“Tell you what,”
offered Luke. I’ve got a recital on
Sunday arvo at the Conservatorium. Bring
him along. Might as well meet Mr Right.”
Esmé punched him
on the shoulder. “He is not Mr Right! He’s just a friend.”
Luke smiled in a
knowing, superior way which made her want to smack him.
“You are such a
pain, Luke Spencer. I’ve a good mind not
to come at all. Or come and throw rotten
tomatoes.” They both knew this was an
empty threat. She always went to his
concerts, and always applauded vigorously.
“There’re some off
tomatoes there, if you need any,” Luke pointed out, gesturing to a plate on the
sink.
“Yuck.” They were disgusting. Blackened with pale grey-green mould growing
over them.
“Thing is, you’re
going to have to carry them in a plastic container because they’re falling
apart. And throwing them could be difficult. Newton’s third law, and all that.”
She looked at him
darkly. “You don’t impress, you
know. I’ve met smooth-talking men
before. Shallow things, they are. All baff and bombast.”
“So it’s settled,
then?”
Esmé reached for
the tomatoes. “Why wait until Sunday?”
she asked rhetorically.
Luke grinned and
fled.
