Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Form a bond with your intended by being interested in the things he enjoys. It may not come naturally, but with practice you will learn to love his hobbies as much as if they were yours.

Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

I spend the next forty-five minutes delicately sipping water, trying not to chuck up and attempting to be mega interested in open mic poetry. All the people at Little Joe’s Java are so excited to be here, and Leo is the most excited of all. He really does love it, clapping enthusiastically after every performance and nodding like he gets what they’re all spouting on about. Why did Valentina not tell me about this hobby of his? Did she even know? It’s absolutely not what I thought he’d be into. Sensitive sketches and poetry aren’t usually the kind of thing you’d associate with arrogant, sexist ad men. I’m so confused.

When (thank God) it’s interval time, I lean over to Leo.

‘So how long have you been coming here?’ I ask curiously.

‘A while,’ he replies, taking a sip of his espresso. ‘Though never with a girl, come to think of it.’

What did I do to deserve this hell?

I put a hand to my chest.

‘What did I do to be so lucky?’

He looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose you seem a little … different to the girls I usually date . . . A little alternative.’ His eyes flick up to my tufty lace hat and across my powdery face. ‘I thought you might enjoy a more unconventional scene.’

He thinks I’m alternative?This was not the intention. Stupid quirky hat. I try to hide my bewilderment and appear as enthusiastic as I can possibly be.

‘Oh, yes, I am enjoying it,’ I purr, looking around Little Joe’s Java with wide eyes as if there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be. ‘Open mic poetry is wonderful. I − I come to these places all the time. I’m thrilled you brought me here. Thrilled with a capital T.’ I peek up at him through my lashes. He seems to like my fake excitement so I carry on. ‘Yes, if I’d known we were coming to a spoken word event, I’d have, er, signed up to recite myself! It’s so … brave and, um, expressive to share your soul on stage. To, um, connect with strangers. It’s so … er …’ What were they always saying in poetry lectures at uni?‘ … so avant-garde!’

Leo slowly nods as if I’ve just said something dead insightful. He slips a hand round my waist, rests it on my ribcage and moves his thumb in a slow circular motion that my body, annoyingly, does not immediately reject.

‘Lucille Darling,’ he says, looking at me in an odd, appraising sort of way. ‘Aren’t you an unexpected pleasure?’

‘That I am,’ I reply with an alluring, mysterious throaty laugh. ‘That … I am.’

He pulls me in close as yet another amateur poet takes to the stage.

Despite being completely miserable, totally unprepared and on the verge of puking like a mofo, I seem somehow, in the most unlikely of circumstances, to have piqued Leo Frost’s interest.

* * *

This date is going fairly well. Because of the performance nature of the evening, we thankfully don’t have to talk too much so I try to zone out, sip my water and deep-breathe until the night is over and I can shuffle off back to bed and rub my belly. But just when I think I might be about to pull this whole evening off like a boss, I’m thrown a curveball.

And it’s a massive one.

‘And now, everyone, we come to the improv poetry portion of our evening,’ the goateed host says into the mic. The crowd make an ‘ooooh’ noise. ‘The part of the night when members of our audience come up on stage to recite a little something off the cuff.’

Oh man, there’s more? But we’ve heard so many poems already. I look around at this crowd in disgust, huffing as discreetly as I can. These people are soobsessed with poems. They can’t get enough of poems. There’s no escape. I am in poetry purgatory.

The MC picks a little piece of paper out of a hat.

‘OK, guys, first up to share some improvization with us is … Lucille Darling.’

Because Lucille Darling is not my real name, it takes a second to sink in.

What. The. Fuck?

No.

I spin round to Leo in horror. He’s smiling excitedly. ‘I put your name in when you were using the ladies’ room. You said earlier that if you’d known we were coming here you’d have got up. Well, now’s your chance.’ He looks so pleased with himself. Like he’s done me a favour. What a turd!

Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Turd.

