“But you’re definitely going to come, right?” Yasmin said. “Feels like it’s been ages since our last sleepover.”
I nodded. “Course!”
Noor looked like she was about to say something, but didn’t. “See you later, then,” she said.
I got home and checked the time. Fifteen minutes left to get ready before I had to leave for Sprinkles, the dessert parlour near my house. I wasn’t going to stress about clothes or make-up today. Especially not for a coffee date. I pulled my hair back into a topknot and smoothed back my edges with hair gel. I was ready in five minutes, and out the door not long after that.
I took a slow walk to Holloway Road, glad that I’d sacrificed a cute dress for jeans with flat-heeled boots and my hooded parka. It was way too cold for fashion. Besides, if I can get away with looking like an Arctic explorer anywhere, it’s North London on a freezing January night.
On the way, I took off one glove and checked my phone. I had half a dozen chat messages from the girls, telling me to hurry up, and that I was missing out on the pizza. I dismissed the notifications and stuck my phone back in my pocket.
Ten minutes later, I arrived at Sprinkles. The dessert parlour’s purple imitation-leather booths and the shiny black floor were worlds away from the central London restaurant Marco took me to on our first date. But it was the only local place open until late that wasn’t a bar or pub.
I walked in and eyed up the ice cream flavours. The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall displayed ads for waffles, pancakes and milkshakes in dozens of potential flavour combinations. That, and the warm smell of cookies baking, reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. I queued up behind an older couple ordering strawberry milkshakes to go (boring) and settled on the chocolate waffles with mint chocolate-chip ice cream. Yum. When I ordered, I remembered to ask for two forks and spoons so that Marco could share. It looked polite, that way.
I paid, then turned around to find a booth. And there he was.
Were the butterflies ever going to stop? Marco was sitting in a corner booth, deep in his book. That was enough to set off the fluttering feeling in my stomach. At this rate, he was going to ruin my appetite. I walked over. He didn’t look up from his book until I plonked myself down into the seat opposite him. The cushy seat made a “pfft” sound, and I thanked my lucky stars that it didn’t sound like something else. I would have died.
He looked up, put his book down and smiled. “Sorry, Helen, I didn’t notice you. I was lost in my book,” Marco said.
He reached over to take my hand. My skin fizzled and snapped like popping candy in the mouth. How was it possible to fancy someone this much?
“Hope I wasn’t interrupting?” I said, lying.
“The book’s great, but I’d much rather be looking at you,” he said. Swoon central.
I looked down at his book. It was called The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus, which sounded familiar. Maybe I’d seen it on Dad’s shelf?
“Ah, Camus. I haven’t read that one yet,” I said.
Why was he smirking? “You mean Al-bear Camue?” he said.
Oops. So I’d completely mispronounced his name. I hoped that the dim lighting in our corner booth hid my blushes.
“‘Seeking what is true is not seeking what is desirable.’ Philosophy has a special place in my heart,” he said.
“Let’s not talk about the truth right now,” I said. The guilt of lying to my friends weighed on my mind.
“Coffee?” A waiter in a purple baseball cap set down a steaming glass mug in front of Marco.
“I ordered before you got here. I hope you don’t mind.” Marco tore a sachet of brown sugar open and tumbled the crystals into his mug.
“I couldn’t imagine you telling a lie, Helen,” he said, smiling sweetly.
I gulped. If only he knew the half of it.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Far from over, hence the strong coffee. I have an assignment keeping me up all night.”
“Oh, philosophy?”
“I wish. This is just for pleasure,” he said, nodding towards the book. “Anyway, seeing you is a much-needed break from my work.”
“Chocolate waffles with mint choc-chip ice cream?” asked the waiter, placing a huge plate of waffles and two sets of cutlery on the table. I got stuck in, nibbling a corner of waffle drenched in thick melted chocolate. It smelled incredible.
“I assume your father doesn’t know you’re with me?” he asked.
That was unexpected. Was I talking about Dad too much to Marco? “He would freak if he knew I was here with you. Why, should he be worried?” I asked in my most flirtatious tone.
“I mean, I am two whole years older than you, Helen.”
“But all we’re doing is talking and eating!” I said, chewing my waffles. “It’s not like I’m drinking, smoking or hot-wiring cars. I don’t get why he doesn’t trust me more.”
“Perhaps it’s because you’d give yourself diabetes if left to your own devices.” Marco grinned, looking pointedly at my plate.
“Now I’m definitely not going to share,” I said. “‘Diabetes.’ That’s a Greek word, right?” I hoped my pathetic attempt to show Marco that I did have half a brain wasn’t obvious.
He gave a small nod. “Many words in the English language have a Greek root. It made learning English a little easier for me.”
Sometimes, I forgot that English wasn’t Marco’s first language. “How old were you when you started learning?”
“Young. About five years old. My father wanted me to have a head start on the other kids at school.”
I got halfway through eating my waffle with ice cream before feeling queasy. I wasn’t about to give up and prove to Marco that this dessert was a bad idea. I was just taking a small break, that’s all.
“Dad’s been trying to teach me Greek for years, with no luck. Still had to put up with his museum tours, though.”
“I would have killed for a museum trip with my father,” Marco said. “Between my boarding school and his demanding job, we didn’t get to spend much time together.”
Now seemed like the perfect chance to ask about his mum. I’d been curious since he mentioned her on our first date.
“So your mother left when you were young, and you don’t have any siblings. Right?”
Marco nodded. “I’m sure you can relate.”
Actually, I couldn’t. There’s no way Mum would have sent me to boarding school. And even though I only saw Dad once a month when I was little, he always gave me his undivided attention (even if he did drag me round museums I didn’t care about). I thought that living with Dad would be more like that, but we haven’t had a single day out together.
“That sounds like a lonely way to grow up,” I said.
“Not at all. I had plenty of tutors to keep me busy: English, geography, and history. That sort of thing. One of them introduced me to philosophy, and I’ve loved it ever since.”
I realized this was the most Marco had said about himself since we met. I wanted him to keep going, so I kept quiet. This was a tactic Mum used when she wanted to get something out of me. Most people will rush to fill silent gaps.