Truth Or Date. Portia MacIntosh

mate is that it has made me wise. I know all the moves men make to try and get birds into bed (‘oh, but I love you/blue balls are a thing/my dad just died’ etc.), and as such I don’t credit men with an ounce of sincerity when they try to chat me up. There’s no equivalent game where I ask Millsy who he fancies, because Millsy can’t let a pretty girl walk past him without announcing ‘I would’ anyway – usually loud enough for them to hear. It makes me laugh because he says it, but he rarely pursues the girls he announces it to, so even though he ‘would’, he often isn’t going to.

      ‘Well, I was out last night, and I don’t look half as bad as you, Rubes,’ Millsy brags. ‘And I was on time for work.’

      ‘For once,’ I reply.

      Sally, our manager here at Has Beans coffee shop, is pretty laid back, especially now that she’s pregnant. She’s going on maternity leave any day, so we’re maybe pushing our luck a little more than usual in the hope she won’t care.

      I like working here. Well, no one likes working anywhere, do they? But there are worse gigs to have. I mean, it’s pretty easy work, I get to spend my days messing around with my best friend and I’m allowed as much free coffee as my nervous system can handle, but it’s more than that. I just like the vibe in coffee shops. You’ve got places like Starbucks with their contemporary artwork and their jazz music playing in the background, or Costa with their comfortable seating and family-friendly environment. Has Beans is by no means as huge as either company, but of all the branches in Yorkshire, the one I work at in central Leeds is the busiest. During the week, lunchtime is dominated by office workers and shop employees looking for a caffeine fix and something to eat to break up their day and spur them on until the evening, but by the afternoon the place is more peaceful, with writers and students all face-down in their laptops. The thing I love is how the vibe can change depending on the customers. When it’s quiet, it’s quite relaxing, I can sip my latte and listen to the latest James Bay album playing on the stereo – my hangover likes this. Similarly, when we’ve got a gaggle of mums with screaming babies in, I often consider trying to tie my own tubes with the tongs we use with the panini press.

      ‘So when is your audition?’

      ‘Monday morning,’ he replies, his usual confidence waning slightly.

      ‘So I guess you’ll be taking it easy the next few nights then?’

      ‘Mate, I won’t be out at all – anyway, don’t you have a date?’

      ‘But it’s Friday night,’ I protest. Going out is what Friday nights were made for.

      Millsy, like me, is a bit of a pleasure seeker and as such, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take anything seriously other than trying to get away with being drunk every waking moment of his life – until recently.

      At school, our grades weren’t up to much, but we were outgoing, cheeky, confident and – most importantly – excellent at lying. Naturally we gravitated towards the arts, and soon found that acting might just be one thing that we were good at. The thing is, it’s not a realistic career goal, is it? Which is why I gave up trying to ‘make it’, but recently Millsy seems to think he’s got a real shot.

      If I’m being honest, I think he’s wasting his time – I mean, if he were on track to be Leonardo DiCaprio-famous I would happily be his Kate Winslet. Let’s face it though, hardly anyone makes it in the acting business. And he’s not going up for a role in the new Star Wars flick, it’s a local production of Macbeth. I forget which part he’s auditioning for, but it’s all very weird and last-minute. The guy they had for it originally got hit by a bus on the way to the first rehearsal. He wasn’t life-threateningly injured or anything, but he wound up in hospital. His understudy went to visit him and fell down a manhole in the hospital car park – you couldn’t make this shit up. So, sucks for those guys but great news for Millsy. Sucks for me too, because it’s going to cut into our drinking time.

      ‘So, which Macbeth character are you auditioning for?’ I ask, not really all that interested, but willing to pretend I am for my mate.

      Millsy throws a chunk of his brownie at me with frustration, which I realise quickly enough to attempt to catch it in my mouth, but not so quick I actually succeed. Man, I want a brownie now.

      ‘You’re not supposed to say the title, it’s “The Scottish Play” in theatre circles,’ he reminds me. ‘You know that.’

      ‘Ooh, sorry,’ I say sarcastically. ‘So, go on, then I can stop pretending I give a shit. Who are you auditioning for?’

      ‘Banquo.’

      ‘Cool,’ I reply, holding the word on for longer than seems even a little sincere. We were in an end-of-year production of Macbeth when we were at school, and I wasn’t mad about it then either. I liked it when we did Bugsy Malone and Grease, when I got to dress up in pretty clothes and sing – Shakespeare didn’t write nearly enough musical numbers.

      Sally shuffles out from her office and hovers around the counter.

      ‘I can’t sit at that desk a second longer, the baby wants me to move. There’s just so much admin to do though.’

      I am in the process of simultaneously toasting a panini and making an Americano for a customer, but I’m pretty sure she’s angling for Millsy to take over and give her a break.

      ‘Yeah, well, it’ll be out of you soon,’ Millsy replies, oblivious to her hint. ‘Why don’t you come for a post-night out vindaloo with us or get your Robert to give you a good seeing to – that brings ’em out, right?’

      ‘Is your topknot too tight or are you stupid?’ I ask him. ‘You can’t just “bring them out” when you feel like it. Remember that time we got in from Saturn at 4am and you were so hungry you took your burger out of the microwave when it still had half the time left? You spent the whole day at work throwing up.’

      Millsy rubs his chin thoughtfully.

      ‘I remember having to call the plumber,’ Sally adds, a distant look in her eye, like a solider recalling a horrific war memory. ‘Pass me a lemon muffin, please. I’ll get back to work.’

      Millsy laughs to himself as he obliges.

      ‘Wasn’t that also the night you pulled a teenager?’ he asks me.

      ‘You mean the night I kissed a student. And he was twenty – hardly makes me a cougar, does it?’

      ‘Yeah, but that dodgy beard made him look fifteen.’

      ‘He was in a nightclub, Millsy, so he had to be at least eighteen.’

      ‘You were in nightclubs when you were fifteen.’

      He’s got me there.

      ‘Dude, you’ve got to stop going on about this.’

      ‘But it’s funny,’ he insists.

      ‘Well, I think the real reason you blocked the work toilet is funny, but I don’t tell people, do I?’

      Millsy laughs, but his cheeks flush a little.

      ‘OK, we take these stories to our grave, deal?’

      ‘Deal.’

      We bump fists, like we always do. It can be to seal a deal like today, to celebrate some sort of victory or even just to say hello.

      Millsy begins the much-hated task of cleaning the panini press while I rearrange the pastries and cakes to make them look neater – an excuse, of course, to stealthily eat a brownie, because if it’s stealthy, it’s healthy. Everyone knows the calories don’t count if no one sees you eat it. Seizing my opportunity, I stuff a rather large chunk into my mouth just as a customer approaches the counter.

      ‘Ruby would/Ruby wouldn’t?’ Millsy asks under his breath as the man crosses the shop.

      ‘Oh shit,’ I whisper back. ‘Ruby nearly did!’

      I