What will I do? My eyes flick towards the door. I can hardly leg it, can I? Especially not when it’s taken everything I have to get this far without letting on how unwell I feel. If I run away now it will all have been for nothing. The whole thing. Shit.

Leo stands up and gestures to the audience in much the same way he did at The Beekeeper launch when everyone slow clapped his disapproval of me.

‘Let’s give Lucille a round of applause!’ he calls out in his smooth, deep baritone.

‘I don’t … ’

‘Just close your eyes, Lucille,’ he says earnestly. ‘Let it flow, you’ll be super.’

Balls.

The audience clap and click their fingers heartily.

No one could ever describe me as shy, but my knees have gone proper wibbly. Leo seems really into the idea of me going up there. And Grandma said I must be as enthusiastic as possible.

Stop being a sucker, Jess. Just get it done.

I slowly get up from the table and straighten my pencil skirt, trying my best to ignore the acid swishing around in my stomach. Then I totter over to the stage and hold out my hand so that the MC can help me up.

I take the mic, squinting as the spotlight dazzles my eyes.

OK. It’s only a poem. A tiny little poem. I just need to say some random words together and pretend that they make sense to me. Then I can go home to bed where I belong. Right. Random words …

I take a deep breath and try to focus.

‘Um … Hacky sack,’ I whisper into the mic.

Shit. No. That’s what Freddie Prinze Junior says in She’s All That. I can’t have my poem be about a hacky sack too. The audience think I’m making a hilarious ironic joke and roar with laughter.

‘Ha-ha,’ I agree.

OK. Poem time.

‘Rain-soaked sky,’ I croak out, my throat suddenly dry and flinty. Leo smiled and nods to encourage me, his auburn hair glowing out from the crowd.

‘Oh why … Oh why. Why did you have to… let her fly?’

What am I even saying? I blink at the audience. They don’t look impressed at all. I don’t blame them. This sucks.

I try to close my eyes like Leo suggested.

Er … ‘Empty spaces,’ I go on. ‘Silent places, blurred faces. Stop the weeping. Leave her sleeping.’

I cough.

‘It’s … a, um, puzzle, I’ll never know. I can’t reach, I try to grow. Now… she’s left me here alone… My Rose.’

Rose. Mum. My eyes quickly flicker open. I swallow hard. Where the bloody hell did that come from?

The audience, sensing that I’m finished, start to clap half-heartedly.

I feel sick.

It’s hot in here.

I drank so much last night.

That kebab was uber greasy.

My head is killing me. The coffee smell is too strong.

I think I have to …

‘Puke,’ I whisper.

Knocking the mic stand over, I jump off the stage and race right past a startled-looking Leo Frost and into the ladies’ room. I reach the loo just in time to hurl like I’ve never before hurled in my life. I hurl like a champion.

I hear Leo’s deep voice from outside the cubicle.

‘Lucille?’

Shit!

I grab some loo roll and lightly dab at my mouth, trying not to smudge the pink lipstick Grandma so carefully applied earlier. I feel absolutely rotten. I’m never drinking that much flavoured vodka or eating a dodgy kebab again.

‘I’m OK,’ I say as brightly as I can manage, which isn’t very. ‘Just something I ate!’ My voice is all shaky. I wonder if Leo Frost heard me puking?

I reach up, unlock the door with shaking hands and peek round it. He’s grimacing. Yup. Definitely witness to the vomming.

Fuck. Fuck.

Well now I’ve completely ruined it. I’m pretty fucking certain that a Good Woman must never chuck up in the near vicinity of her intended chap.

It’s over. The project is over. There’s absolutely no way to come back from this.

I yank off Grandma’s ridiculous hat with a sigh and rub my hand over my face.

‘Look … Leo, you might as well, you know, leave. I don’t mind,’ I sigh heavily, dropping all pretence of Lucille. What’s the point? I mean, he’s hardly going to want to see me again after I made a right tit of myself on the stage and then extravagantly chundered in front of him.

Man, I feel rough.

