“Gastropub. You know, a pub that serves food.”
I shake my head. “Okay, I think you’re making these things up now and pretending they’re your funny British words. And then when I’m convinced they’re real words, you’re going to laugh at me if I use them.”
He narrows his eyes at me playfully. “Take the piss all you want.”
“Maybe when we get to the ‘gastropub,’” I say. I guess I just agreed to go.
We park at his apartment, in his temporarily empty reserved spot, and walk the three blocks to the bar. Before we find a seat, Jude walks straight up to the bar, where he talks to the bartender for a while, after introducing me. Their easy conversation makes it clear that Jude’s a regular.
“Come here often?” I ask, as we walk to a table with our first round of drinks.
His rejoinder, “Is that a pick-up line or a question?” makes me laugh and blush.
I eventually answer as I slide into my side of the booth, “Just a question,” but the real answer is, “Both.”
He twirls the cardboard coaster in front of him. “I’m not much of a cook. I come here to feel a little less… lonely.”
There’s that word again.
I just nod, afraid of talking and admitting how lonely I am, too. Then I say, “But it’s good that you’re not homesick for England.”
“What gave you that idea?” he asks, raising a thick eyebrow. “Most of the time, I feel like a Billy No Mates in this town. I’m terribly homesick.”
I cock my head. “But you said…” Oh. No. Not again. “Never mind,” I quickly amend.
“What?” he presses. “What did I say?”
“I’m getting you confused with someone else.” I hide my face in my glass.
Wryly, he asks, “Hanging out with lots of Limeys lately?”
Our server comes over and takes our orders. By the time she’s gone, Jude’s forgotten his earlier question and has mercifully moved on.
He takes a huge gulp of his dark beer and says, “Anyway, I’m at sixes and sevens lately. I like my job, and I want to like this city, but I feel so out of place here.”
“Maybe someone at the embassy can suggest a support group for you,” I offer. “You know, made up of people like you who have relocated to the States. It would probably help a lot just to hear someone who talks like you… and understands what you’re saying when you say things like ‘Billy No Mates.’”
“Friendless loser.”
At first, I think he’s calling me that; then I realize he’s defining his earlier statement. “Yeah, I got that from the context of what you said earlier. It was just an example.”
“Actually, that’s a really good idea,” he says slowly. “I know I’ll get used to it over here eventually, but it’d help if I had someone to talk to.” He looks up at me for the first time in several minutes. “Like this. This is nice. Even though I’m being a whinger and you’ll probably never want to go anywhere with me again.”
I wish. Wouldn’t that make things simpler? Wouldn’t it be great if I could say, “This really sucked,” and go back to my life as I knew it before? But the thought of going back makes me want to cry. And my advice to him may result in that. Once he gets some real friends, why would he ever want to hang out with me?
I know he’s looking for some kind of reassurance, though, so I say, “It’s okay. We all have our moments.”
“Mine’s over,” he promises. “Let’s talk about something else. Not work, and definitely not exes. Movies. That’s safe enough. What’s your favorite?”
I perk up. Movies are one of my passions. “Well, I know your favorite is Casablanca, but I really love—”
“Casablanca? When did I ever say that?” he sputters, wiping beer foam from his upper lip. “Blimey! That’s not a bloke’s movie at all!”
Quickly, I cover, “I could have sworn you mentioned that before…”
“No! Never. We’ve never even had this conversation.”
“I know that!” I quickly reply. “I just thought you said it in passing.”
“How would that come up? I hand you a drawing to put in the post and say, ‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. By the way, Casablanca is my favorite movie of all time, because I’m an insufferable wanker’?”
I laugh to cover my embarrassment. “Sorry. Simple mistake!”
He glares skeptically at me but lets it go. “I interrupted you. You were saying your favorite movie is…”
“No. You go first.” I need a second to compose myself.
“Psycho.”
Again I think he’s name-calling, but when I realize he’s answering the question, I’m even more disappointed. “Really? Pyscho? Of all the movies ever made, that’s your favorite? What about The Great Gatsby or… or… The Godfather or…?”
“What’s your favorite, then, Miss Clever Clogs?”
“The Natural,” I answer promptly.
“A Redford fan, then?”
“What about it?” I challenge him defensively. “He’s a great actor. And it’s a great movie.”
“It’s about baseball,” he complains, pulling a face.
“Only the greatest sport ever invented.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Of course you do, Mr. Rugby.”
Our food arrives, but as soon as the server is gone, he picks up the conversational thread seamlessly. “For your information, I don’t think rugby is the best sport ever invented. But”—he points at me with his fork—“it’s ten times better than bloody baseball.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Like a fox.” Suddenly, he dissolves into laughter.
“You’re just saying all this to push my buttons,” I finally realize.
He takes another bite, swallows, and grins. “For someone so smart, you can be really thick sometimes.”
Keeping my eyes on my plate, I reply, “Thanks and ouch.”
“You’re so easily excitable. It’s hilarious.”
“Glad to be entertaining.”
“Oops. There goes the wall.”
I glance up at him. “What?”
“I’ve gone too far; you’ve put up the wall.” He raises his flat hand in front of his face. “The Great Wall of Libby,” he intones ominously.
“Whatever.” He thinks he’s so smart, like he knows me.
“Don’t be angry at me. I’m sorry.” But he’s still grinning. “I’m just taking the piss. Having a little fun.”
“At my expense.”
“Yes. You’re right. It’s not
