‘Fine. But am I supposed to like Pinot Noir?’
‘Fine. Hang on! What?’
‘I mean, is it unsophisticated to dislike an entire grape varietal?’
‘Who the hell cares?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, Sarah,’ he said, ‘I could bang on about their being Pinot Noirs and Pinot Noirs, but that would make me an insufferable prick. So why don’t you just tell me what wine you actually like? Or do you hate wine, and I need to mix you a cocktail?’
‘Fine. In white wine, I like Chardonnay, as long as it’s super cold. In red, Shiraz.’
David laid his sketchbook on the coffee table. ‘I don’t have any Chardonnay quite that cold, so Shiraz it is.’
***
As David disappeared through the doorway Sarah presumed led to the kitchen, she contemplated getting up to re-examine his paintings for clues about his ‘brutal frame of mind’. Why brutal? What had happened? It was a mystery. He was a mystery. And she was intrigued—almost enough to not care if he caught her snooping.
But before she could give in to curiosity, David was back with a decanter and two glasses. He poured a glass for Sarah and one for himself, and as she sipped, he picked up his sketchbook and started drawing again.
Silence.
And then he sighed and put down his sketchbook again. ‘Why can’t you sit still?’
‘Drinking wine requires movement.’
‘It’s not the wine. It’s this …’ He squirmed, demonstrator-style. ‘You’re fidgeting.’
‘Maybe I’d better top up my wine. That might help me relax.’
‘Drink away. But if you slide into a drunken stupor and I have to book you in for AA meetings at the end of this, I won’t be impressed.’
‘Do not slide into drunken stupor. Check.’
‘Brat,’ David said, and went back to drawing.
While he sketched, Sarah pondered the idea of being still. She’d never thought of herself as either still or not still—she just was. ‘Is it a good thing?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Stillness.’
‘It’s neither good nor bad. Like Pinot Noir.’
‘But you like it, right?’
‘Yes.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at her. ‘Especially when I’m sketching.’
‘Oh, you! Seriously, is it an attractive quality in a woman?’
‘It suggests a certain confidence, to be still. And confidence is always attractive.
‘So, yes.’
‘So, yes, I guess. Now, back to Craig. What happened post-Passion Pop?’
‘We talked.’
‘About?’
‘Music.’
‘And what did he think of your preference for pop music?’
Sarah did the foot tap thing again.
‘Saaaaraaaah? You did tell him, right?’
‘It didn’t come up.’
‘Blushing.’
Her hand came up to her cheek. ‘Oh, but it’s not a lie. Not really.’
‘You were at a bar, where he was scheduled to perform, talking about music, and he never asked you what kind of music you liked?’ He shook his head. ‘Not buying it. I mean, he’s a moron but not that much of a moron.’
‘If he’s a moron, why did you introduce me to him?’
‘Because I’m a moron.’
She started laughing. ‘Oh, you!’
‘It’s true. I’ll choose better next time. Now come on, spit it out. Music.’
‘The subject really didn’t come up, because …’ Her eyes squeezed shut. ‘Because I told him jazz was my favourite type of music before he could ask me and that was the end of that.’
‘I see,’ David said.
Sarah opened one cautious eye, then the other, biting her bottom lip.
‘Stand up and go over to the glass doors, will you?’ David said.
‘Why? Are you going to make me jump off the balcony?’ she asked with a nervous half-laugh, clutching her wineglass like a lifeline.
‘Yes, if you do something like that again. But for now, just move. Okay, stop … right … theeere, good. Turn side-on.’ Sketch, sketch, sketch. ‘What else did you and Craig talk about?’
‘Golf.’
‘And?’
‘Football.’
‘Okay, I think I can see what went down. You talked about everything that interests him, and nothing that interests you.’
‘But I told you, I can talk about—’
‘Anything, yep, got it, PR girl. Face me.’ Pause while he drew. ‘And then he sang.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he any good?’
‘Truthfully, he was singing in the wrong register.’
‘So he sucked? Come on, gloves off.’
‘He was … not good.’
‘So when he rejoined you, you said … what?’
‘You don’t really think I was going to tell him how bad he was!’
‘There are ways, and there are ways.’
‘Whatever “ways” there are, they’re not my ways, are they? I’ve clearly been doing things the wrong way my entire life.’
‘Hey, enough with the italics! Just tell me what your “way” was on Saturday night.’
‘I told him he was brilliant,’ she mumbled. ‘As anyone with a modicum of … of politeness in their character would have done.’
‘His mother, maybe. No—don’t argue.’ He started sketching again. ‘Rulebook: excessive politeness does not a memorable date make. It’s the same in principle as agreeing with everything a guy says.’
‘Okay, but he didn’t seem bored.’
‘Turn a little to the left, but keep looking at me.’ Pause, while he looked between her and his sketch. Then, super-innocent: ‘So he called you on Sunday, I suppose, after you were so obliging as to sing his praises and agree with everything he said?’
‘No, but I didn’t really want him to. And anyway, they never call the next day, do they?’
It was a rhetorical question, but David answered it anyway. ‘Yes, Sarah, they do. If they’ve had a great time and they want to have another one, they call you the next day. Sometimes they even call you later that night.’
‘Or text?’
‘Or text.’
‘Like you texted me?’ she said, and laughed.
Pause, and then David batted that away. ‘Yeah, don’t get too puffed up in your own conceit there, bluebell. It’s Craig who should have been doing it. Craig, your date.’