Me, You and Tiramisu. Charlotte Butterfield

ever kiss her were greatly reduced while she sported a grubby shackle around her wrist, so it went in the bin. Although, somewhat predictably, it didn’t stay there long; Jayne had waited for her sister to leave and then unearthed it under the two chicken-and-mushroom pot noodles they’d had for their dinner and popped it in her drawer.

      Jayne had never been one of those girls whose sense of self worth depended on how many boys flirted with her. In fact, she’d be the first to admit that she wouldn’t have a clue if someone was actually flirting with her anyway – then or now. A wink probably indicated an eyelash gone rogue, a smile was no doubt meant for the person standing behind her and cheesy one-liners just elicited a quiet contempt from her, not giggles. In the months, then years, after Billy left, all the other sixth-formers were busy padding out their bras at the same time as their UCAS forms. Jayne, meanwhile, began burying herself in books, while glancing at her decorated wrist each time she turned a page.

      Now that Jayne had the power of sight, and hindsight, she could see the shell of fifteen-year-old Billy was encased in a more mature, infinitely more stylish, and devastatingly attractive package. Even as a teenager he’d had an effortless soulful look that achieved that rare quality of never looking contrived. Back then, he’d never been so desperate for peer approval that he’d made a conscious decision to fit in, he just managed to. He listened to the Rolling Stones because he genuinely liked their songs, not because it embodied any sort of retro cool. He was the opposite of many of the kids at school, who swaggered about with a giant red tongue emblazoned on their t-shirts, while not being able to name five of their songs in a pop quiz. He still gave off that air now; nothing about him seemed put on or unnatural. He laughed because he found something funny and smiled because he felt like smiling.

      Jayne was making no effort to conceal her excitement; she’d even wriggled to the edge of her seat, sitting as far forward as she could without gravity making the chair tip. ‘I can’t believe this! Okay, start with how you got here,’ she said, taking a bite of her garlic bread.

      ‘Bus. Number 33.’

      ‘No, you arse, why are you in London? What do you do here? Do you live here?’

      Smiling at Jayne’s impatience, he said, ‘Yes I do, I moved here after catering college and then–’

      ‘You’re a chef! You always said you wanted to be – well done! Wow! That’s awesome!’

      ‘He’s a chef, Jayne, not a nuclear physicist, let the poor man speak,’ Rachel rolled her eyes at her sister, ‘Sheesh!’

      ‘Sorry, please continue.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he bowed his head in mock reverence. ‘So anyway, after college, I came up here to work in a kitchen in a hotel, which was really hard work but I stuck at it for about three years because even though the head chef was a nightmare, he was also amazing. But then I realised that I was in London and I should be enjoying it rather than being stuck in a sweaty kitchen pan-searing scallops all night every night, so I went to work in a riverfront café in Richmond, which was cool, very trendy, and stayed there for another three or four years and then last year I opened up my own deli.’ He paused, looking from one sister to the other, ‘What about you guys? Rachel, is Vivienne Westwood threatened by your genius yet?’

      ‘Sadly not,’ Rachel ventured as she dipped a breadstick in balsamic, ‘but I did go down the design route, kind of. I work for an interior-design firm, we do bars and restaurants. But not ones like this. More glass and metal and uncomfortable bar stools. Places where city types go to spend huge amounts of money on martinis.’

      ‘She’s underselling herself,’ said Jayne, ‘you should see some of the places she does, they’re amazing – the one at the top of the Midas Tower was incredible.’ Jayne turned briefly to her sister, ‘It was a bit dark, though. It was really difficult to read while I waited for you.’

      ‘Jayne, you are the only loser who would actually bring a book to a bar, so no offence, but that comment doesn’t count.’

      ‘A-hem.’ Will reached into his jacket pocket and held his book aloft for Rachel to see.

      ‘Oh. Okay, you two are the only losers.’

      Will and Jayne shared a conspiratory smile, and then he said, ‘So Jayne, what do you do, apart from sneak in unapproved, yet indisputably genius, books to classrooms?’

      ‘I teach English and drama.’ She couldn’t help but sound a little apologetic at her career choice – here he was fulfilling a dream he’d had since he was fifteen, as was Rachel, kind of, and she spent her days specialising in riot control at a rowdy comprehensive. She clearly recalled sitting on the harbour wall in Brixham eating chips with Billy, announcing that she was either going to be an actress, a criminologist or a marine biologist. As a teenager you had all these fanciful ambitions that it never occurred to you weren’t realistic.

      Mrs Slade, the careers advisor, once went around the room asking each child in turn what they wanted to do in life. Claire Bishop, who now showed people to their tables at The Inn on The Green, home of the two-meals-for-a-tenner menu, was adamant that she was going to work for NASA, and if you’d have told a fifteen-year-old Paul Ackroyd that he would forgo a future in politics for a spot on the fast-track graduate training scheme at Morrisons’ he’d have punched you in the face. Although, the fear of the act of violence returning to haunt him when he reached the hallowed door of Number Ten might have stopped him.

      ‘But teaching’s cool,’ Will said, ‘is it fun?’

      ‘You know what, it actually really is. I did drama at uni, and for a while wanted to go into acting, and so I did a couple of crappy plays that no one went to apart from friends of the actors who were in them–’

      ‘That’s not true, you were really good!’ Rachel interrupted. ‘Especially that one where you were an old Italian widow – what was that called?’

      ‘I was a Romany gypsy, and no, I wasn’t, but thank you.’ Jayne tipped her wine glass at her sister in a silent toast, ‘and so then I set up a drama club for kids who otherwise would be stabbing each other in the neck with sharpened pencils, and loved it, so then did a teaching course and here I am, ten years later, deputy head of English and Drama at what The Globe once called ‘The worst school in Britain’.’

      ‘And is it?’

      ‘No, not really, it’s in a bad area, and the exam results aren’t great, but apart from your usual handful of sociopaths that I should probably tip the police off about now to save time later, the kids are fab, and I love it.’

      ‘That’s really good,’ Will leant back in his chair, ‘I’m so pleased both of you found things you really like, and managed to get the hell away from Cruella. Sorry, am I allowed to call her that?’

      ‘That’s being kind, and not leaving Paignton was never an option!’ spat Rachel. ‘Can you imagine, if we hadn’t got out when we did, Jayne would be working in one of those amusement arcades that only have 2p machines that move back and forwards and I’d be on the game.’

      ‘At least you’d make money from sleeping with lots of men,’ Jayne jibed, ‘at the moment, you’re doing it for free.’

      Rachel pinched her sister’s arm while pretending to pointedly ignore her comment. Focusing her attention solely on Will, she said, ‘I haven’t been back to Devon since leaving home at eighteen. Jayne goes back a bit more than me.’

      ‘What about your grandparents, though? You guys were quite close to them weren’t you?’

      ‘Sadly Pops died a few years ago, but Granny’s still fabulous,’ Jayne smiled, ‘We get her up to London a few times a year – she stays in town and we go for afternoon tea at the Savoy and to Sadler’s Wells to see the ballet. Basically she keeps us cultured in our otherwise heathen existences. But what about you? How long did you live in Slough?’

      ‘Ah, Slough. You know how in the credits for The Office it shows that big grey 1970s building on a busy roundabout? Well, that’s the best bit of it. I’m