A Night In With Grace Kelly. Lucy HollidayЧитать онлайн книгу.
to sort of … well, I don’t know what the technical term would be, but it does look very much as if he’s trying to pleasure himself against the chintzy, apricot-coloured fabric.
‘Huh,’ observes Ben, as we all gaze at Tino in a rather shocked silence for a moment. ‘Guess there must be the scent of quite a few old mutts on this thing, right?’
But I don’t think it’s that. I don’t think it’s that at all. Yes, the Chesterfield does have an aroma of dog – always has – but from the transfixed expression on Tino’s face, I think he’s picking up on something more than mere waft of long-gone Labrador, or past poodle.
I mean, animals have sixth senses, don’t they? Especially so, probably, if they’re the kind of animals that the Aztecs considered sacred.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Elvira, puce in the face now with embarrassment as well as anger, grabs Tino mid-rut and holds him firmly under her arm as she heads for the stairs. ‘We’ll discuss this incident another time, Libby,’ she tells me. ‘But suffice it to say I am Not Happy. Not Happy At All.’
Which is, to be fair, pretty much the impression I’ve got every other time I’ve met her. That she’s Not Happy about anything I have to offer. It’s just that there were those few minutes where we seemed to bond, ever so slightly, over the vintage sofa. And now it’s all gone backwards again. Actually, worse than backwards, because even if she has not been that impressed with me before now, at least I’d never tried, in her eyes, to assassinate her precious Mexican hairless dog.
‘Yeah,’ says Ben, already back on his phone again, as he follows her down the stairs towards their taxi. ‘We’ll be in touch, Libby. I’ll try to set something up, the next time I’m over.’
‘But Ben, I really—’
‘Bye, Libby,’ he says, with a wave of the hand, not even glancing back at me. ‘Oh, and try to keep up the orders for that vintage tiara, yeah? That thing’s your bread and butter. Your books are never gonna add up without it.’
The front door bangs shut behind them a couple of moments later, leaving me and my Chesterfield alone, together, in our accidentally minimalist new flat.
It’s truly excellent news, from the point of view of my morale, that I’m due to have dinner with my friend Olly tonight. After the disaster of a business meeting with Ben and Elvira (actually, even calling it a ‘business meeting’ is being generous, given the amount of time we spent discussing anything business-related), I might otherwise be tempted to retreat into my pyjamas and eat the contents of my biscuit stash in self-pity. But I’ve promised Olly that I’ll meet him over at the restaurant, and we see each other so rarely these days that I don’t want to go back on my promise.
The restaurant, by the way, being his own restaurant, over in Clapham.
Nibbles.
That’s what the restaurant is called.
It’s a bit unfortunate.
Not the name Nibbles itself, as such – although I still think it’s a name better suited to a twee seaside tearoom, rather than a tapas-style restaurant successful enough to have been nominated for all kinds of Best Newcomer awards recently – but more what the choice of name represents. I mean, it was a pretty last-minute decision to call it that, and—
Talking of last-minute decisions, a text has just popped up on my phone from Olly, literally as I approach the restaurant’s front door, asking if I can meet him two doors down in the little French bistro instead. We’ve ended up needing all the tables tonight, his text informs me, and anyway it’s been a knackering day and I just want to get out of the place!!! Will get bottle of red. See you there. O xxx
Which actually suits me pretty well, too, because the slight issue of having a meal with Olly at Nibbles is, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, the constant interruptions. Even on a night when he’s not officially working, he’s always working: there’s an issue that needs to be sorted out in the kitchen, or two of the waiting staff are threatening to kill each other, or a customer can’t live another moment without finding out the origin of his recipe for pea and mint arancini.
Peace and quiet and privacy over red wine at the bistro sound just about perfect right now. Especially since I can’t actually remember the last time I had a quiet evening and a chat with Olly. Two months ago? Closer to three? Despite the fact we’ve been close friends ever since I was thirteen, and he was Nora’s worldly wise fifteen-year-old brother; despite the fact we used to get together to set the world to rights over a bite to eat and more than a sip to drink at least twice a week, we’ve drifted a bit of late. Probably something to do with the fact that he’s busy running his restaurant, and I’m busy running my business.
Oh, and probably quite a lot, too, to do with the fact that I’m a little bit in love with him.
Actually, I’ll rephrase that, because a little bit in love sounds like I have some girlish crush, or something.
It’s not a crush. I am passionately, desperately, fervently, and worst of all secretly in love with Olly. Who – worse even than that – just so happened to be secretly in love with me, too, for almost the entirety of our friendship, until a year ago when (not unreasonably, let’s be honest) he finally gave up on me and started going out with Tash, his now-girlfriend, who works with Nora up at Glasgow Royal Infirmary.
I mean, he’d planned to name the restaurant after me, and everything. Libby’s, it was meant to be called, not Nibbles. That was the last-minute decision I just told you about. I guess he’d always had this idea that he’d open a restaurant named after me one day, and that this would be the big declaration of love that he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, and that I’d finally realize the way he felt about me. But then I was messing around thinking I was in love with my ex, Dillon O’Hara, and Olly just got tired of waiting.
It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. The biggest mistake I’ve ever made without knowing I was even making it.
It’s why I end up avoiding him so much these days. (While still – illogically – at the same time, desperately wanting to find ways to spend time with him.) For one thing, it often just feels too painful to have to sit there and stare down the barrel of What Should Have Been. And, for another, I’m usually scared that I might not be able to disguise my own feelings. Might end up, horror to end all horrors, jumping the table and doing to him pretty much what Tino the Mexican hairless did to my Chesterfield earlier this afternoon.
Because just look at me now, coming to a wobbly-kneed standstill as soon as I enter the bistro and see him at a corner table. He’s just so incredibly, heart-breakingly gorgeous, with his hair all mussed up from his habit of rubbing his hands through it when he’s stressed, and his big brown eyes, so open and honest, and—
‘Lib!’
Those big brown eyes have alighted on me now, and he’s getting to his feet, a huge smile on his handsome face.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he says, coming over to put his arms around me in a huge bear hug. (I inhale, as surreptitiously as I can, his scent: the familiar, warm, kitcheny smell I’ve known inside out for the last couple of decades, coupled with something spicier and more masculine that I never used to notice, but must have always been there.) ‘Come and sit down and have some wine with me. Well, actually, I decided on a bottle of champagne. Your favourite kind. I mean, we’re celebrating your moving into the new flat, right?’
‘Oh, Olly. That’s … so nice of you.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s a big moment. You deserve to celebrate it!’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. I mean, I feel like I’ve already screwed things up with my