Fast Fiction: Caring
'Look,' I said, 'we need to get a move on. We're going to be late and you know what he's like,' said he.
But did she care.
Richard Mallinson tells of a fraught journey.
'Look,' I said, 'we need to get a move on. We're going to be late and you know what he's like.'
'I don't bloody care,' said Greta. 'May I have another drink, please.'
I scowled at her. 'I knew it was a mistake, stopping here ... Or stopping anywhere, for that matter... If we'd driven straight on we'd be there by now.'
'Oh, come off it, darling, you don't think I could have arrived sober, do you, to face him? Now, what about my drink?'
'Go and get it yourself,' I snapped. ('Oh, my god,' I thought.)
She shrugged, stood up and tip-toed to the bar. Soon she was drinking and chatting to the barman and two other men, who edged closer to her.
There was a good deal of laughter.
After ten minutes I went to her and tapped her on the shoulder. 'Come on,' I said, 'time to go.'
She swivelled on the barstool. 'Sod off,' she yelled.
*
Later, in the car, 'Are you very angry with me?'
'Yes, but I'm trying not to be,' I said, driving too fast.
'Oh, the perfect English gent, as usual.'
'No, no, not me - '
'Don't be modest... I wonder what he'll say about our being so late.'
'I thought you didn't care.'
'All I care about is you, darling.'
'Well, you have a funny way of showing it, I must say.'
She stared ahead. 'Watch out,' she cried, almost too late.
**
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