Sometimes the British didn't make sense.
Really, who goes around calling people food names? You didn't turn to someone and say, "Hey, great report you did for the Board, lasagna." Or "wonderful weather we are having, tuna fish." Sure, there was that period when blaxploitation films were all the rage and you could refer to someone as a 'jive turkey' but she was sure that wasn't the same thing. And her grandmother had called her 'cookie' sometimes, as a term of affection. But food nicknames just didn't seem right somehow.
So, reading her novel, set in Britain, where people called each other 'biscuit', 'pudding' and 'crumpet' just didn't sit well with her. Also, it was making her hungry and she was very aware that none of those things were on her diet plan.
She sighed and closed the book, putting it aside as she sipped her tea. It wasn't holding her interest. That was it. It had nothing to do with the food stuff. It was most boring murder mystery she'd ever read. Though the author was trying to paint the victim as someone who got what was coming to them all she could think was that the dead guy sounded a lot more appealing and full of life - ha ha - than the dull morons who were trying to solve the crime.
She'd have to find another book to read. Something thrilling. Maybe set in some exotic place like Tahiti or Cleveland instead of damp, monotonous Britain. A shoot-'em-up rather than a "Colonel Ketchup in the drawing room with a soup spoon." Something naughty, not staid. Something. Anything.
Bored now.
She should get up. Should go to the library. Or a book store. Should, but so far didn't. It was much to nice to sit there, at a table in the sun, sipping her tea and silently bemoaning the downfall of the 'cozies' mysteries. Agatha Christie would be turning in her grave. Where was the sly, sophisticated humour? The droll analysis of class structures? The creative - though not fully described - slayings? After all the imagination was the best spice… Now those type of mysteries seemed to be insipid, bland and overfull of food analogies.
More tea. That was what was needed. More genteelly created caffeine. More of an excuse to sit here in the sun. Because sunshine, unlike some British mysteries, was always a good thing.
When she returned to her table there was someone sitting there. Which kind of pissed her off, seeing as she had left the horrid book there as a placeholder. She was going to "get her dander up" or "her knickers in a twist" or some other silly British-ism, but there was something about the back of that head… the way its hair shone… the slight tilt… Nah. Couldn't be…
"I hope you don't mind. I saw you here when I was getting my drink and then you weren't here when I finished put my milk and stuff in it, but your book was still here. So I thought…"
Okay, it was. Weird.
"Nah, it's cool. Surprising actually. I'd heard you were in town but I didn't expect to see you."
"You heard?"
She shrugged. "You know; fan and all."
He chuckled. "One of these days the CIA or FBI are going to have to hire Backstreet fans as spies."
"They tried. But they just couldn't maintain their network the way we can. Luddites, the lot of them," she replied with a wry grin. He laughed and that made her flippant attempt at a joke worth it.
He looked at her appraisingly as she sipped her tea. "You know, there have been times when I've seen you before when I would never have guessed you knew was a Luddite was, let alone use it in context."
"Not just a pretty face…" She rolled her eyes. "To be honest, I wouldn't have expected you to recognize that."
His turn to sip. "So, basically we dumb down stuff around each other because we don't think the other person would get it?"
"Pretty much."
"We're not doing that now?"
"I suppose we could. I wasn't in the mood for a superficial conversation, but if that is what you want…" Her eyes went wide and she gasped loudly. "So, like, I heard you were around but I, like, you know, didn't expect to see you. Squeal." She finished up by batting her eyelashes feverishly.
He had to put his cup down he was laughing so hard. "I think it loses something if you actually have to say 'squeal'."
She grinned. "Your turn."
He wiped a napkin across his eyes. "What am I supposed to do?"
"You know, act all 'gracious celebrity' making nice to the fawning fan. I've seen you do it before. Heck, you've done it to me a whole bunch of times. Let's see you really turn it on."
"Is that what I do?" he replied seriously.
"Yes. Sometimes. Okay, a lot, but it is understandable."
He sighed. "Yeah. Understandable. And kind of depressing."
"Yep."
That subject really didn't merit any further comment. It was there, it was true and it wasn't something that could change much.
