The World According to Vince - A romantic comedy (Gym or Chocolate Book 2)

by Stuart Reardon

  Vince was concentrating hard and staring at his phone. Huh, probably updating his IG feed again.

  “What are you doing?” I asked crossly.

  “Just deleting me Tinder account,” he said without looking up.

  I was surprised. “Oh, right. Why?”

  He pressed one more button and winked at me. “I’m upgrading.”

  “Is that a new app?” I asked, a little confused.

  “Yeah, no. Not exactly.”

  Yes, no, not exactly! What did that mean? Vince always said what he meant. Why had he chosen this evening to go all existential on me?

  “What’s up, Gracie?” he asked quietly. “You look as happy as a fart in a Jacuzzi.”

  That made me smile, it was so Vince. But then I sighed.

  “Everyone likes you.”

  “Only ‘cause they don’t know me,” he grinned.

  “And the women were all over you.”

  “They know hot stuff when they see it,” he nodded in agreement, smoothing his tie and giving me his patented James-Bond-raised eyebrow.

  “I mean it,” I snapped.

  “You looked fook hot tonight,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Them blokes would have been all over you if I hadn’t been on guard duty.”

  I shook my head. “Men just see me as a skinny, uptight fun-sucker … and don’t make me say that again quickly!”

  I thought he’d laugh it off. I was really being pathetic and obviously drunker than I’d realized.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “But, Grace … is that really how you see yourself?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  The silence hung between us.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. I know a great vegan restaurant just around the corner. You’ll love it.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I mean it.”

  Vince gave me a dazzling smile. “You like me, admit it.”

  “I tolerate you.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not even slightly,” I said haughtily. “And I preferred you when you were 3,000 miles away in LA.”

  He leaned down, his breath tickling my ear. “That’s a long way to go for snuggles.”

  And I couldn’t help laughing. Vincent Azzo was winning me over, too.

  God help me.

  Vince

  The mistake people make when they’re not used to cooking vegan food is that they try to replace the meat to copy a meat-based meal and it just doesn’t work. Sticking veg and potatoes on a plate with a Quorn-burger and calling it a roast dinner don’t cut it in my book.

  The restaurant I took Gracie to was streets beyond that—it was a fart-friendly environment: more beans, pulses and lentils than you could shake a bog roll at, and an array of delicious dishes.

  It was also a Buddhist place so had this cool, laidback, hippy dippy vibe. It was my go-to happy place, second after the dog park, or maybe third after a good shag—but that was debatable.

  My mouth started watering like a leaky hydrant even before they brought the menus which I knew off by heart. Do you think vampires drool when they scent a tasty human? I’ve often wondered about that: it’s one of the questions that keeps me awake at night.

  Nah, I’m kidding. Nothing keeps me awake at night—I sleep like the dead.

  Like the dead! Hahaha! The Vin-meister is a pun-master.

  Back to the drool.

  Triple mushroom noodles with black turtle beans (no turtles involved); bean curd with basil, cashew nuts, cranberry beans, split peas and lentils; pan fried turnip cake with lemon (a must); and their incredible sweet and sticky rice balls with sesame.

  Grace wanted to go with something safe but I ordered lots of other things for her to try, as well. I never want to be one of those shit-necks who tell their women what to eat, but I was confident that when she saw what I’d be shoving in my gob, she’d wet her knickers, guaranteed.

  When the array of food arrived, her eyes widened and she looked physically sick. I wasn’t quite sure where I’d miscalculated, but I tried to reassure her it was all for me. She seemed incredulous, but I took to a trough like the world was ending.

  As I chewed, half delirious with pleasure, I stared at her, watching her color rise as the warmth of the restaurant and the food took away the winter chill.

  After a minute, she laid down her chopsticks.

  “Please don’t watch me eat, it’s really off-putting.”

  And the penny dropped with a loud and familiar clang, so I concentrated on staring at my own plate.

  “No worries, Grace. I’m too busy stuffing me own fookin’ face.”

  “You’re gross.”

  “But in a sexy way, yeah?”

  “No, in a gross way. You’re staring, again.”

  “You’ve got mustard on your lip,” and I wiped a paper serviette over her face, trying to be helpful, but she reeled back, flushed with embarrassment.

  I carried on eating, then asked in a conversational tone, “How long were you anorexic?”

  Her whole body stiffened.