Leo Frost steps towards me, his rangy frame filling up the tiny ladies’ room. He crouches down and undoes the tight Liberty print scarf from around my neck, takes it off, folds it neatly and tucks it into his shirt pocket.

‘Might get in the way,’ he says reasonably.

Before I can respond, my stomach lurches horribly. I turn back to the basin and throw up again. God, this is the worst fake date in the history of the universe ever.

But then the weirdest thing happens. Leo leans over, gathers up my hair and gently sweeps it back from my face so that it’s away from the toilet. He patiently holds it there until I’m finished.

When the contents of my stomach are flushed away, I flop back against the wall and take long, steady breaths. Without a word, Leo hurries off to get me a glass of cold water. When he returns, he hitches up his fancy suit trousers slightly and sits on the floor beside me. Thankfully, it’s a clean floor.

I rub my stomach and puff the air out through my cheeks, taking the glass of water from him with a mumbled thanks.

‘You can’t possibly have any more left.’ He raises an eyebrow.

Grandma would be horrified if she saw that my grand first date with Leo had ended up on a flipping toilet floor. She would cry, for sure.

‘We ought to get you home,’ Leo says in a low voice. ‘You’re certainly not going to get better in time for our next date by hanging around in a coffee-shop bathroom. Though, as bathrooms go, it’s not a terrible one. A rather good selection of reading material, in fact.’

He points up at the scrawled graffiti on the cubicle wall.

Wait … did he just say next date?

Whaaat? He’s still interested after everything that’s just happened?

I don’t understand . . .

Unless … God, it must have been all my enthusiasm about the poetry. Grandma must have been right. By pretending to be super interested in what he’s interested in, I’ve totally hooked him in. I’ve hooked him in so well that he’s overlooked the puking. Woah. Matilda Beam might be magic.

I blink in surprise. So… the project isn’t over?

I clear my throat and gaze up at him. ‘Oh, Leo,’ I croon in the slinky Lucille voice. ‘You are soooo thoughtful.’

And we’re back.

* * *

Leo arranges for a Woolf Frost town car to take me back to Bonham Square, and when I get there Grandma is eagerly awaiting my return.

She jumps up from her chair as soon as I enter the drawing room, Lady Chatterley’s Lover clattering to the floor. Huh. She’s taking her sweet time with that book. I wonder if she’s just rereading the filthy bits like I do.

‘How did it go, dear?’ she asks,super eagerly. ‘What happened? I’ve been waiting for you to get back!’

I flop down onto the sofa and sprawl out, completely drained of all my energy.

‘Frost took me to a coffee house.’

Grandma blinks. ‘Not to dinner? How … unusual.’

‘It was a poetry night.’

‘Poetry?’ Grandma pulls a face. ‘Poor you.’

If I wasn’t so ill, I’d laugh.

‘Did he try to kiss you?’ she asks hopefully.

Hmm. I think he might have done if I hadn’t just barfed up. Grandma doesn’t need to know that, though, it’ll just bum her out.

‘He did,’ I lie. ‘But I turned so it landed on my cheek, just like the guide said. He’s asked me out again for Thursday night.’

‘Oh, how wonderful!’ Grandma claps her hands together. ‘I am so pleased, Jessica. You’re doing so well. So well. Remember, you must write down what happened for the book. The sooner we have something to show Valentina the better.’

Oh yeah. The first twenty thousand words. I’d forgotten about those. Blerg.

Grandma peers at me worriedly through her big red glasses. ‘Are you all right? You look a little peaky.’ She reaches across and flattens the back of her cold hand against my forehead.

‘I feel a bit sick’ I say − the understatement of the century. ‘Nowt to worry about, though. Just a dicky tummy.’

‘Hmm,’ Grandma murmurs. ‘Peach has been unwell too. Perhaps it’s a bug of some sort.’ She pats my knee. ‘Get yourself to bed, dear. I’m sure the pair of you will feel much better in the morning. Everything looks better in the morning.’