crazy and absurd and . . . but, uh, I guess we keep goin’ through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.”’
Listening to him, I laugh, feeling a surge of amusement and affection.
And something else.
Out of nowhere I suddenly fancy him. Like really fancy him. Even with that ridiculous Woody Allen impersonation.
‘No, this is your reward.’ Impulsively I’m leaning forwards and kissing him on the cheek. His skin feels soft beneath my lips and he smells faintly of cigarette smoke . . .Then, realising I’ve lingered just that millisecond too long, I pull back, blushing.
How embarrassing. Why not just grab hold of him and snog his face off, Lucy, why don’t you?
‘Well, it’s not much of a reward,’ I add self-consciously, trying to make a joke of it. Honestly, could I be any more crap at flirting? If I’m not lunging at him, I’m making bad, clumsy jokes.
His eyes sweep over my face and for a moment I think he’s going to say something, do something. Then he seems to think better of it. ‘I accept cash and cheques,’ he quips.
‘I’m sure I can’t afford you,’ I quip back.
‘Oh, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ he replies, and holds my gaze for a moment.
My chest tightens. He’s flirting with me, right? That’s definitely flirting. And yet all my confidence has deserted me and I’m not sure. He could be just being friendly, I reason. I mean, for all I know, his invitation to ‘hook up and see a film’ might simply be him returning the favour after I showed him around the MoMA. It could have been purely platonic.
As the thought strikes, so does another: Which means he’s probably not interested in me like that at all. F. .Tat gn=" s. Followed by another: I’ve been reading it all wrong. And another: He’s just being a gentleman, coming to rescue me from the police station . . . As the thoughts gather momentum, hope starts unravelling like knots: In fact, he’s probably not single at all . . . He’s probably got a girlfriend . . . I bet it’s the brunette at the gallery.
‘So are you single?’ I suddenly have that discombobulated feeling of hearing a voice blurt out, wondering who it belongs to, then realising with horror that it belongs to me.
In the middle of sipping his wine, Adam pauses.
The shame. The shame.
‘I mean . . . sort of . . . as in . . .’ I scramble around desperately in my brain for something to say that will stop me looking like . . . like . . . Oh, this is awful. I can’t even think of that word.
‘As in, do I have a girlfriend?’ says Adam evenly.
I stop scrambling and look at him resignedly. ‘Yes, that’s what I meant.’ I brace myself. OK, so he’s got a girlfriend, and it’s the pretty brunette, and they’re very happy together, but that’s all right – we can be friends. Platonic friends. Like in When Harry Met Sally.
Actually, no, they ended up sleeping together. Oh crap.
‘No, I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he replies. ‘I did, but we broke up a while back.’
‘You did?’ I sound happy and relieved. ‘I mean, that’s tough. Breaking up is tough,’ I add, trying to look suitably glum.
Though not as tough as not being able to break up, I think fleetingly, rubbing my wrist, which is still a bit sore from the handcuffs.
‘Not really. She cheated on me.’ He shrugs.
I’m shocked. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to cheat on Adam. ‘Gosh, that’s awful.’
‘Yeah, finding out wasn’t fun, but once I did, well, it was over pretty quick.’ He takes a drag of his roll-up. ‘There’s no point. You can never trust someone again after that . . .’ He trails off as if deep in thought, then holds out his roll-up. ‘You smoke?’
I hesitate. ‘Only on special occasions.’
‘Do you think getting someoã geht"> ssomne out of jail is a special occasion?’
‘Maybe.’ I nod, playing along as he passes me the roll-up. I inhale. It makes my head spin slightly, but in a good way. I can feel myself gradually unwinding after the madness of the evening, and for a few moments neither of us speaks; we just sit together sipping wine and listening to the sounds of Manhattan, which are playing like background music.
‘I guess this is a bit different from most first dates,’ he says finally.
‘Um . . . yeah, I guess so.’ I nod, trying to