Not your type. The words resonated in Sally's ears. Not. Your. Type. Why did she care? Indeed, why should she? This man quite revolted her after all. The few times their paths had crossed, so to speak, she had been less than impressed with him, and that was from a distance too.
"What is your type then?" she ventured. "Blonde space waitress type? Or are you more into the sultry siren look?" Sally knew she was neither. She already recognised the cattiness in her voice. Why was she so bitter? This fellow had no place in her life, yet his presence was bringing out her worst traits.
Sally turned back to the bar before Matt could answer. Exhaling loudly she rested her elbows on the ledge and put her head in her hands. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something relaxing. Waves, crashing on a beach of pristine white sand. Blotting out any residual sounds she attempted to hear the lull of water creeping up and then withdrawing from the shoreline...swish, aah, swish, aah, swish_
"Character," Matt interrupted her mental yoga.
"What?" Sally turned her face back towards him, wincing as her headache throbbed.
"Character. And redheads. My type, that is."
"Right," she replied blandly. "Terrific."
Matt saw a way in . Some substance to the story he was chasing.
"And ones that are really into sex toys," he added. "You know, like the ones at the volunteer centre."
"That was an accident," Sally replied.
"It was? How so?"
Sally took another deep breath. Her mind was working overtime. Should she say anything more? Get him off her back? Give him the tidbit she knew he was hankering after?
"I pushed the wrong button," she said.
It was Matt's turn to look confused. "Huh? What's that got to do with all them boxes of pink vibrating rabbits?"
"I ordered something online and then hit the wrong button," Sally repeated. "I did not register what the consequences were until the delivery van turned up with 'all them boxes', as you so succinctly put it."
"That's it?" Matt looked taken aback. "What about the politician fellow? Sir Percy What-sit?"
"What about him? Who is he?"
"Championing that volunteer centre you've been working in, right pompous old git, so far to the right he should be in charge of the BNP, or at the very least related to Prince Phillip."
Sally stifled a smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth. Too late though. Matt had spotted it.
"Ah," he said, "that tickled you, didn't it?"
"Don't be silly. I was only recalling that peculiar phone call the guy in charge of the volunteer centre had earlier today. I was only half listening, but it must have been with Sir Percy What-sit as he kept on saying his name and almost bowing at the same time."
"Colin."
"Who? Oh, yes, right, Colin, that's his name. Did you see how red his face goes when he is over-excited? Incredible. Goes from pale to beetroot in a matter of seconds. Quite a party trick I imagine..." Sally tailed off, her eyes looking over Matt's shoulder towards the entrance of the pub.
"It's those turtleneck sweaters that get me," Matt picked up, oblivious. "Only ever known weirdos to wear them, and even then not ones with red hair_"
Sally smacked his left arm. He turned around and followed her gaze. Standing on the threshold, a bunch of wilting carnations in his hand, was the man himself, Colin, searching the scatter of drinkers for a familiar face.
"What is your type then?" she ventured. "Blonde space waitress type? Or are you more into the sultry siren look?" Sally knew she was neither. She already recognised the cattiness in her voice. Why was she so bitter? This fellow had no place in her life, yet his presence was bringing out her worst traits.
Sally turned back to the bar before Matt could answer. Exhaling loudly she rested her elbows on the ledge and put her head in her hands. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something relaxing. Waves, crashing on a beach of pristine white sand. Blotting out any residual sounds she attempted to hear the lull of water creeping up and then withdrawing from the shoreline...swish, aah, swish, aah, swish_
"Character," Matt interrupted her mental yoga.
"What?" Sally turned her face back towards him, wincing as her headache throbbed.
"Character. And redheads. My type, that is."
"Right," she replied blandly. "Terrific."
Matt saw a way in . Some substance to the story he was chasing.
"And ones that are really into sex toys," he added. "You know, like the ones at the volunteer centre."
"That was an accident," Sally replied.
"It was? How so?"
Sally took another deep breath. Her mind was working overtime. Should she say anything more? Get him off her back? Give him the tidbit she knew he was hankering after?
"I pushed the wrong button," she said.
It was Matt's turn to look confused. "Huh? What's that got to do with all them boxes of pink vibrating rabbits?"
"I ordered something online and then hit the wrong button," Sally repeated. "I did not register what the consequences were until the delivery van turned up with 'all them boxes', as you so succinctly put it."
"That's it?" Matt looked taken aback. "What about the politician fellow? Sir Percy What-sit?"
"What about him? Who is he?"
"Championing that volunteer centre you've been working in, right pompous old git, so far to the right he should be in charge of the BNP, or at the very least related to Prince Phillip."
Sally stifled a smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth. Too late though. Matt had spotted it.
"Ah," he said, "that tickled you, didn't it?"
"Don't be silly. I was only recalling that peculiar phone call the guy in charge of the volunteer centre had earlier today. I was only half listening, but it must have been with Sir Percy What-sit as he kept on saying his name and almost bowing at the same time."
"Colin."
"Who? Oh, yes, right, Colin, that's his name. Did you see how red his face goes when he is over-excited? Incredible. Goes from pale to beetroot in a matter of seconds. Quite a party trick I imagine..." Sally tailed off, her eyes looking over Matt's shoulder towards the entrance of the pub.
"It's those turtleneck sweaters that get me," Matt picked up, oblivious. "Only ever known weirdos to wear them, and even then not ones with red hair_"
Sally smacked his left arm. He turned around and followed her gaze. Standing on the threshold, a bunch of wilting carnations in his hand, was the man himself, Colin, searching the scatter of drinkers for a familiar face.