if she had given him the opportunity? And there she was with another man. A man he already disliked, just because he was seated next to her.
He clenched the anger down and reached for the jug of water.
*
She was opposite him. Opposite was OK, opposite meant not next to. Their knees wouldn’t accidentally brush and their elbows wouldn’t connect when they ate. The only downside was that she had to look at him all night.
Chris was next to her and, after his two pints, was halfway down a bottle of red wine. But that was nothing compared to the whole bottle of white Councillor Martin had necked before the starter had come out. There was no way he was going to be remotely interested in discussing extra provision for the school when he seemed hell bent on sampling all that Pinot Grigio had to offer.
‘So Guy, how are you finding things here in England? Bit different from La France, I bet! The weather for one. I mean today’s been a scorcher but tomorrow it’ll probably piss down,’ Chris said, refilling his glass.
Emma cringed. Chris had no idea how to behave in different social situations. She used to be proud. Her boyfriend was who he was, no airs, no graces. He could be at an audience with the Queen and he’d probably ask her if she thought David Cameron was a fuckwit… and expect a reply. But now it wasn’t endearing. Now it was embarrassing.
‘I like the rain. It is fresh,’ Guy said.
Fresh rain. Yes, that conjured up plenty of images. None of them clean. His eyes kept locking with hers like they were a compass, always swinging back to find north. It was giving her heartburn, or perhaps that was down to the prawn cocktail.
‘I guess it’s still the novelty factor for you. When you’ve had years of back-to-back sun, drizzles and downpours must certainly be different. You’ll get sick of it though when it happens every bloody day,’ Chris continued, slurping at his wine and prodding at a cucumber wedge on his plate.
‘I like England. It has character,’ Guy replied, putting a hand to his hair and pushing it back from his face.
‘ How long are you here for, Guy? Signed up to a long and lucrative contract, I hope!’ Councillor Martin said. He wiped his sweaty brow with a napkin.
‘Two years for the moment. We will see.’
Two years! Two years playing for a team only eighty or so miles up the road. It was too close for too long. France may only be a tunnel trip away but it was still another country, another lifetime.
‘We should take Dominic to the football more, Em. He’d love it,’ Chris remarked.
‘Mmm,’ Emma replied, poking some prawn cocktail into her mouth as quick as she could.
‘Dominic?’ Guy asked, looking up from his meal. His tone showed slightly too much interest.
‘So, Councillor Martin,’ Emma said quickly, changing the subject. ‘Sorry, Geoffrey, you know what I’m going to ask, so let’s get it out of the way. Is there any chance St Joseph’s could get some more funding? The drama classes desperately need new books and costumes for performances. The parents have donated generously but there’s only so much they can give and only so many times we can ask them without it getting embarrassing.’
‘There are procedures to apply for extra funding I’m afraid. You have to apply, in writing. There’s a form,’ Geoffrey Martin said, sticking his finger in the remaining sauce on his plate and wiping it up.
‘I know. I’ve applied. Actually I’ve applied twice this year already and no one responds to my phone calls,’ Emma answered.
She was sick of being given the run-around by Geoffrey Martin’s secretary. She didn’t need an abacus to count how many messages she’d left for the councillor to call her.
‘You tell him, Em,’ Chris encouraged, refilling his wine glass.
‘Well, I expect matters are in hand,’ Geoffrey mumbled into his napkin.
‘Maybe I could make a donation, to the school,’ Guy spoke up.
‘Oh no, Mr Duval, you don’t need to do that. That wasn’t what I was trying to do, I was just… well, the council should have provision,’ Emma replied, her cheeks reddening.
‘Not so hasty, Em! Who cares where the money comes from? You said you’re in danger of having to perform West Side Story again this year! Believe me there’s only so much “la, la, la, la America” I can take. Hummed it for over a week,’ Chris informed.
‘How much would be OK? Twenty-five thousand?