Page 63 of The Girl You Left Behind
Paul leans back in his chair, his eyes darting to a group of shrieking office workers, who seem to have been there all afternoon, judging by the general air of drunken flirtatiousness. He has been quietly amused by them, by the lurching women, the dozing accountant in the corner.
“I... just needed to get out of the house.”
“Ah, yeah. The working-from-home thing. I forget how that can drive you crazy. When my brother first moved over here he spent weeks at mine writing job applications, and when I used to get in from work, he would literally talk at me nonstop for an hour.”
“You came over from America together?”
“He came to support me when I got divorced. I was a bit of a mess. And then he just never left.” Paul had come to England ten years ago. His English wife had been miserable, had missed home, especially when Jake was a baby, and he had left the NYPD to keep her happy.
“When we got here we found it was us, not the location, that was all wrong. Hey, look. Blue Suit Man is going to make a move on the girl with the great hair.”
Liv sips her drink. “That’s not real hair.”
He squints. “What? You’re kidding me. It’s a wig?”
“Extensions. You can tell.”
“I can’t. You’re going to tell me the chest is fake too now, right?”
“No, they’re real. She has quadroboob.”
“Quadroboob?”
“Bra’s too small. It makes her look like she’s got four.”
Paul laughs so hard he starts to choke. She smiles back at him, almost reluctantly. She has been a little strange tonight, as if all her responses are slowed by some separate internal conversation.
He manages to control himself. “So what do we think?” he says, trying to make her relax. “Is Quadroboob Girl going to go for it?”
“Maybe with one more drink inside her. I’m not convinced she really likes him.”
“Yeah. She keeps looking over his shoulder as she talks to him. I think she likes Gray Shoes.”
“No woman likes those shoes. Trust me.”
He lifts an eyebrow, puts down his drink. “Now this, you see, is why men find it easier to split molecules and invade countries than to work out what goes on in women’s heads.”
“Pfft. If you’re lucky, one day I’ll sneak you a look at the rule book.” He looks at her, and she blushes, as if she’s said too much. There is a sudden inexplicably awkward silence. She stares at her drink. “Do you miss New York?”
“I like visiting. When I go home now they all make fun of my accent.”
She seems to be only half listening.
“You don’t have to look so anxious,” he says. “Really. I’m happy here.”
“Oh. No. Sorry. I didn’t mean...” Her words die on her lips. There is a long silence. And then she looks up at him and speaks, her finger resting on the rim of her glass. “Paul... I wanted to ask you to come home with me tonight. I wanted us to... But I—I just... It’s too soon. I can’t. I can’t do it. That’s why I canceled dinner.” The words spill out into the air. She flushes to the roots of her hair.
He opens, then closes his mouth. He leans forward, and says, quietly, “‘I’m not very hungry’ would have been fine.”
Her eyes widen, then she slumps a little over the table. “Oh, God. I’m a nightmare date, aren’t I?”
“Maybe a little more honest than you need to be.”
She groans. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what I’m—”
He leans forward, touches her hand lightly. He wants her to stop looking anxious. “Liv,” he says evenly, “I like you. I think you’re great. But I totally get that you’ve been in your own space for a long time. And I’m not... I don’t...” Words fail him, too. It seems too soon for a conversation like this. And underneath it all, despite himself, he fights disappointment. “Ah, hell, you want to grab a pizza? Because I’m starving. Let’s go get a bite and make each other feel awkward somewhere else.”
He can feel her knee against his.
