Toby is on fire. He’s got a killer lasagna ready to pop in the oven, a big chunk of fresh parmigiana just screaming to be grated, and a couple of bottles of half decent South American Chardonnay lurking in the fridge. All Jessica’s absolute faves lined up for the perfect evening. All that’s missing is the girl herself. He palms his phone off the kitchen counter and taps out a text using a thumb sticky with béchamel sauce.
Hey Jess. On your way? I’m pretty sure I said 7.00. Hope that prick of a boss isn’t keeping you late. I can kick his arse if you want (laugh)
No response.
He shrugs and gets back to work. The music’s up a little louder now, and swigging from another bottle of Latin vino, he starts dancing along. The floor of his tiny kitchenette has not seen moves like these in a long while. Chopping and slicing, the building blocks of a Greek salad fall neatly into place. Jesus, he’s a gifted salad man, if he does say so himself. Chewing on a tiny lump of feta, it’s back to the phone. Still no response. Hmm.
Hey Jess. Hope you’re hungry. Have I got a feast on the go, or what? No stopping off at the pub on the way, babe. Got a glass of something chilly from Chile waiting.
No response.
Frowning now. He picks up the bread knife and starts to attack a baguette. Each sawing action becoming more frantic as the tension and frustration builds. The phone beeps and he snatches it up. A text. Not from Jess but her friend Molly.
You’ve got to stop Toby. She’s not interested. You’re creeping her out.
