him from the table with hand gestures before I choked to death. Not running the risk of death by violent dumpling at this point in such a perfectday.
‘You know quite a bit about food, don’t you?’ he says. ‘That thing you said about the vegetable’s texture. That’s an interesting detail to notice.’
‘Oh. Well my dad is a good cook.’ That’s true. ‘And I did a night course a few years ago.’ Also true. Now that’s plenty of truth! ‘How do you know about this place, then?’
‘One of the commis from work brought me here.’
‘Commies? Do they notmind you calling them that?’
‘Why would they mind?’
‘They’re Russian, isn’t it kind of rude?’
‘Dave’s a Scouser and Marco’s Italian?’
Oh. Weird. Maybe he calls them Commies because they don’t earn millions like the rest of the capitalists in his office . . . does he call himself a Cappy? That’s so Wolf of Wall Street. Please don’t let him be that obnoxious. ‘Do the Commies make the tea orsomething?’
‘They make anything I ask them to – but I don’t have time for tea nowadays . . .’
‘Ooh, get you, Gordon Gekko, I’m so busy making money, I don’t have time for tea . . . ’
He laughs and looks confused. ‘What do you think I do for a living?’
‘Well . . . finance. Don’t you?’
‘Ah, Miss Marple. Very good. And how did you know that?’
‘Er,’ I feel myself flush, as if I’m on the vergeof revealing too much. ‘Well, you look quite clean-cut.’
‘You make a watertight case!’
‘Not just that! You were maybe doing some spreadsheets in St John?’
‘I was doing my weekly numbers. What else?’
‘Your boss is a Russian billionaire?’
‘Only a wee multi-millionaire.’
‘You seem a bit stressed about work. And you call the guys who run around in your office Commies, which is your way of sayingthey’re not rich like you hedge fund guys.’
‘Genius!’ he says, tipping his head back and laughing. ‘You’re a genius, Laura.’
‘Thank you!’
‘But you’re wrong.’
‘Oh. Well why do you call them Commies then?’
‘I call them commis because they are commis. Commis – it’s a chef, a basic chef, bottom of the kitchen pecking order, slightly higher than the dish wipes.’
‘Oh! Commis commis, I thoughtyou meant Commies with an e .’
‘Remind me to hold up cards with subtitles in future,’ he says, nodding sagely. ‘If you were hoping I was rich, you’re out of luck – I’ve barely enough to buy you dinner.’
‘Secretly I’m a bit relieved. Besides, we’ll go halves.’
‘No, I insist,’ he says, signalling for the bill.
‘So hang on, you’re a chef?’
‘I did say I’ve been practising knife skills since Iwas little, did you think I was a serial killer?’
‘You’re actually a chef?’
‘A head chef, indeed.’
‘Ah. You know earlier when you were going to show me your tattoo . . .’ I say, pointing to his right arm.
He pulls the sleeve of his jumper up slowly: his forearm is muscular, his hand strong yet elegant, like a sculptor’s, with two tiny knife scars on the forefinger. The skin of his arms isunblemished aside from two small freckles on the inside of his forearm that I have a strange urge to reach out and stroke. There is no busty mermaid, no Sanskrit peace prayer, no Millwall tattoo in sight.
‘Scared of needles,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’m a big wuss.’
‘And just to double-check, have you ever been to prison?’
‘I have never been to prison.’
‘But you just sat there in St John andlet me say those moronic things.’
‘I thought it was funny! Besides, you were describing half of the guys I work with, what was it . . . macho . . . testosterone show-offs . . . ’
‘So hang on – can you get me a discount at Nando’s or what?’
‘I wish I worked at Nando’s! I work at a very expensive new restaurant run by a trio of megalomaniacs who care more about tap fittings than where their meatand veg come
‘You know quite a bit about food, don’t you?’ he says. ‘That thing you said about the vegetable’s texture. That’s an interesting detail to notice.’
‘Oh. Well my dad is a good cook.’ That’s true. ‘And I did a night course a few years ago.’ Also true. Now that’s plenty of truth! ‘How do you know about this place, then?’
‘One of the commis from work brought me here.’
‘Commies? Do they notmind you calling them that?’
‘Why would they mind?’
‘They’re Russian, isn’t it kind of rude?’
‘Dave’s a Scouser and Marco’s Italian?’
Oh. Weird. Maybe he calls them Commies because they don’t earn millions like the rest of the capitalists in his office . . . does he call himself a Cappy? That’s so Wolf of Wall Street. Please don’t let him be that obnoxious. ‘Do the Commies make the tea orsomething?’
‘They make anything I ask them to – but I don’t have time for tea nowadays . . .’
‘Ooh, get you, Gordon Gekko, I’m so busy making money, I don’t have time for tea . . . ’
He laughs and looks confused. ‘What do you think I do for a living?’
‘Well . . . finance. Don’t you?’
‘Ah, Miss Marple. Very good. And how did you know that?’
‘Er,’ I feel myself flush, as if I’m on the vergeof revealing too much. ‘Well, you look quite clean-cut.’
‘You make a watertight case!’
‘Not just that! You were maybe doing some spreadsheets in St John?’
‘I was doing my weekly numbers. What else?’
‘Your boss is a Russian billionaire?’
‘Only a wee multi-millionaire.’
‘You seem a bit stressed about work. And you call the guys who run around in your office Commies, which is your way of sayingthey’re not rich like you hedge fund guys.’
‘Genius!’ he says, tipping his head back and laughing. ‘You’re a genius, Laura.’
‘Thank you!’
‘But you’re wrong.’
‘Oh. Well why do you call them Commies then?’
‘I call them commis because they are commis. Commis – it’s a chef, a basic chef, bottom of the kitchen pecking order, slightly higher than the dish wipes.’
‘Oh! Commis commis, I thoughtyou meant Commies with an e .’
‘Remind me to hold up cards with subtitles in future,’ he says, nodding sagely. ‘If you were hoping I was rich, you’re out of luck – I’ve barely enough to buy you dinner.’
‘Secretly I’m a bit relieved. Besides, we’ll go halves.’
‘No, I insist,’ he says, signalling for the bill.
‘So hang on, you’re a chef?’
‘I did say I’ve been practising knife skills since Iwas little, did you think I was a serial killer?’
‘You’re actually a chef?’
‘A head chef, indeed.’
‘Ah. You know earlier when you were going to show me your tattoo . . .’ I say, pointing to his right arm.
He pulls the sleeve of his jumper up slowly: his forearm is muscular, his hand strong yet elegant, like a sculptor’s, with two tiny knife scars on the forefinger. The skin of his arms isunblemished aside from two small freckles on the inside of his forearm that I have a strange urge to reach out and stroke. There is no busty mermaid, no Sanskrit peace prayer, no Millwall tattoo in sight.
‘Scared of needles,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’m a big wuss.’
‘And just to double-check, have you ever been to prison?’
‘I have never been to prison.’
‘But you just sat there in St John andlet me say those moronic things.’
‘I thought it was funny! Besides, you were describing half of the guys I work with, what was it . . . macho . . . testosterone show-offs . . . ’
‘So hang on – can you get me a discount at Nando’s or what?’
‘I wish I worked at Nando’s! I work at a very expensive new restaurant run by a trio of megalomaniacs who care more about tap fittings than where their meatand veg come
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