"So what are you reading?"
She looked down at the book with a grimace. "A really, really, really boring book about some guy who got killed and a person with the personality of a pancake who is trying to figure out whodunit."
"So not a bestseller?"
"I found it in the remainder bin. That'll teach me."
He chuckled. "'A pancake'?"
"Without syrup."
"Not even butter?"
She frowned quickly at him. Did he know that was her favourite way to eat pancakes? "Not even. Old, dry, boring pancakes. That have been used as a doorstop."
"Pretty nasty pancakes then," he grinned. "You sure its not tapioca?"
"More like Pablum. Without the flavour." A gulp of tea and a deep sigh as the warm liquid moved through her body. "You've spent time in Britain: do they all go around calling each other food?"
He raised one eyebrow in question. Just one. How do you do that? Does it take practice in front of the mirror, she wondered. She gestured to the book. "It's all, "and where is the murder weapon, sweetcakes?" or "where were you on the night in question, crumpet?" Freaking bizarre. People don't talk like that."
"Like, "no, put down that gun, prime rib" or "your fingerprints are on that bloody knife, coffeecake"."
"Hey! Get off my brainwave," she laughed. "I was thinking the same thing before I gave up on it. Damn book was making me hungry."
"There are mysteries like that too. Ones that have recipes in them. I got a few for my mom once."
"I've read those, too. But you expect it there; they all have food-y titles. This one is subtly food-y. Subtle like a baseball bat upside the head."
"I hate those."
"You read mysteries?" She didn't wait for his reply, just barreled on. "I do. A lot. It's fun to figure out who the villain is before the author finally spells it out for you. But this one, this one I could care less. Either I am not in the mood for a book today or this is the poster child for boringness."
"They have poster children for that?" He smiled. "I like a good mystery, but there are so few. I mean, even the great writers have not-so-good books. They are the ones I seem to find in airport stores. I buy it expecting a good read, because the author comes highly recommended, and they just feel blah."
"Don't buy books in airports. They always seem to get the worst books."
"Don't have much of a choice." Wandering around bookstores for extended periods of time, finding just the right books to read, was not an option for him.
"You could order online," she suggested. "Of course you'd have to be in one spot for a few days."
"True. So. Don't read this one, hunh?"
She shook her head. "I could tell you what authors to look for. Depends on your taste. Some can be quite gruesome. Or sexy. Or funny."
"It pretty much depends on my mood. I have contract negotiations coming up, what do you suggest?"
"Hmm," she thought. "Janet Evanovich for the sarcasm. Dave Pedneau for the 'wreaking violence,' though he can be a bit much on the gory side. Rick Riordan for the 'getting along with a diverse group of people' thing. Barbara Hambly for the 'things could definitely be worse' angle. Maybe a little Barbara Michaels for the 'its all damned weird but it ends up happily in the end'."
"Write 'em down for me. I may need them all to get through this."
"Poor little rich boy. Sucks to be you."
"Damn straight," he replied with an exasperated sigh.
She laughed. "You know, I always wanted to say this to you, but I honestly do think it sucks to be you. It's like you can't have your own identity: you are part of a group, a piece of the whole. And its hard to go off and be yourself 'cause you get lambasted the way Nick did. And you can't really do much growing on your own because people are always watching you. Appearances have to be kept. Smiles have to be plastered on, hands shaked, babies kissed."
"It's not all bad."
"No, but it still sucks. I bet there are times when you wish you had a normal job with normal problems. Of course, there are days when I wish I could switch with you and not have to worry about money and stuff."
"I wouldn't look anywhere near as good in that dress as you do."
She blushed slightly though she rolled her eyes. "Yo, don't feed me that 'sweet' crap. I am familiar with the PR and don't need placating."
"My apologies. So what are you doing this summer? Other than drinking coffee on patios and not reading boring books?"
"Not coffee. Tea."
"Ah. I wondered. It was so dark."
"Yep. Hot, dark and naked. Like my men."
He obviously swallowed his drink wrong, judging from the sputtering he was doing. She actually had to get up and give him a few light whacks on the back before he could talk again. "Geez," he coughed as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "Warn a guy before you pop out lines like that."
