Love to Hate You by Anna Premoli

point,” Ian says eventually, running his hand through his black hair.
    â€œAs usual. And as this is bound to go on all night, I think I’ll get something to eat,” I say stoically, and I gesture to Paul, who sees me and nods.
    â€œAre you sure it’s safe to eat here?” Ian asks, looking around the place.
    â€œIt's perfectly safe. I’ll eat, you talk. So, you were saying—” I press him to continue.
    â€œActually, I'm a bit peckish myself,” he interrupts me, saying it as though he were talking about deciding to try sword swallowing or something equally daring.
    I bang my fist on the table again with a moan. “God, is this nightmare
ever
going to end?”
    I turn towards Paul and make another gesture, this time towards the person sitting in front of me. Our bartender sniggers and nods.
    We'll see who's laughing when you ask Vera out, I think vindictively.
    â€œOk, problem solved. Now, can we talk about why we’re here?”
    I'm speaking too loudly, but it doesn’t matter. I’m annoyed, if that wasn’t clear enough already.
    â€œWe’re here because you refuse to be seen anywhere 'posh' with me,” he answers, like the lousy know-all little nobleman he is, while fluttering his long eyelashes like some kind of celebrity.
    I swear I’ll kill him if he doesn’t give it a rest.
    â€œGod, give me strength,” I mutter, exhausted.
    Ian looks amused. I’m playing right into his hands.
    â€œOk, back to the business at hand,” I repeat, nervously pushing my hair out of my eyes.
    â€œRight, well it’s about the article—” Ian starts.
    â€œOh, no! Not that article again!” I stop him, banging my hand yet again on the table in exasperation. The few other patrons of the pub look round in surprise.
    â€œLook, how can I tell you what it’s about if you keep interrupting me?” he asks, knowing he's got a point. I realise that we've reached another standstill, when Paul arrives with our dinner. “Here you go,” he says, giving me my usual plate of grilled vegetables and placing a plate of steak and chips in front of Ian, who tries one immediately and nods in satisfaction. One look is enough to understand he’s a carnivore – one of those who likes his steaks rare. It was easy enough for Paul to guess his tastes.
    â€œVery nice,” he mutters, while chewing, failing to hide his surprise.
    â€œI’m glad your aristocratic palate approves of our humble repast.”
    â€œIt certainly does, though I’m not sure how I'll survive without silver cutlery,” he teases. I decide to ignore his lame provocation for once and pretend I haven't heard. This evening has already gone on far too long, better not to make things any worse.
    â€œAnyway, at the risk of sounding repetitive, could we please get back to the reason why we’re here tonight? I mean, apart from the fantastic company—”
    Ian looks at me with a laugh. “We could, but it'd be a shame – I was really enjoying this.”
    I stare at him in astonishment. “Ian, get a life! I understand that high society is boring, but I have better things to do than entertain you in my spare time. They don’t pay me enough to put up with you outside office hours,” I say.
    He gives me a very ambiguous look, the meaning of which is a complete mystery to me.
    â€œOk, let’s get back to the point. I have to admit that article made me realise something interesting: getting photographed with a normal girl meant that a lot of the others stopped hassling me… Apparently, showing up with the usual looker doesn't work any more, but turn up with someone a bit less obviously attractive, on the contrary… brilliant! They all think that if I'm going out with you, it must be something serious.”
    This is how he explains his twisted thought process.
    My fork hangs in the air, and the piece of grilled pepper