“You’d have a shit life,” says K, leafing through one of those magazines of hers in a deck chair out by the kidney-shaped pool, “without me.”
Strong words, but I believe she has me on this one. I give the proposition a moment’s thought, just in case, but no – I’ve got nothing. Still, I like to give as good as I get and after a brief period of reflection I manage to deliver a retort I think I can live with.
“We’re going to need more wine.”
“We have two bottles,” she says, eyes on the page.
“We have one bottle.” It’s exhilarating to be a step ahead of her. “I used some for the chicken.”
She looks up.
“You used a whole bottle of wine for your chicken?”
I shrug, lacking a magazine of my own to hide behind.
“That’s coq-au-vin, I’m afraid.”
She returns to her portfolio of cranky, hungry young women teetering on heels in what I assume are circus costumes.
“You’re a coq-au-vin, I’m afraid.”
I pick up my book. That’s as maybe, I think to myself, but we are going to need more wine. More