Charlotte Butterfield - Me, You and Tiramisu

Thankfully, before too long a couple vacated the battered leather Chesterfield that was nestled at the end of the bar, so they could continue their inane banter in more comfort. They sat alongside each other, both turned inwards, he stretched his arm along the back of the sofa and Jayne kept getting whiffs of a heady combination of expensive aftershave that almost masked his coconut shampoo, and his natural masculine muskiness that made her want to run her tongue all over his face. She didn’t, though. Not yet.

He told her all about his day in the deli over a sharing platter of fried seafood, giving her enlightened observations on all the regulars that came in for a chat and a slab of stinky Italian cheese. It seemed to Jayne as if he’d built up a proper little community around his shop; she had no doubt that the quality of his produce was outstanding, but she was also absolutely certain that the Bugaboo Brigade found other reasons for choosing his establishment as their regular low-fat latte haunt – less to do with what was on the counter and more to do with what was behind it. He seemed totally oblivious to his own personal merits, though, just delighted that his carefully sourced prosciutto was garnering such a following. Bless him.

‘There’s this old dude called Bob the Boat because he lives on a canal barge,’

‘And his name is Bob?’ Jayne helpfully interjected.

‘Exactamondo. And by all accounts he was this proper Romeo back in the day, with a little black book of women that was not very little. He’s hilarious. He’s over eighty and is always entertaining different ‘companions’ on his barge – so he comes in for exotic ingredients for aphrodisiac canapés, dirty sod.’

‘Good on him.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Will raised his glass, ‘Here’s to Bob the Boat, and all who allow him to sail in them.’

‘Eugh! That’s gross! You’re gross.’

He paused for a moment, studying his glass before looking sideways at Jayne. He reached over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and said quietly, ‘And you’re beautiful. I thought it then, and I think it now.’

They half-walked, half-ran, doing a funny sort of power walk that Jayne had only ever seen lycra-bottomed mums with pushchairs and wrist weights doing along the towpath. Quickly weaving in and out of people meandering slowly along the pavement, Jayne didn’t know who was pulling whom along, they both seemed equally eager to reach their destination.

As soon as the door to his flat slammed behind them they’d collapsed on the stairs, ripping at each other’s jackets, buttons and belts. His fingers were in her hair, then tilting her chin so his lips could run around her neck, his teeth gently biting her earlobes. Her mouth desperately searched out his and their lips locked as they fumbled out of their clothes. With their tongues still heatedly circling each others’ Will kicked off his shoes so he could wriggle out of his jeans, while Jayne reached behind her and unlocked her bra. Will gasped and pushed her breasts together. He buried his face in between them and they both laughed.

‘We could actually go upstairs?’ He murmured into her chest.

‘No, let’s stay here. I’ve never made love on the stairs before.’

‘Are we about to make love ?’

‘It certainly looks that way. Now stop talking.’

Jayne backed away and looked suspiciously at the beige-green sludge that Will was offering to her on an outstretched spoon. ‘Try this.’

‘What is it?’ she said gingerly, edging a little closer, but still not fully entering into the spirit of the game.

‘Elderflower and pear chutney. I don’t know if I’ve got the right amount of juniper berries in it or not. What do you think?’

Cautiously she allowed the tip of the spoon to touch her lips, ‘Oh my days, Will, that’s amazing,’ she opened her mouth wide so he could put the whole spoon in. ‘You need to do something about the aesthetics, though, because it looks like snot.’

‘Thanks for that, sweetheart, beautifully put. I might put that on the label as its tagline – Looks like phlegm but tastes delicious.’

‘There’s something to be said for honesty in advertising. Can I have another spoonful?’ she said leaning in.

‘No. You’re procrastinating, go to parents’ evening.’

‘Don’t make me,’ she whined, laying her head on his shoulder. ‘I can’t cope with the angry stage mums no doubt already forming a line to abuse me for not picking their kids for the main parts in the play. Can’t I stay here and eat chutney all evening with you? Please?’

He kissed her on the top of her head, momentarily flattening the wild black ringlets that fizzed out at right angles in every direction. He gave her bottom a playful swat. ‘Go. Go and be charming, be beguiling, and lie through your teeth as to why their cherished offspring didn’t make the cut. I, meanwhile, am going to attempt to master a pumpkin, orange and chilli marmalade. I may save you some if you’re good.’ He started humming the same jaunty tune he always did when he was concocting culinary brilliance. ‘Call me if you’re done by ten and I’ll come and join you in the pub.’

Despite her procrastinations, which she reasoned were completely understandable – who wouldn’t want to spend their evening perched on a kitchen stool being spoon-fed tenderly invented recipes from the love of their life – Jayne actually quite enjoyed parents’ evenings. Admittedly nothing really prepared her for one parent a couple of years ago sticking their iPhone into her face saying ‘Can you say again for the tape how Mia can improve her comprehension skills?’ Or the dad who kept rolling his eyes and making quack-quack movements with his hands whenever his wife was talking – she could tell he was a real keeper.

The hubbub of noise emanating from the hall could be heard from the adjacent staff room, which was packed with every member from each faculty. Jayne nodded, waved and smiled her way through the throng to the kettle, where Abi stood waiting for her, two mugs of extra-strong Nescafé in her hands. She handed Jayne the one saying ‘Keep Calm, It’s Almost Summer’. They’d joined the school at the same time almost ten years ago, both of them fresh from finishing their PGCEs, sporting wide Bambi-eyes and proudly clutching their meticulously filled-in and highlighted lesson plans with noticeably shaking hands. Fast-forward a decade and the hopefulness that they had then was still there, despite an unhealthy dose of hard-earned cynicism trying its best to erode it.

Abi blew across the top of her coffee and said, ‘So what’s it to be this time?’

‘I was thinking about that on the way over here. I think Queen.’

‘As in your son is one?’

Jayne laughed and spilt a bit of coffee on her shirt, ‘Oh no! Quick give me a tissue!’ She arranged her scarf over the damp patch of brown and shrugged, ‘That’ll do. Right, what’s mine?’ They’d devised this game to get them through the early years of parents’ evenings to keep the terror at bay and it had become a rather un-PC ritual they did every term now.

‘Eiffel Tower.’

‘Bugger off. I can’t just drop in the words Eiffel Tower when I’m talking about year eight English. Make it an easier one.