One Foot At A Time

Good lord, Steve really did like this one. Gabriel McEvoy swung his best friend's wrench from palm to palm and stared down at Steve's legs as he wriggled under his new girlfriend's sink.

"What made you say you were a plumber, you muppet; couldn't you have gone for something more glamourous? I mean, look at this place."

Gabe knew Steve couldn't look out on from his current position. Gabe smiled inwardly as he imagined his friend wrestling with a plastic joint which squeaked ominously when pressed too hard. Steve didn't need need to look at Sandy's place, though, having spent plenty of time in various rooms, over the past few weeks.

"You had to be there, Gabe," Steve's muffled voice emanated from the plug hole, "I only introduced myself as a plumber because I overheard her moaning to another model that what she wanted was a real man. Telling her I was Chartered Accountant would not have been a good move..."

Gabe sighed, absent-mindedly twirled the wrench on the Italian imported marble work-surface, and studied the panoramic views over the Thames from Sandy's London penthouse window.

"Yes, I can see why she wanted a plumber, alright. When is she back?"

"Tonight. Pass me the phone book and I'll get a man in." Steve sighed, struggling back out of the cupboard space. He was greeted by the "I told you so" stare of Gabe, who held out a copy of the trade numbers.

Life sort of happened to Gabe. He rather envied Steve, who mapped his out for decades to come. They met in University: Steve in Accountancy, and Gabe in Art History. They shared a house, and some fine adventures. With mousy-blond hair, slate-grey eyes, and - although only 5'8" - a tanned and toned body, Steve got as much female attention as he liked. Gabe on the other hand, seemed to put women off, unintentionally. Tall, dark, and handsome was written all over Gabe's brooding features. The problem came with Gabe's incredible knack for talking. While Steve could talk a girl clean out of her knickers, Gabe could talk a girl clean out of a room. He just couldn't help himself.

At least he couldn't do much harm at a fashion show, Steve comforted Gabe later that day. They were on their way to meet Sandy, just back from Milan and already booked for an evening show in trendy Soho. After the show, they'd be scooping up Sandy's entourage and take over several of the best tables at one of the more salubrious London clubs.

"I bet your poor legs are killing you, with all that walking," Gabe dead-panned, as Sandy flopped down exhausted in the limo laid on by the sponsors.

"Don't tease my girlfriend." Steve whispered.

"Oh, don't worry, I wouldn't want to make her think too hard." Gabe shot back.

Before they set off for Club Diablo, a rather drunken rock star, his model girlfriend, and her model girlfriend, clambered into the massive car amidst a haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. Gabe gagged slightly, unsure whether it was against the noxious fumes, or the obnoxious attitudes. Maybe, at thirty, he was getting a little too old for this kind of decadent lifestyle? He caught the wry glance of the driver's eyes in the rear view mirror, and both men shared a momentary mental bond of wondering what on earth they were doing here. It was as he caught a glance of gazelle like leg, which seemed to go on forever, that Gabe remembered and, as stimulating as this was, it made him feel a little sadder than he thought possible.

"I'm off," he announced with a grin, springing from the car before it set off. "See you later, Stevie-boy!"

A gaggle of paparazzi instantly dismissed him, clucking and clicking after the slowly departing vehicle, instead. Gabe turned his face into the cool night drizzle closing in on the street, turned up his collar, and set off walking in a vaguely home-ish direction. This meant the first stop was the first late night cafe he came across, which happened to be one little street away from where he started.

The amazing soaking powers of London drizzle not lost on him, he shook the worst of the damp from his coat and slipped it on the back of an empty chair. The little cafe windows steamed up with warmth and cooking, the smell of hot roast coffee mingled lovingly with bacon fat and other unidentifiable savoury smells. Gabe smiled as he breathed in the heady mix of comfort cooking and looked around the room. A lone diner sat at every four seater table. Strange creatures, he thought, adding himself to the lonely litany by seating himself.

An elderly waitress came over and took his order for coffee and chips, gave him a saucy wink, which made him smile, and then shuffled off to her head-shaking husband at the grill. He was still smiling--smiling so absently--when a girl came in, that she returned his smile and, upon noticing every table was occupied, stood before him.

