Free Starter For Ten by Nicholls David Page B

over my mouth, occasionally rubbing my chin sagely. This serves several purposes; 1) it looks as if I'm lost in deep thought, 2) it's sensual - the fingers on the lips, a classic sexual signifier - and 3) it also covers up the worst of the spots, the raised red clusters round the corners of my mouth that make it look as if I've been dribbling soup.
    She orders another cappuccino. Will I have to pay for that too I wonder? Doesn't matter. The Stephane Grappelli/Django Reinhardt cassette is on a permanent loop in the background, buzzing away like a bluebottle against a window, and I'm pretty happy to just sit and listen. If she does have a failing, and it's obviously only a tiny one, it's that she doesn't seem particularly curious about other people, or me anyway. She doesn't know where I'm from, she doesn't ask about Mum, or my Dad, she doesn't know my surname, I'm not entirely convinced that she still doesn't think I'm called Gary. In fact, since we've been here she's asked me only two questions - 'Aren't you hot in that donkey jacket?' and 'You do know that's cinnamon, don't you?'
    Suddenly, as if she's read my mind, she says, 'I'm sorry, I seem to be doing all the talking. You don't mind do you?'
    'Not at all.'
    And I don't really mind, I just like being here with her, and having other people see me with her. She's talking about this amazing Bulgarian Circus Troupe that she saw at the Edinburgh Festival, which means it's a good time to drift off and work out the bill. Three cappuccinos at 85p, that's Ł2.55, plus the chips, sorry, pommes frites, Ł1.25, which incidentally works out at about 18p per pomme frite, so that's, 25 plus 55, that's 80, Ł3.80, plus a tip for laughing boy over there, 30, no, say 40p, so that's Ł4.20, and I've got Ł5.18 in my pocket, so that means 98 pence to last me until I can pick up my grant cheque on Monday. God, she's beautiful though. What if she offers to go halvsies? Should I accept? I want her to know that I firmly believe in gender equality, but I don't want her to think I'm poor or, even worse, mean. But even if we do go halvsies, I'll still be down to three quid, and I'll have to ask Josh for Mum's ten pounds back till Monday, and that will mean I'll probably have to fag for him till the Christmas hols, white his cricket pads and toast his crumpets or something. Hang on a second, she's asking me a question.
    'D'you want another cappuccino?'
    NO!
    'No, better not,' I say. 'In fact, we'd better get back - have a look at the results. I'll get the bill. . .' and I look around for the waiter.
    'Here, let me give you some money,' she says, pretending to reach for her purse.
    'No, really, my treat . . .'
    'Are you sure?'
    'Absolutely, absolutely,' I say, and count Ł4.20 out on to the marble table, and feel pretty ritzy.
    Outside Le Paris Match, I realise it's getting dark; we've been talking for hours, and I had no idea. For a while, I even forgot about The Challenge. But I've remembered now, and it's all I can do not to break into a run. Alice is a stroller though, so we stroll back to the Student Union in the autumn evening light, and she says, 'So who put you up to it, then?'
    'What? The Challenge?'
    'Is that what you call it? The Challenge?'
    'Doesn't everyone? Oh, I just thought it would be a laugh,' I lie, nonchalantly. 'Also, there's only me and Mum at home, so there weren't enough of us for Ask The Family . . .' I thought she might pick up on this, but instead she just says, 'The girls in my corridor put me up to it, for a dare. And after a couple of pints in the bar at lunch it suddenly seemed like a good idea. And I want to be an actress, or something in TV, a presenter or something, so I thought it might be good experience in front of the camera, but I'm not so sure now. It's not an obvious springboard into the Hollywood firmament is it? University Challenge. I just hope I get knocked out now, to be honest, so I can forget about the whole silly business.' Tread softly, Alice