Christmas Shopaholic(46)

“Why don’t you unbutton your shirt?” I suggest. “Loosen up, Luke! Get into the spirit of it!”

I ruffle his hair and unbutton his top button. I’m hoping he might relax, but he just gives me a look.

“Would you rather I went home and put on a slashed leather jacket?”

“No!” I say, laughing. “Don’t be silly!” I hesitate, then add, “Have you got a slashed leather jacket?”

He gives me another look and I bite my lip. Right. Duh.

We walk on, and still Luke says nothing. Am I imagining it or is the tension growing? I keep glancing at Luke, but his jaw is even more rigid. And as we approach the door of the pub, I feel as if I might have made a huge, fat mistake.

Am I in denial? Is there sexual tension between Craig and me?

I mean OK, yes. Hand on heart, I did try to look edgier today. Because of what Craig said. But I don’t fancy him.

Do I?

Well, maybe I do fancy him a bit, simply because he is objectively good-looking and anyone would fancy him. (Look at Suze.) But I don’t want him.

Do I?

Oh God. Do I want him without realizing it? Does my subconscious want to have an affair with Craig?

I walk along silently, feeling breathless, as I probe the innermost corners of my mind. But the trouble with asking your subconscious what it wants is, it just laughs at you and says, “Work it out for yourself, moron.”

What about Luke? He looks calm enough—but is he silently bubbling with jealousy and hatred? As we reach the entrance to the pub, I feel a lump of worry in my throat. Should I quickly cancel and say, “Let’s go home”? But if I cancel, won’t that make things look worse?

What if Luke and Craig get into an argument? Or a duel? I have no idea where this thought has come from, but I suddenly see Luke in his Armani suit and Craig in his leather jacket, hacking at each other with swords, leaping up onto the bar of the pub and round the seats, while I cry desperately, “Please! Don’t fight over me! Your lives are too precious!”

“Becky?” Luke gives me an odd look. “Are we going in?”

“Right.” I come to and blink a few times. “Yes. Let’s do this.”



* * *



—

It’s warm and cozy inside with a crackling fire. Over the sound system, Chris Rea is singing about driving home for Christmas, and there’s the smell of mulled wine in the air. As I take off my coat, I’m aware of the girl behind the bar eyeing up my outfit curiously.

“Going to a costume party?” she asks.

Honestly. They wouldn’t ask that in Shoreditch.

“No. Just an evening out,” I reply coolly. “With friends.”

To my own ears, the word “friends” sounds quite cryptic and mysterious. I’ve never felt like a femme fatale before—but I feel as though I’m in a love triangle in some film noir and this is the pivotal scene.

“Luke, you do know I love you, don’t you?” I say, my voice low and throbbing.

“Yes,” says Luke, looking at me as though I’m an idiot.

“What can I get you, Becky?” says the bartender, Dave, in a cheery voice. But before I can answer, the pub door swings open behind me and I hear Craig’s voice, accompanied by violins in my head: “Becky.”

It’s practically exactly like that bit in Casablanca. (Except in a pub. And not black and white. And not in Casablanca.)

“Craig,” I say breathlessly, wheeling round. Then I blink in slight surprise. He’s not wearing leather. He’s wearing a coat. And has he shaved?

He greets me with a kiss on each cheek—then I turn self-consciously to Luke.

“Luke…this is Craig,” I say momentously.

I don’t know what exactly I’m expecting. An instant confrontation? But of course there’s nothing like that. They shake hands and Luke says, “Welcome to Letherby,” whereupon Craig says, “Thanks, mate. Cold out there. What are you drinking?”

The whole film noir vibe has sort of ebbed away. They just sound like two blokes in a pub.

“What can I get you, Becky?” says Dave again. “Your usual? Baileys on ice?”

I feel a flash of embarrassment. Baileys on ice is not my usual. I’ve only had it a few times.

“Tequila, thanks,” I say in my coolest voice, glancing at Craig. “We’re doing tequila shots, right?”

“Tequila shots?” says Luke, looking astonished, but I pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Not for me,” says Craig, lifting a hand, and I stare at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t serious about tequila,” he says with a rueful smile. “Can’t do that anymore, not after wrecking my stomach lining. I’ll be on wine. But don’t let me stop you guys,” he adds, turning to Luke.

“I’ll be on wine too,” says Luke firmly. “There’s a nice Malbec here—”

“The Malbec.” Craig nods enthusiastically. “That’s a good wine. I had it the other night.”

Malbec? Since when do rock gods drink Malbec?

I watch, discomfited, as Dave pours out two glasses of wine and a tequila shot. I feel stupid now. I don’t want to do shots on my own.

“Cheers,” says Craig, clinking glasses with Luke and me. The two men sip their wine and I drain my tequila.