Me, You and Tiramisu. Charlotte Butterfield
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Название: Me, You and Tiramisu
Автор: Charlotte Butterfield
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9780008216504
isbn:
That summer was one of Jayne’s favourite memories of adolescence. Actually, if she was completely honest, it was her favourite hands-down. She didn’t have many happy recollections to choose from, so you could argue that it was all relative, but even taking that into the equation, the summer they had met Billy was a game-changer. She and Rachel had always avoided any outside interference from anyone else; they’d never explicitly talked about why they didn’t try to integrate themselves with anyone else at school, or on their road, but they both knew why. Crystal’s inability to relate to children was even more pronounced, if that was possible, if she didn’t share some DNA with them.
Billy’s detour into their lives was a timely reminder that there was life outside of their twindom. But as the cooler evenings started to seep in, Billy’s dad was offered a job with his brother’s brick-laying business in Slough.
Billy had ridden around on his bike the morning of the big move, despite them having said goodbye the evening before. ‘I got this for you,’ he’d mumbled, blushing. He’d held out a red and green friendship bracelet. ‘I thought you might like it. Or not. You don’t have to wear it. Bye.’ He’d turned to go, swinging one leg over his battered BMX.
‘Wait!’ She’d shouted, ‘Um, thanks Bill, it’s really nice. I um, actually got you a book – it’s only second-hand, but you once said that you liked Terry Pratchett and this is his new one. Wait here.’ Jayne had run upstairs to get it from underneath her bed. It had been there for nearly three weeks, still wrapped in the rough, recycled paper bag it came in. She hadn’t known how to cross over into the realm of present-giving-for-no-reason without it seeming odd, so she had carefully stowed it until she had figured out a way to give it to him without simultaneously combusting in mortified embarrassment. She’d bounded back down the stairs, flushed. ‘Here,’ she’d said, thrusting it into his hands.
‘Thanks, Jayne, this is great. I’ll start it in the car now. Um, say bye to Rachel too, and, um, well. Bye.’
He’d looked as though he was going to start peddling and then thought better of it; then he’d quickly leaned over and crushed his mouth onto hers. His tongue had darted frantically into her mouth, then out again, and then he was off, wobbling furiously down the cul-de-sac.
**
They’d suddenly stopped walking and were standing outside a restaurant. Jayne didn’t need to look at its name or see the menu to know that it was Italian. Rows of Chianti bottles with wicker bases and eruptions of hard candle wax lined the windows, and you could glimpse the ubiquitous red-and-white-checked tablecloths beyond. Jayne tuned back into what Billy, Will, and Rachel were discussing. It seemed as though they’d decided that a celebratory drink deserved an upgrade to dinner.
‘This suit?’ asked Will, gesturing to the restaurant. In that moment he could have bought a can of dog food and three plastic spoons and she’d have nodded just as eagerly as she found herself doing now.
It may have been the warmth of the room or more likely the potency of the house wine, but Jayne found herself starting to relax. Having been initially shocked into silence, she was making up for it now, gabbling and prompting, asking and touching. She couldn’t stop touching him, actually couldn’t stop herself. She was peppering every question by gratuitously resting her hand on his forearm, which he, in turn, instinctively flexed a little each time it happened.
Rachel was sitting back in her chair smiling. It had taken her four years to persuade Jayne to cut his friendship bracelet off her wrist, by which time it was all matted and the once-vibrant red and green had faded to a grimy sort of grey. ‘Darling girl, it’s time,’ she’d said, approaching her sister with her nail clippers as they’d sat in Jayne’s room in her hall of residence.
Wearing his friendship bracelet had become a sort of talisman, a constant reminder that someone once thought that she was okay enough to buy a bracelet for. But Rachel was right; the chances of getting anyone else to ever kiss her were greatly reduced while she sported a grubby shackle around her wrist, so it went in the bin. Although, somewhat predictably, it didn’t stay there long; Jayne had waited for her sister to leave and then unearthed it under the two chicken-and-mushroom pot noodles they’d had for their dinner and popped it in her drawer.
Jayne had never been one of those girls whose sense of self worth depended on how many boys flirted with her. In fact, she’d be the first to admit that she wouldn’t have a clue if someone was actually flirting with her anyway – then or now. A wink probably indicated an eyelash gone rogue, a smile was no doubt meant for the person standing behind her and cheesy one-liners just elicited a quiet contempt from her, not giggles. In the months, then years, after Billy left, all the other sixth-formers were busy padding out their bras at the same time as their UCAS forms. Jayne, meanwhile, began burying herself in books, while glancing at her decorated wrist each time she turned a page.
Now that Jayne had the power of sight, and hindsight, she could see the shell of fifteen-year-old Billy was encased in a more mature, infinitely more stylish, and devastatingly attractive package. Even as a teenager he’d had an effortless soulful look that achieved that rare quality of never looking contrived. Back then, he’d never been so desperate for peer approval that he’d made a conscious decision to fit in, he just managed to. He listened to the Rolling Stones because he genuinely liked their songs, not because it embodied any sort of retro cool. He was the opposite of many of the kids at school, who swaggered about with a giant red tongue emblazoned on their t-shirts, while not being able to name five of their songs in a pop quiz. He still gave off that air now; nothing about him seemed put on or unnatural. He laughed because he found something funny and smiled because he felt like smiling.
Jayne was making no effort to conceal her excitement; she’d even wriggled to the edge of her seat, sitting as far forward as she could without gravity making the chair tip. ‘I can’t believe this! Okay, start with how you got here,’ she said, taking a bite of her garlic bread.
‘Bus. Number 33.’
‘No, you arse, why are you in London? What do you do here? Do you live here?’
Smiling at Jayne’s impatience, he said, ‘Yes I do, I moved here after catering college and then–’
‘You’re a chef! You always said you wanted to be – well done! Wow! That’s awesome!’
‘He’s a chef, Jayne, not a nuclear physicist, let the poor man speak,’ Rachel rolled her eyes at her sister, ‘Sheesh!’
‘Sorry, please continue.’
‘Thank you,’ he bowed his head in mock reverence. ‘So anyway, after college, I came up here to work in a kitchen in a hotel, which was really hard work but I stuck at it for about three years because even though the head chef was a nightmare, he was also amazing. But then I realised that I was in London and I should be enjoying it rather than being stuck in a sweaty kitchen pan-searing scallops all night every night, so I went to work in a riverfront café in Richmond, which was cool, very trendy, and stayed there for another three or four years and then last year I opened up my own deli.’ He paused, looking from one sister to the other, ‘What about you guys? Rachel, is Vivienne Westwood threatened by your genius yet?’
‘Sadly not,’ Rachel ventured as she dipped a breadstick in balsamic, ‘but I did go down the design route, kind of. I work for an СКАЧАТЬ