  “Did Cady tell you that?” she asked angrily. “I can’t believe she’d…”

  “Nah, nothing like that. Cady barely tolerates me,” I said cheerfully. “You know I was a catwalk model for five years. I’ve seen it all. Most of the models were fookin’ anorexic— chewing on tissue paper to fill ‘em up, arses like elephants—all loose skin over butt bones. You need squats to get a juicy, peachy arse like mine,” and I stood up pointing at the pert peaks of perfection in question.

  “Sit down!” she hissed, uncertain whether to give me an ear-bashing or laugh.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed about,” I said. “You look perfect to me.”

  She blinked several times. “I’m not ashamed,” she said quietly, “but it’s not something I share with many people.”

  “But Cady knows?”

  Gracie gave a brief smile. “She was the one who helped me through it. We were roomies at college.” Her smile fell. “Mean girls used to call us ‘Laurel and Hardy’. One day, Cady grabbed the bathroom scales and tossed them in the trash. She said no one was going to judge us for what we did or didn’t eat.”

  I nodded, understanding how hard it was to re-set your body’s eating demands once you’d gone a bit wonky.

  “Cady persuaded me to see a counselor and, well, it’s a work in progress, but I’m a healthy weight now.” Her voice was defensive as she glared at me, then her shoulders slumped just a little. “I find it hard to eat around other people unless I know them really well.”

  “Fair enough,” I grinned at her. “I’m counting on you getting to know me very well,” and I gave her my patented panty-melting grin.

  “Not gonna happen in this lifetime or the next,” she snorted, but her eyes were smiling.

  “Well, we are in a Buddhist restaurant and they believe in reincarnation, so I’ll take that challenge.”

  “It wasn’t a challenge,” she huffed.

  “It is now,” I insisted, raising an eyebrow.

  We sat in silence for several seconds which was way too long. I’m a talker by nature; can’t be doing with uncomfortable silences.

  “Tell me about growing up in Minnesota. That’s up by Canada, eh?”

  “Please don’t do your Fargo accent. We don’t all talk like that.”

  “But it’s really good!”

  “No, it isn’t. You sound like Dudley Do-right.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Where are you from? And don’t just say ‘England’.”

  “Derby, in the middle of England: north of Birmingham, south of Manchester.”

  “Any brothers or sisters? Parents?”

  I shook my head. “I’m an orphan, me. Dad died when I was 15 and Mum died last year.”

  “Oh!” Gracie was momentarily speechless. “I’m sorry—that must have been difficult,” and she gave a sympathetic smile. “Although the legal definition of an orphan is someone who is a minor and has lost
both of his or her parents. You’re 35, even though you act like a great big kid.”

  “I feel like an orphan,” I said. “I’m no one’s child anymore. Haven’t got anyone to call Mum.”

  She touched the back of my hand briefly, and I cleared my throat.

  “So, what about you? You got family in Minnesota?”

  “Yes, my mom and dad. Dad worked in the lumber industry before he retired, and mom is a homemaker.” She shrugged. “Pretty typical, small town upbringing: lots of sports, especially football and ice hockey.”

  “Eh, can’t see you as a wide receiver.”

  She laughed. I fookin’ loved her laugh.

  “Not so much, but I was a demon on the ice.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “Nope. I was quite a tomboy when I was a kid. I was a great winger, got a lot of assists.”

  I stared at Gracie with new respect. I knew that ice hockey was fookin’ lethal; pretty much a blood sport at times. Imagining someone as graceful as her slamming a puck into the net or taking her hockey stick to another player was turning me on.

  “What about you? You said you did kick boxing—that’s pretty brutal, isn’t it?”

  I had to dismiss the image of Gracie in my bedroom wearing a hockey uniform and carrying a big stick. Can I just say, Phwoar!

  “Yeah, did it for a few years and got pretty high up the rankings for my weight.”

  “Why did you give it up?”

  “Modeling came along and in one of my last fights, I got these teeth knocked out,” and I pointed at the right side of my mouth. “Then I had a car accident a few days later and cracked the other side of my face on the steering wheel and lost the teeth on the left. I just had gums. I looked like an old grandpa. Cost me a fortune to get this lot fitted,” and I tapped my teeth.

  “They’re all false?” Gracie asked in shock.

  “Yep, the dentist screwed ‘em into my jaw. Fookin’ hurt! But it was worth it. Mind you, he was a sadistic bastard. I think he enjoyed it. This one was the worst,” and I tapped my front tooth, but the fooker dropped out right onto the pile of white napkins on the white tablecloth.