"Never heard that one before?"
"Never." He glanced down at his cup. "I'll never look at my tea the same way again."
She peered over. "Oh. Creamy. Probably got some sugar in it too. I could read so much into that."
"That's what I am afraid of." He gazed at her. "Why do we dumb things down again? I mean, this isn't the most profound conversation ever, but still…"
"Circumstances, I guess. I only see you when you are glad-handing fans or playing for the cameras. The few things you haven't been doing that you have your posse around. And then I'm often in that silly, giddy mood I get into when I have my buds around and we've been acting goofy. So we both see each other behaving like we only have one brain cell between us. Hard to talk about Schopenhauser and Von Clausewitz then."
"Not sure who those two are, so I'll just nod."
"Schopenhauser was a philosopher and Von Clausewitz wrote about how to make war. Great for insomnia. Not quite as 'in' as Nietzsche and Machiavelli, but not as straightforward as "Chicken Soup for the Soul" or Sun-Tzu."
"Ah. And you've actually read them?"
She blushed a little. She hated to be called on stuff like that. "Von Clausewitz, yeah, a bit. In school. Not Schopenhauser. Philosophy isn't my bag. I am more of an 'I exist therefore, let's just get on with it' kind of person. I just brought him up 'cause I was showing off. Also, his name is cool to say."
He chuckled. "I get that. Some things you just have to say 'cause they sound good."
"Yeah. So. You're in town. Can I ask why?"
"Group stuff. Very hush-hush. Top secret. 'I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you' stuff."
She smirked. "'Kay, I'll just log on to the internet and find out. Should take me all of," she glanced down at her watch dramatically, "say, five minutes."
He snorted. Not because it was funny; because it was true. "Wanted to meet with some songwriters. Brainstorm. See what we can come up with."
"Cool."
He shrugged. "Got to do something to pass the time."
She was going to make another smart-aleck comment about rich guys with too much time on their hands, but she knew that it wouldn't be fair. He'd worked his very cute, little ass off to get where he got; if he was taking it a little easy now, well, he deserved it. She settled for, "I know that's like."
He glanced down at the book again. "If it sucks so badly why not write your own?"
"Already doing that."
He blinked. "Okay. Didn't know that."
She shrugged. "You never asked." She slurped her tea. "Its hard to do. You write; songs and stuff. You know what I mean. Sometimes it just flows out. Sometimes it's like pulling teeth with a rusty fork. Takes a couple hours to read, but months to write."
"True, but if it gets accepted you end up having to sing the damn thing over and over again until you are sick of it."
"Try editing. I could recite some of my chapters in my sleep. And at least you get thousands of girls squealing when you sing it. I'd be lucky to get my stuff published. Somehow I don't think I am going to fill stadiums and arenas with people reading my books."
He grinned. "I could help you set them to music. They'd be long ass songs, but who knows…"
"Three hours into the concert and we're only on Chapter 6. The chorus'll be damned hard to put together."
"Have to change the tune a few times through it. Sort of like that Peter and the Wolf symphony thing. Just so it doesn't get boring."
"I could see it now: Backstreet Boys sing 'Death in Don Valley.' Doubt the video will get played a lot though."
He shrugged. "More of a rock opera anyway."
They smiled at each other. A perfect moment. A moment of connection. One that may never come again, but that was okay because they had had this.
"I should head out. Leave you to your awful novel," he said, chugging the dregs of his brew. "It has been great talking to you. I mean, really. Instead of that stilted crap."
"Which we will have to go back to in future."
"Touché," he replied. "Sadly true."
"Hey, at least we had this. And who knows? Maybe it could happen again." She grinned, "Like when we're both ready for it, no one is around to observe it and the stars align and all that."
He laughed. "Till then." He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "It's been great."
"Yeah," she smiled. They sat there for a moment, him stroking her hand.
"I better get going," he finally said, and stood. "Got a hot date tonight."
"Woohoo! Break out the hot oil and unshackle the goat," she retorted teasingly.
"Damn," he replied with a wink. "Fans really do know everything."