"May I?" She indicated the vacant chair opposite Gabe.

"Sure," he continued to smile, and half surprised himself by standing until she sat.

"My, my! You are a rare breed," her chocolate brown eyes danced in amusement. "Thank you for the warm welcome. Do... do I know you?"

He was about to say no when a distant memory tugged gently at the edges of his mind. "I don't think so." He watched as she shrugged off her winter coat, settling it on the back of her chair.

She was stunning. Her concentrated study of the little menu allowed him time to commit her fine features to memory. Her brown skin looked as smooth as polished jasper. Her face looked like as perfect as a Holbein monarch, and her deep full lips looked as if they would taste of honeyed cinnamon. And her eyebrow, it was delicate and arched up as though amused. Oh.

"Staring," he muttered, and then snorted at his own commentary, "Sorry, you just look familiar, but I'm sure I would remember if we had met."

"Dont worry about it," her brown cheeks flushed darker for an instant, she beamed a radiant smile at the returning waitress and ordered a coffee.

"I'm not a weirdo, or anything."

"Good for you."

"Honestly."

"That's nice."

She smiled back at him. "Do you often spend your Saturday nights in little cafes?"

"No. Do you?"

The waitress returned and set two steaming mugs of coffee and a portion of chips on the table.

"Dig in," he offered, as the smell of vinegar tingled his nostrils. "If you like, that is. If you're not on a diet."

"Do I look like I need a diet?"

"No! I didn't mean you look fat or anything. I just wondered if you wanted to share my chips. I don't ask just anyone, you know?"

"Well, as you offered so nicely, it would be rude to say no."

Impishly, she popped one in her mouth and savoured the sheen of salty oil left on her lips. Gabe stared again, wondering how eating a chip could be considered even slightly sexy. Yet, here he was, with his stomach flipping like a teenager's.

"It's good to see a woman eat proper food," he mused, as they ate. "I've just been at this fashion show thing, over the road; lots of little bird food nibbles, which everyone shoo'd away, and crates of champagne, which everyone ate with glee."

"They 'ate' champagne?"

"Sure they did; all legs and arms like spindly aliens--and that was just the fashionistas, never mind the wilting sparrow models. We should go back over there and feed them up on chips and coffee."

"Mmm."

"Maybe we could adopt one? Bring it back here to the cafe and teach it how to read using one of the menus," he laughed.

She didn't laugh back.

"You're a model, aren't you?" he asked, with a dry voice.

"Yup."

"I'm making an arse of myself, aren't I?"

"Yup," she popped another 'sexy' chip in between her perfect teeth.

"I'm a bloody ignorant, idiotic, bigoted, git?" he winced.

"Yup; but I like you. I like the way you were already smiling at life before you smiled at me."

His stomach flipped an extra somersault, as she continued and lazily stirred her coffee. "I like the way you let that little old waitress flirt with you to make her feel like a young girl. And the way you faced the door, when everyone else in here is turned away from each other."

"You make me feel all thumbs." He blurted. "I'm glad you looked at me before you listened. They should make it the Green Cross Code of dating: Stop. Look. Listen. Snog."

"I said I liked you - I don't consider a couple of fried potatoes and half a cup of coffee on a first meeting a date. You haven't even told me your name. It could be Herbert and I'm not dating a man called Herbert. I couldn't snog a Herbert."

"You're a bit forward, aren't you? Who said I would snog you?"

"Are you trying to make me not like you, Herbert?"

"Gabe." He smiled, hoping desperately that she wouldn't mind snogging one of those.

She smiled back. "I like the way you look at me. Right into my eyes, before ogling the rest of my body. Most of all, I like the way you share your chips as freely as you do your smile... although, when you stood up for me, I did notice you have a cute ass too. My name is Macy. Any objections?"

"None at all. I do hope you can keep yours to a minimum. I've always managed to put my foot in my mouth; usually making room for the other one too."

The elderly waitress hovered over them with the fresh dredged tar of a coffee top-up. "Ah, well: the course of true love never did run smooth."

"Oh, I don't love her." Gabe grinned.

The two women shared a glance that spanned generations of man trouble, and nodded in recognition of the inevitable.

(words 1,701)

The course of true love never did run smooth.
~William Shakespeare

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