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“The way he talks to you. The way he looks at you. How am I supposed to miss that?”
“Miss what?”
“The way you look at him. I can’t believe I’m having to spell this out. Are you honestly saying –”
“Look at him how?” Jeannette seemed level-headed when I met her – it was in the line at Tesco, where she commented on the makings of a bachelor dinner or three, frozen tikka masala and mixed veg in those steam bags and a bottle of French dressing (currently it’s the only thing that gets the veg down him; last month it was Branston pickle, go figure).
“Like he hung the stars. No, like you can’t wait to run off and hang stars with him. I’d say get a room, but you’ve got a whole flat.”
“Sherlock’s a little different, but – “
“Obviously, John. At least he’s different to anything else in your life. How long did you know him before moving in together?”
“What? Um – about twelve hours, actually.”
“Those must have been amazing hours.”
“You don’t want to know.”
She blinked. “No, I don’t think I do.”
“It wasn’t like that –”
“The look on your face right now. It must’ve been like something. Dear God, next time I’m dating an American, at least however they feel about something they’re right in your face with it.”
“Jeannette, that’s harsh –”
“What, that I’m thinking about who else I’d date? Or Americans?”
“No, the Yanks were stand-up mates over there, they – what are we even talking about?”
“We’re talking about how no one likes to be gooseberry!”
“I don’t think Sherlock feels like he’s gooseberry exactly –”
“No, John, I am!”
She’s not looking at me as if she’s just angry. She’s looking at me as if she’s angry and amazed that I’m not getting something any idiot could see, like…
Right.
“When I went to the loo, you ordered French dressing for my salad. I’d just told you, anything but the French dressing. I hate French dressing. But I’ll bet he likes it.”
“It’s the only thing that –”
“Well, there you go.” She got up and shrugged on her jacket. “You’re married, John. Act like it. Go home to your husband. Make sure he eats a good dinner. He looks like he needs it.”
“Jeannette – “
“And it’s Janet,” she said, stalking out of the restaurant.
I sat there, looking at her place setting, until a waiter came to ask if everything was all right, nodding pointedly at the untouched salad. I sighed and got out my bank card.
“Can you box this up?” I said.