pulled away the chapati.
“Yeah,” she said, leaning forward slightly and peering at his nostrils. “It’s fine.”
He put the chapati on his side plate, on top of the bloodied napkins.
“Oh by the way,” he said nasally. “I don’t suppose you happened to see last Monday’s
Guardian Media
? The
Telegraph
’s advertising for a features editor. . . .”
“Adam,” she said gently, reaching out and taking his hand. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. Comedy is what I do now. It’s my life. I am not about to give it up.”
“But this is such a great opportunity. Sixty grand plus a car. It’s a decent package.”
“Maybe, but—”
“OK, OK,” he cut across her, in a resigned tone. “Forget about the job. Look, there’s something else I want to discuss with you too.”
“Go on,” she said, wondering what on earth was coming.
“I’ve just been on the phone to Barry, my accountant. He’s adamant we shouldn’t delay getting married much longer. Thing is, I’ve done some pretty profitable share deals this year and it turns out that if we get married before April 6, I can sell my shares and pass the profit over to you without having to pay capital gains tax. I’d be saving thousands and the money would stay in the joint kitty.”
As he took a calculator from his breast pocket, Rachel threw back her head and laughed. “Do you know, Adam, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re on about.” She paused and wetted her lips. “But that dibby thing you do with your finger on the calculator is like pure sex.”
He grinned at her for a moment or two. “Rache, what I’m saying isn’t even remotely complicated. You just can’t be bothered to listen, that’s all.” He tapped in a few more numbers. “Right, just bear with me a sec. . . .”
“Adam,” she said quietly, trailing her finger over the tablecloth. “There’s this nationwide comedy competition happening in a few weeks and I’ve pretty much decided to enter.”
“Right,” Adam said, putting down the calculator. “I reckon—at a conservative estimate—I could save twenty grand in capital gains tax if we got married before April. Christ, even you have to admit that’s not to be sneezed at.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t,” she said. “But about the competition . . .”
He wasn’t listening.
“You don’t have to make your mind up now,” he was saying. “But getting married straightaway makes extremely sound financial sense for both of us.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
He put down the calculator. “So tell me about this competition.”
She explained. “It’s such a fantastic opportunity,” she said, brimming over with excitement. “Lenny reckons I’d be daft to pass it up.”
“I dunno, Rache,” Adam said, running his finger idly over the rim of his beer glass. “I hope you’re not overstretching yourself. I mean, the opposition is bound to be pretty fierce.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s a risk, but it’s one I’m prepared to take.”
“Look, I can’t tell you what to do. Though I have to say that in my experience, competitions are for losing, not winning . . . but if it’s what you really want to do . . .”
“It is, Ad,” she said, her face lit up with enthusiasm. “Believe me, it is.”
* * * * *
“Rache,” Adam said, “you didn’t tell me Austrians had moved into your building.”
“They haven’t,” she said.
“So why is the front door being opened by a bloke wearing lederhosen and a Tyrolean hat?”
“What?” Rachel leaned across Adam and peered out of the car side window. “Blimey. Who on earth’s that?”
“I don’t like this,” Adam declared. “Look, you stay here, I’m going to check him out.”
He opened the car door.
“Adam,” Rachel hissed, pulling him back. “For Chrissake, be careful. He might have a . . .”
“A what?” Adam said. “A semiautomatic bratwurst? Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being
“Yeah,” she said, leaning forward slightly and peering at his nostrils. “It’s fine.”
He put the chapati on his side plate, on top of the bloodied napkins.
“Oh by the way,” he said nasally. “I don’t suppose you happened to see last Monday’s
Guardian Media
? The
Telegraph
’s advertising for a features editor. . . .”
“Adam,” she said gently, reaching out and taking his hand. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. Comedy is what I do now. It’s my life. I am not about to give it up.”
“But this is such a great opportunity. Sixty grand plus a car. It’s a decent package.”
“Maybe, but—”
“OK, OK,” he cut across her, in a resigned tone. “Forget about the job. Look, there’s something else I want to discuss with you too.”
“Go on,” she said, wondering what on earth was coming.
“I’ve just been on the phone to Barry, my accountant. He’s adamant we shouldn’t delay getting married much longer. Thing is, I’ve done some pretty profitable share deals this year and it turns out that if we get married before April 6, I can sell my shares and pass the profit over to you without having to pay capital gains tax. I’d be saving thousands and the money would stay in the joint kitty.”
As he took a calculator from his breast pocket, Rachel threw back her head and laughed. “Do you know, Adam, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re on about.” She paused and wetted her lips. “But that dibby thing you do with your finger on the calculator is like pure sex.”
He grinned at her for a moment or two. “Rache, what I’m saying isn’t even remotely complicated. You just can’t be bothered to listen, that’s all.” He tapped in a few more numbers. “Right, just bear with me a sec. . . .”
“Adam,” she said quietly, trailing her finger over the tablecloth. “There’s this nationwide comedy competition happening in a few weeks and I’ve pretty much decided to enter.”
“Right,” Adam said, putting down the calculator. “I reckon—at a conservative estimate—I could save twenty grand in capital gains tax if we got married before April. Christ, even you have to admit that’s not to be sneezed at.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t,” she said. “But about the competition . . .”
He wasn’t listening.
“You don’t have to make your mind up now,” he was saying. “But getting married straightaway makes extremely sound financial sense for both of us.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
He put down the calculator. “So tell me about this competition.”
She explained. “It’s such a fantastic opportunity,” she said, brimming over with excitement. “Lenny reckons I’d be daft to pass it up.”
“I dunno, Rache,” Adam said, running his finger idly over the rim of his beer glass. “I hope you’re not overstretching yourself. I mean, the opposition is bound to be pretty fierce.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s a risk, but it’s one I’m prepared to take.”
“Look, I can’t tell you what to do. Though I have to say that in my experience, competitions are for losing, not winning . . . but if it’s what you really want to do . . .”
“It is, Ad,” she said, her face lit up with enthusiasm. “Believe me, it is.”
* * * * *
“Rache,” Adam said, “you didn’t tell me Austrians had moved into your building.”
“They haven’t,” she said.
“So why is the front door being opened by a bloke wearing lederhosen and a Tyrolean hat?”
“What?” Rachel leaned across Adam and peered out of the car side window. “Blimey. Who on earth’s that?”
“I don’t like this,” Adam declared. “Look, you stay here, I’m going to check him out.”
He opened the car door.
“Adam,” Rachel hissed, pulling him back. “For Chrissake, be careful. He might have a . . .”
“A what?” Adam said. “A semiautomatic bratwurst? Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being
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