Avril Tremayne – The Dating Game (страница 14)

‘Music.’

‘And what did he think of your preference for pop music?’

Sarah did the foot tap thing again.

‘Saaaaraaaah? You did tell him, right?’

‘It didn’t come up.’

‘Blushing.’

Her hand came up to her cheek. ‘Oh, but it’s not a lie. Not really.’

‘You were at a bar, where he was scheduled to perform, talking about music, and he never asked you what kind of music you liked?’ He shook his head. ‘Not buying it. I mean, he’s a moron but not that much of a moron.’

‘If he’s a moron, why did you introduce me to him?’

‘Because I’m a moron.’

She started laughing. ‘Oh, you!’

‘It’s true. I’ll choose better next time. Now come on, spit it out. Music.’

‘The subject really didn’t come up, because …’ Her eyes squeezed shut. ‘Because I told him jazz was my favourite type of music before he could ask me and that was the end of that.’

‘I see,’ David said.

Sarah opened one cautious eye, then the other, biting her bottom lip.

‘Stand up and go over to the glass doors, will you?’ David said.

‘Why? Are you going to make me jump off the balcony?’ she asked with a nervous half-laugh, clutching her wineglass like a lifeline.

‘Yes, if you do something like that again. But for now, just move. Okay, stop … right … theeere, good. Turn side-on.’ Sketch, sketch, sketch. ‘What else did you and Craig talk about?’

‘Golf.’

‘And?’

‘Football.’

‘Okay, I think I can see what went down. You talked about everything that interests him, and nothing that interests you.’

‘But I told you, I can talk about—’

‘Anything, yep, got it, PR girl. Face me.’ Pause while he drew. ‘And then he sang.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he any good?’

‘Truthfully, he was singing in the wrong register.’

‘So he sucked? Come on, gloves off.’

‘He was … not good.’

‘So when he rejoined you, you said … what?’

‘You don’t really think I was going to tell him how bad he was!’

‘There are ways, and there are ways.’

‘Whatever “ways” there are, they’re not my ways, are they? I’ve clearly been doing things the wrong way my entire life.’

‘Hey, enough with the italics! Just tell me what your “way” was on Saturday night.’

‘I told him he was brilliant,’ she mumbled. ‘As anyone with a modicum of … of politeness in their character would have done.’

‘His mother, maybe. No—don’t argue.’ He started sketching again. ‘Rulebook: excessive politeness does not a memorable date make. It’s the same in principle as agreeing with everything a guy says.’

‘Okay, but he didn’t seem bored.’

‘Turn a little to the left, but keep looking at me.’ Pause, while he looked between her and his sketch. Then, super-innocent: ‘So he called you on Sunday, I suppose, after you were so obliging as to sing his praises and agree with everything he said?’

‘No, but I didn’t really want him to. And anyway, they never call the next day, do they?’

It was a rhetorical question, but David answered it anyway. ‘Yes, Sarah, they do. If they’ve had a great time and they want to have another one, they call you the next day. Sometimes they even call you later that night.’

‘Or text?’

‘Or text.’

‘Like you texted me?’ she said, and laughed.

Pause, and then David batted that away. ‘Yeah, don’t get too puffed up in your own conceit there, bluebell. It’s Craig who should have been doing it. Craig, your date.’

‘Well, Erica never seems bothered by it when they don’t call straight away.’

‘Who’s Erica?’

‘Erica Wilder. One of my two best friends. Lane’s housemate. She’s a flight attendant.’

David’s eyes widened appreciatively. ‘A flight attendant?’

‘What is it with guys and flight attendants?’

‘It’s a women in uniform thing.’

‘More like a mile-high club fantasy.’ She took a giant sip of wine. ‘Before you get carried away, I’ll tell you what I told Adam: Erica has a boyfriend. And about a hundred guys waiting in the wings hoping Jeremy drops dead.’

‘Adam? And Erica? I thought he wanted Lane.’

‘Long story, which I am not going to go into.’

‘Well if Erica could get your brother’s eyes off Lane after what I saw of him at the gallery last week, she must be something else. And you’re telling me there’s nothing special about flight attendants?’

‘It’s not about her job. It’s about …’ waving her wineglass ‘… her.’

‘Beautiful, is she?’

‘Very.’

‘Smart and confident and classy?’

‘Very.’

‘Experienced with men?’

‘Very.’

‘And these men swarming all over her never call her the next day?’

‘I … She … They … Hmm …’ She frowned, like she was trying to pull up memories. ‘Maybe it’s that she doesn’t always take their calls.’

‘Ah, now that’s quite different.’

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