The World According to Vince - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 0,23

fart in a Jacuzzi.”

That made me smile, it was so Vince. But then I sighed.

“Everyone likes you.”

“Only ‘cause they don’t know me,” he grinned.

“And the women were all over you.”

“They know hot stuff when they see it,” he nodded in agreement, smoothing his tie and giving me his patented James-Bond-raised eyebrow.

“I mean it,” I snapped.

“You looked fook hot tonight,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Them blokes would have been all over you if I hadn’t been on guard duty.”

I shook my head. “Men just see me as a skinny, uptight fun-sucker … and don’t make me say that again quickly!”

I thought he’d laugh it off. I was really being pathetic and obviously drunker than I’d realized.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “But, Grace … is that really how you see yourself?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

The silence hung between us.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. I know a great vegan restaurant just around the corner. You’ll love it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I mean it.”

Vince gave me a dazzling smile. “You like me, admit it.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

“Not even slightly,” I said haughtily. “And I preferred you when you were 3,000 miles away in LA.”

He leaned down, his breath tickling my ear. “That’s a long way to go for snuggles.”

And I couldn’t help laughing. Vincent Azzo was winning me over, too.

God help me.

Vince

The mistake people make when they’re not used to cooking vegan food is that they try to replace the meat to copy a meat-based meal and it just doesn’t work. Sticking veg and potatoes on a plate with a Quorn-burger and calling it a roast dinner don’t cut it in my book.

The restaurant I took Gracie to was streets beyond that—it was a fart-friendly environment: more beans, pulses and lentils than you could shake a bog roll at, and an array of delicious dishes.

It was also a Buddhist place so had this cool, laidback, hippy dippy vibe. It was my go-to happy place, second after the dog park, or maybe third after a good shag—but that was debatable.

My mouth started watering like a leaky hydrant even before they brought the menus which I knew off by heart. Do you think vampires drool when they scent a tasty human? I’ve often wondered about that: it’s one of the questions that keeps me awake at night.

Nah, I’m kidding. Nothing keeps me awake at night—I sleep like the dead.

Like the dead! Hahaha! The Vin-meister is a pun-master.

Back to the drool.

Triple mushroom noodles with black turtle beans (no turtles involved); bean curd with basil, cashew nuts, cranberry beans, split peas and lentils; pan fried turnip cake with lemon (a must); and their incredible sweet and sticky rice balls with sesame.

Grace wanted to go with something safe but I ordered lots of other things for her to try, as well. I never want to be one of those shit-necks who tell their women what to eat, but I was confident that when she saw what I’d be shoving in my gob, she’d wet her knickers, guaranteed.

When the array of food arrived, her eyes widened and she looked physically sick. I wasn’t quite sure where I’d miscalculated, but I tried to reassure her it was all for me. She seemed incredulous, but I took to a trough like the world was ending.

As I chewed, half delirious with pleasure, I stared at her, watching her color rise as the warmth of the restaurant and the food took away the winter chill.

After a minute, she laid down her chopsticks.

“Please don’t watch me eat, it’s really off-putting.”

And the penny dropped with a loud and familiar clang, so I concentrated on staring at my own plate.

“No worries, Grace. I’m too busy stuffing me own fookin’ face.”

“You’re gross.”

“But in a sexy way, yeah?”

“No, in a gross way. You’re staring, again.”

“You’ve got mustard on your lip,” and I wiped a paper serviette over her face, trying to be helpful, but she reeled back, flushed with embarrassment.

I carried on eating, then asked in a conversational tone, “How long were you anorexic?”

Her whole body stiffened.

“Did Cady tell you that?” she asked angrily. “I can’t believe she’d…”

“Nah, nothing like that. Cady barely tolerates me,” I said cheerfully. “You know I was a catwalk model for five years. I’ve seen it all. Most of the models were fookin’ anorexic— chewing on tissue paper to fill ‘em up, arses like elephants—all loose skin over butt bones. You need squats to get a juicy, peachy arse like mine,” and I stood up pointing at the pert peaks of perfection in