Turning Thirty by Mike Gayle

[Breezily] Thirty’s like a million years away.
Me:   
Okay, then. If this is a pact let’s shake on it.
Her:  
[Laughing] Forget shaking hands. [Raises eyebrows suggestively] I can think of a better way of sealing a pact than that . . . Now where were we again?

twenty-five
    The first question that sprang to my mind after we’d parted from the hug and she and I were doing a long and intense will-you-look-at-you! look, was – of course – had she changed since I last saw her? Not really. And certainly not as much as I had. Her hair was a little shorter and there were the beginnings of a few lines around her eyes that enhanced rather than detracted from her good looks. The rest of her – the smile, the laugh, the mannerisms – were exactly the same. Clothing-wise, she looked interesting: she was wearing a black cardigan, a tight black top, black knee-length skirt and bright white Nike trainers. All very nice indeed. Did I fancy her? (This of course, was, the second question I asked myself as I stood staring at her.) I didn’t know. Yes? No? Maybe? In the split second available to me I ran through every option. Twice. The jury was out.
    â€˜How are you?’ asked Ginny, excitedly. She was still holding on to my waist, not flirtatiously but in a friendly way, and when she asked the question her face was thoughtful, as if she really wanted to know the answer.
    â€˜Good,’ I replied. ‘Fine. Really good.’ An old man attempted to squeeze between us to get to the bar, forcing her to release her grip. ‘It’s been a long—’
    â€˜Yes, it has,’ she said, finishing my sentence. ‘Are you still in London?’
    â€˜New York.’
    â€˜Wow!’ she exclaimed. ‘From King’s Heath to New York. Not many people do that.’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜So are you back visiting your mum and dad?’
    I nodded.
    Ginny paused, wearing a puzzled expression. ‘Are you actually going to speak to me or do I have to guess? Like a game of charades, only not quite as exciting.’
    I shook my head again instead of answering, mainly because I was still trying to work out if I fancied her or not.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said, regaining my wits. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’ve come back for a while to see my folks. You know, spend a bit of quality time at the old familystead.’
    â€˜How’s it going?’ she said, still beaming enthusiastically. ‘The spending quality time with Ma and Pa Beckford?’
    â€˜Terrible,’ I said, holding the palm of my hand to my head in mock anguish. ‘They’re driving me up the wall. Any time I enter a room they insist on involving me in one of their strange-but-true conversations. So far the topics covered since my arrival have been as wide and varied as London house prices, my auntie Jean’s dodgy third husband and which one of my siblings it is who likes sprouts. It’s like I’ve walked into a surrealist nightmare. I love them but . . .’ I paused, not wanting to dominate the conversation but she didn’t pick up the signal. Her mind was obviously elsewhere now. ‘Anyway, how are you?’ I prompted. ‘I mean . . . I don’t know . . . what are you doing here?’
    â€˜In the Kings Arms?’
    â€˜Well, for starters.’
    â€˜Oh, you mean here in Birmingham, don’t you? Well, as far as the pub goes I’m here meeting a friend. It’s still my local – that is, if I’ve got a local any more. I always seem to be working these days.’
    â€˜Last time I heard anything about your toings and froings you were living it up in Brighton, weren’t you?’
    She nodded, and momentarily avoided eye-contact. ‘Yeah, that was a while ago, though. My mum died, which is why I’m back.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘About your mum. That’s