My So-Called. A. Michael L.

entered a dark, small restaurant, and the waiter lit up, shaking Ollie’s hand, and ushering them in.

      ‘Come here often?’ she asked as they settled.

      ‘I used to work here, always try to stop by whenever I’m back in London.’ Ollie waved over the counter to the chef in the back, an older portly man who smiled back with two thumbs up.

      ‘You were a waiter?’ Tig asked. ‘Is that what the job in four months is?’

      Ollie grinned at her, and took off the beanie, ruffling his hair. ‘Ah, now you’re intrigued, right? Who waits four months for a waitstaff job?’

      ‘Someone who needs a really good cover for a heist?’ Tig offered, nodding in thanks as the water was brought to their table.

      ‘Know what you want, Ollie?’ the waiter asked.

      ‘Can you ask Chef for the usual? He’ll know.’ He shared a grin with the waiter.

      ‘Probably going to shit himself.’

      ‘If it’s as good as it was when I left, he’s got no worries.’ Ollie winked, then turned to Tig. ‘Wine?’

      ‘Sure, whatever you prefer.’ Tig shrugged, guessing that it was probably better to make as few decisions tonight as possible.

      ‘You’re not allergic to anything, or hate certain foods, or …’

      ‘Nope, I’m all good,’ she smiled, and the waiter nodded and walked off.

      ‘What are you, the king of London Thai food?’

      Ollie leaned in and looked at her. ‘I’m a chef.’

      ‘What, like someone who makes meth?’

      Ollie tilted his head. ‘That’s a cook.’

      ‘Oh.’

      He frowned. ‘You think it’s more likely that I manufacture methamphetamine than it is that I cook decent food for people to eat?’

      ‘Umm …’ Tig screwed up her nose. ‘No, but …’

      ‘But!’

      ‘Okay, number one: you’re kind of a salesman. I walk around hating everything attached to a penis the last seven months, I am fuming that my ex is getting remarried less than a year after dumping me, and … you somehow convince me to enter a relationship with you.’

      ‘A fake relationship.’

      ‘Yes, but one that involves coming to restaurants, and wearing real clothes, and talking to someone else. I still don’t know how any of this has happened.’

      ‘It’s a magical substance called wine. And possibly empathy, or even chivalry,’ Ollie said snootily.

      ‘Chivalry? How about capitalising on the situation?’

      ‘How about you were miserable, I was lonely, and I thought we’d get along. Which, of course, is working out swimmingly!’ Ollie rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers on the table.

      Tig bit her lip, tugged at her hair. ‘Okay, I seem to be stuck on my “automatic bitch” setting. Truce?’

      Ollie sighed. ‘Just … I have no ulterior motives. In this situation, we could not have been more upfront. We hang out for a few months, have a nice time. You keep away my crazy neighbour, I take you for some nice dinners, we have a laugh. We hopefully leave as friends, and if not, it’s been a nice experience. That’s it!’

      ‘I know … I’m just …’

      ‘You’ve been hurt. I know.’ Ollie reached across and squeezed her hand. He looked so damn earnest she actually felt guilty for accusing him of being a drug merchant. Or creator. Whatever.

      ‘Okay, sorry. Let’s start again. So you’re a chef!’ Tig injected enthusiasm into her voice.

      Ollie raised an eyebrow, smirk firmly in place. ‘No, no, no. Wait a minute. What was number two?’

      ‘Two?’

      ‘On the list of reasons why I’d make a more believable meth maker than food creator?’

      ‘Um – well, you look like you subsist on a diet of grilled chicken and protein shakes. Not really what you’d expect from a chef.’

      Ollie grinned like a Cheshire cat and said nothing.

      ‘What, no smart-arse answer to that?’

      ‘Hey, it’s a compliment. I’m not complaining.’ He threw his hands up.

      ‘Is it not true?’

      He twitched his nose a little. ‘Partly. I was a fat chef for a while. Now I work out and eat a lot of protein. Luckily, I know how to season stuff. Healthy food doesn’t have to be boring.’

      Tig shrugged. ‘I like bland. It makes me feel like I know it’s good for me.’

      ‘I’ll cook for you sometime,’ Ollie said earnestly. ‘I created a whole menu for this fat camp in Vermont. They didn’t even realise it was health food.’

      ‘So is that your new job? Health food stuff?’ Tig leaned in, engaged by the idea that Ollie might have been a different type of person, that he had looked different before. A fat chef. But he looked so at home in his body. So proud of it. He owned it, like you would never have known. Maybe he wasn’t really a fat chef, in the same way those popular girls at school would go on fad diets to lose three pounds, when they were waifs to begin with. It’s just what you say, isn’t it?

      The waiter returned with the wine, and a series of appetisers, each so delicious that Tig actually moaned upon chewing. They sat quietly for a few moments, savouring the tastes. Ollie didn’t turn around but simply raised his arm and put a thumbs up. Tig was facing the kitchen and saw the chef grin and nod at himself, proud and contented.

      ‘Did you design this menu?’

      Ollie nodded, clearly fighting his ego, and failing at being modest about it. ‘I was brought in to fix up the menu, give it a little boost. The last chef was a waste of space. I came in, trained up these guys and set the new menu in place.’

      ‘So we’re here because you wanted to show off?’ Tig smirked knowingly.

      ‘We’re here because I wanted to be able to grab you from Entangled, and I know the food is good,’ Ollie insisted, ‘though bragging is part of the appeal. It could have gone the other way – if the menu had screwed up, I could have gone all Gordon Ramsay on the chef, and you would have run away screaming.’

      ‘Well, there’s always next week,’ she smiled, and held up her wine glass to his. ‘Here’s to new adventures, and taking chances.’

      ‘Changed your tune now you know I can feed you.’

      Tig laughed. ‘Women are very practical.’

      The meal passed more smoothly after that, talking about food and drink, different places in London they loved, places they’d like to go.

      As they left the restaurant, the chef came round and hugged Ollie, thanking him for the opportunity, promising to make him proud. Ollie rested his hand on Tig’s back as they walked along.

      ‘You going to the tube station?’ he asked.

      ‘Yep. Hampstead,’ she shrugged. ‘You?’

      ‘Highgate.’

      Her eyes raised. ‘Ooh, well, chefs get paid well, don’t they?’

      ‘It’s my mate Harry’s. You were chatting to his girlfriend in Entangled earlier?’

      ‘Tabby?’

      ‘Yeah, so I came over to visit, and they couldn’t be bothered to rent his flat out while they were travelling, so they said I could stay there.’ He paused. ‘Tabby