look wonderful, by the way.’ He smiled at her, so damn sincere. Or at least seemingly so. Not that you could tell. Urgh, this whole thing was a mess.
‘Oh, um …’ – she felt her skin heat up and bit her lip in irritation – ‘this dress is really old.’
‘Tigerlily? Step One of Ollie’s intro into dating: someone gives you a compliment, you say thank you. You keep rejecting nice words, people won’t give them to you anymore.’
Ollie paused and raised his eyebrows, waiting to see if she was going to argue with him. ‘Let’s try again? Tigerlily, you look wonderful tonight.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Tig purposefully chanted like a child.
‘Sarcastic, but I’ll take it. How do you feel about Thai food?’
Tig grinned in relief. ‘My favourite.’
‘A little birdie may have mentioned that.’
‘And how does that little birdie feel about you fake-dating her favourite customer?’
‘She knows I’m leaving in four months, and thinks it’s terribly unfair of me to drag you into anything,’ Ollie shrugged. ‘But, Ruby seems the type to let you make your own mistakes. Plus, if I hurt you, I’m out of a job, so that should give you some confidence in the situation.’
Tig grinned to herself. ‘Maybe a little.’
They turned down a side street in Kings Cross, and then another, and another, until Tig was thoroughly lost. Which was always kind of jarring, when she felt she knew North London like no one else could. But everyone had their secret spots in the city, and she loved that Ollie was no exception.
They entered a dark, small restaurant, and the waiter lit up, shaking Ollie’s hand, and ushering them in.
‘Come here often?’ she asked as they settled.
‘I used to work here, always try to stop by whenever I’m back in London.’ Ollie waved over the counter to the chef in the back, an older portly man who smiled back with two thumbs up.
‘You were a waiter?’ Tig asked. ‘Is that what the job in four months is?’
Ollie grinned at her, and took off the beanie, ruffling his hair. ‘Ah, now you’re intrigued, right? Who waits four months for a waitstaff job?’
‘Someone who needs a really good cover for a heist?’ Tig offered, nodding in thanks as the water was brought to their table.
‘Know what you want, Ollie?’ the waiter asked.
‘Can you ask Chef for the usual? He’ll know.’ He shared a grin with the waiter.
‘Probably going to shit himself.’
‘If it’s as good as it was when I left, he’s got no worries.’ Ollie winked, then turned to Tig. ‘Wine?’
‘Sure, whatever you prefer.’ Tig shrugged, guessing that it was probably better to make as few decisions tonight as possible.
‘You’re not allergic to anything, or hate certain foods, or …’
‘Nope, I’m all good,’ she smiled, and the waiter nodded and walked off.
‘What are you, the king of London Thai food?’
Ollie leaned in and looked at her. ‘I’m a chef.’
‘What, like someone who makes meth?’
Ollie tilted his head. ‘That’s a cook.’
‘Oh.’
He frowned. ‘You think it’s more likely that I manufacture methamphetamine than it is that I cook decent food for people to eat?’
‘Umm …’ Tig screwed up her nose. ‘No, but …’
‘But!’
‘Okay, number one: you’re kind of a salesman. I walk around hating everything attached to a penis the last seven months, I am fuming that my ex is getting remarried less than a year after dumping me, and … you somehow convince me to enter a relationship with you.’
‘A fake relationship.’
‘Yes, but one that involves coming to restaurants, and wearing real clothes, and talking to someone else. I still don’t know how any of this has happened.’
‘It’s a magical substance called wine. And possibly empathy, or even chivalry,’ Ollie said snootily.
‘Chivalry? How about capitalising on the situation?’
‘How about you were miserable, I was lonely, and I thought we’d get along. Which, of course, is working out swimmingly!’ Ollie rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers on the table.
Tig bit her lip, tugged at her hair. ‘Okay, I seem to be stuck on my “automatic bitch” setting. Truce?’
Ollie sighed. ‘Just … I have no ulterior motives. In this situation, we could not have been more upfront. We hang out for a few months, have a nice time. You keep away my crazy neighbour, I take you for some nice dinners, we have a laugh. We hopefully leave as friends, and if not, it’s been a nice experience. That’s it!’
‘I know … I’m just …’
‘You’ve been hurt. I know.’ Ollie reached across and squeezed her hand. He looked so damn earnest she actually felt guilty for accusing him of being a drug merchant. Or creator. Whatever.
‘Okay, sorry. Let’s start again. So you’re a chef!’ Tig injected enthusiasm into her voice.
Ollie raised an eyebrow, smirk firmly in place. ‘No, no, no. Wait a minute. What was number two?’
‘Two?’
‘On the list of reasons why I’d make a more believable meth maker than food creator?’
‘Um – well, you look like you subsist on a diet of grilled chicken and protein shakes. Not really what you’d expect from a chef.’
Ollie grinned like a Cheshire cat and said nothing.
‘What, no smart-arse answer to that?’
‘Hey, it’s a compliment. I’m not complaining.’ He threw his hands up.
‘Is it not true?’
He twitched his nose a little. ‘Partly. I was a fat chef for a while. Now I work out and eat a lot of protein. Luckily, I know how to season stuff. Healthy food doesn’t have to be boring.’
Tig shrugged. ‘I like bland. It makes me feel like I know it’s good for me.’
‘I’ll cook for you sometime,’ Ollie said earnestly. ‘I created a whole menu for this fat camp in Vermont. They didn’t even realise it was health food.’
