Boy Parts(62)

‘I totally agree,’ he says. ‘The table is booked for half past, so we should probably get a shuffle on,’ he says. He stands, and I’m still looming over him.

‘Booked? Shit,’ I say. ‘I thought we’d just be like… going to a cafe or something. I don’t know.’

‘Err…’ He looks sheepish all of a sudden. ‘I mean, I’ve not booked us into a posh one or anything, just… semi-posh?’

‘Semi-posh.’

‘Yeah.’

I tell him it had better not be too far away. ‘It’s fine for you being out in this heat; you tan. You’re always tan. You look like you’ve just been on holiday or something,’ I say. He laughs.

‘Are you joking?’

‘What?’

‘I’m mixed race, Irina? Had you not twigged? My last name is Arabic, it’s proper obviously foreign?’

It’s cute that he thinks I care what his last name is.

We walk to the semi-posh restaurant – a nice French place down by the train station, where the waiter is extremely enthusiastic and explains how French-style tapas works, and offers us the wine list. Eddie from Tesco asks the waiter to bring his recommended bottle of red, in what would have been a baller move if he hadn’t been sweating and stuttering the whole time.

There’s a lot of dairy on the menu, a lot of carbs, but Eddie from Tesco has anticipated this, pointing out the large selection of fish, and salads, and fishy salads for me to peruse. The wine the waiter brings is very nice. I’m struggling to find something to complain about.

‘This is a bit much,’ I say.

‘I know.’ He smiles and reaches over the table to take my hand. ‘I just think that… that you deserve nice things.’ I pull my hand away and tuck my hair behind my ears. ‘I worry that you don’t… Maybe you don’t see that. But it’s okay, because. I get it. I do the same thing.’

‘We’re nothing alike.’ I snort. He’s still smiling. He’s being patient with me, and he just drops it; he ignores me being a dick.

‘Do you want a starter?’

‘I really don’t think we’re anything alike,’ I say.

‘Okay. Sorry. Stupid thing to say. Do you want a starter?’

I don’t. I watch him eat bread for twenty minutes and make my way through the bottle of wine before the smiley waiter comes and takes the order for our main meal.

‘Camembert,’ I say. It falls out of my mouth, along with an order for potatoes dauphinoise, and a charcuterie-thing. Eddie from Tesco blinks at me. He smiles.

‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Go big or go home, then.’ He gets a steak. I think he orders a steak, and some other meat stuff, because he wants to look like one of those big, masculine men, whose personality revolves around craft beer and red meat consumption.

While we wait for the main, I eat his leftover bread, which is slathered with garlic butter. My eyes roll back in my head. They bring us another bottle of wine, and Eddie from Tesco gets a beer. I am too busy drinking the wine to make him drink any.

‘So, do you like Nan Goldin?’ asks Eddie from Tesco.

I do like Nan Goldin. And we play art bingo for a bit where he asks me if I like different photographers and I say yes or no. When it’s a no to Helmut Newton, he seems really taken aback.

‘I like him,’ he says. ‘I think there are loads of similarities between your works.’

‘Fuck off,’ I say. ‘Like, literally, fuck off.’

‘What’s wrong with Helmut Newton?’

‘Are you joking?’ I say. ‘I thought you were like… a woke bae.’

‘I am! I just…’ He shrugs. ‘I mean, I don’t have an art degree – an MA, even – do I?’

‘It’s not my job to educate you on…’ I take a big mouthful of wine, ‘misogynist photographers, and why they’re misogynist. It should be obvious.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m just shitting you,’ I say. ‘I get why you’d say that. I just don’t like him much. Bit… bland-white-male-titty photographer, isn’t he?’

‘Um. Yeah, guess.’

‘And I mean, I do take like… So all the women he photographs are like boilerplate sexy ladies, aren’t they? And I mean, I’m taking your photo, aren’t I? Not exactly Vogue material, are you?’

‘True,’ he says, nodding. It’s a bit sad that this is his default setting. My mam always used to tell me that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. And Eddie from Tesco is a fly, but he’s got a taste for vinegar. It’s like vinegar is all he’s ever had from people, and now he doesn’t even know what honey tastes like.

They bring the main. It’s sublime. This is the first time I’ve eaten cheese in about two years. I struggle not to drool while I eat. I keep the napkin clutched in my hand, dabbing at the corners of my mouth every time I eat a glob of Camembert, a little piece of smoked meat, a gooey potato. I ignore the sound of my waist expanding, and the intrusive images I have of my stomach in this dress once we’re done.

‘Hungry?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say. I eat everything. Eddie from Tesco watches me, with his chin rested on his hand. Placid, and interested, like he’s at an aquarium. ‘What?’