying abilities, wasn’t it?’
‘Always nice to have local friends. Think of all the parties we could be stealing food from together,’ Haf says, trying to be casual about it. ‘Like Bonnie and Clyde but for vol-au-vents. Plus, you seem quite happy for me to make fun of you for being posh, which is always a quality I enjoy in posh people.’
The truth of it is, Haf doesn’t want to admit that he’s the first person since Ambrose that she’s properly connected with, because that’ll make her sound a little sad, maybe desperate.
But she’s thinking it. The buzz between them reminds her of that night DMing Ambrose when she knew they were on the same level, that something good was going to come from them talking.
‘Well, it’s an honour to be your companion on this fair minus-four-degrees winter night.’
They both open their second cans at the same time, and clink them together in cheers.
‘Iechyd da.’
‘Bless you.’
‘It’s Welsh, you awful English wanker.’ She laughs, kicking his foot with her own.
‘I know, one of my flatmates at uni was Welsh.’
‘God, I hope it wasn’t the chicken-sushi one.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘Oh, all right. You’re redeemed.’
