The Pygmy Giant

by Fiona Glass

Bert ran his fingers round the inside of his collar, saw Trudy looking at him, and stopped. He put his elbows on the table, and then he thought perhaps he shouldn’t and took them off again. “Are you sure it was fish I ordered?” he muttered. The menu might just as well have been in Greek for all the sense it made to him.

“Course you did. That’s what boolabess is, stupid.” Her scarlet lips clamped shut around the cigarette that seemed to dangle permanently between them, and she tapped impatient scarlet fingernails on the pristine white cloth. A cloth he was scared to touch in case he left greasy streaks on it. “Fish stew, innit?” she added, unclamping her lips just long enough to spit the words out.

He sighed and wished for the umpteenth time that he hadn’t let Frank talk him into this. Trudy was a nice girl, all right – good-looking with big tits and long legs that looked great in a leather mini-skirt – but he wasn’t sure it was worth all this fuss just to get his leg over. And if she thought he was going to pay for the meal – well, his wallet would melt for sure.

Trudy had seen him eyeing up her tits again. He glanced round the dining room instead and wished he hadn’t, because two of the waiters (poncy young chaps in penguin suits) were looking down their noses at his suit. Okay, it might be a bit creased and shiny on the arse, but it was the best he had, and anyway it was nobody’s business but his own.

A discordant jangle issued from the loud-speakers set high above his head and he winced. What the hell was this stuff, anyway? And what was wrong with Robbie Williams or Girls Aloud?

“Lovely music, isn’t it?” said Trudy. “I’ve always liked jazz, haven’t you?”

“Er. Oh. Yes. Always.”

“So who’s your favourite then?”

“You what?”

“Jazz singer, idiot.” The cigarette was stubbed out and another inserted and lit.

“Oh. Well. Wouldn’t like to say, really. I mean they’re all good aren’t they.” He fingered his collar again and wondered what this fish thing would be like when they got round to bringing it. Couple of bones at the bottom of a dish, like as not, with a cherry tomato sat on top. He’d seen some of the plates of food going past, all pyramids and flounces and bits of chive. Bloody waste of time if you asked him – give him a bag of chips or a pie-and-pint any day.

He caught a third waiter sneering and eyed the route to the door with desperation. If only he could leg it, drop a tenner on the table to cover his share and make like Nigel Mansell. ‘Course, he’d never see Trudy again – she wouldn’t take kindly to being dumped – but there were plenty more fish in the sea. Uh – no – possibly not. Most of them had died and been piled on the plate that had just slid in front of him. He could see fins and faces and scaly bits and – what the hell was that?

“What the hell’s this?” he said, prodding it with a fork.

“It’s squid, silly. It’s nice. I had it in Ibiza last year.”

“Pity it didn’t stay there,” he said, and pushed away the plate.

Fiona Glass writes darkly humorous fiction from a pointy house in Birmingham. You can find her online at www.fiona-glass.com