  Grace looked shocked then started to giggle as we scrabbled around trying to find it.

  “It’s ice-white! It’s the same color as the sodding serviettes! That fooker cost me a grand! Can you see it?”

  “That’s an adorable gap-toothed smile you’ve got, stud,” she laughed. “Like an eight year-old … a 6’4”, 190 pound, eight year-old.”

  Still giggling, she helped me search through the wreck of the table until I found my tooth glinting at me next to one of the candle lanterns.

  “Phew! Found it! I need to glue that bugger back in. Can’t have the Canine Crusader without his fangs.”

  I screwed it back into my mouth, making a mental note to glue it later. Gracie watched me with soft eyes and an amused smile. She was cute when she was drunk and I think she liked me a bit more. Unfortunately, once I’d fed her and she started to sober up, I could see her slipping back behind the hard shell of her professionalism.

  So I let her talk about the next press release, the fashion show and my upcoming court case—those were her safe places.

  “And we’ve got a wedding to go to,” I reminded her. “I’m looking forward to stepping out with the maid of honor.”

  “A life-defining moment, I’m sure,” she said coolly.

  “Counting on it,” I grinned, watching as she rolled her eyes.

  She muttered something I didn’t hear then glanced at her wristwatch.

  “I need to get home. I’ve got to get an early start in the morning,” and she raised an accusing eyebrow at me.

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Press releases to send, fashion contracts to review, and someone’s court case to prepare.”

  “Me and the dogs thank you,” I said with a wink.

  Back at her apartment, she raced into her bedroom and stripped off the jump-suit. I wish I could say we had wild monkey sex in her bed, but she came out wearing a floor-length silky robe thing, and handed me back Stella’s outfit.

  “Please tell her I said thank you,” she said primly, tugging the edges of the robe closer to her throat. “I felt very special wearing that.”

  “You’re always special to me,” I said.

  “Very smooth, Vince,” she laughed. “Thank you for dinner, it was delicious. Now goodnight!”

  I left with a smile on my face and hope in my heart. A couple more evenings like that, and I was sure I could persuade Gracie to lower her standards. That woman was mine—she just wouldn’t admit it yet.

  I took the subway home, getting off at Borough Hall. The slushy pavements had frozen into slippery mounds, and I relived my youth by taking a run at them and sliding along. I’d come a long way from a Council house in Derby, but that scrawny little kid was still inside me.

  The lights were on in my apartment when I got back. I slid my phone out of my pocket, hoping I’d be able to catch a picture of Rick and Cady getting it on.

  Instead, I got a photo of her snoring on Rick’s chest while he watched an American football game on my TV.

  “Blimey! You’re not even married yet and you’re falling asleep in front of the telly!” I yelped.

  Cady grunted and sat up. “I was awake at 4.30am this morning for work, turd face,” she said grumpily.

  Rick grinned. “What she said.”

  The kids heard my voice and came rushing in from the bedroom. From the loud thumps as they jumped off my bed, they’d obviously decided that was more comfortable than their own dog beds.

  Tyson stuck his nose in my crotch, the little sod, and Zeus yipped and barked, complaining that I’d been out again. Tap whined and tried to climb my leg, so I scooped her up with Zeus and plopped down on the sofa between Rick and Cady, dodging an elbow to my ribs as I separated the lovebirds.

  “Home by yourself?” Rick asked slyly.

  Cady threw a cushion at him. “Is Grace still talking to you?”

  “Yep! I’ve made some progress there. She still thinks I’m a knob-head, but a loveable one.”

  “Yay for you,” Cady yawned. “We’re going home. I’m glad it went well, big guy, but I still say you’re punching above your weight.”

  Grace

  “So, how did your date with Vince go?”

  Monday lunch with Cady was a new tradition. We used to spend Sundays together when we could, but what with her being all loved up, it had become a short and sweet catch up on Monday lunchtime instead, plus dinner once every couple of weeks if I wasn’t canceling on her due to working late again.

  “It wasn’t a date,” I grumbled. “It was … a business exchange.”

  “Okay, so did you exchange anything interesting?”

  I gave her a jaded look and she shrugged. “A woman has needs.”

  “He dropped his false tooth on the table in the restaurant.”

  Cady choked on a croissant. “What? Seriously?”

  “Yep. It was bright white, perfectly matching the table linens. Playing hunt the tooth was one of the evening’s highlights.”

  Cady laughed. “That’s … that’s so Vince!”

  I smiled with her. “It wasn’t all bad. And we found the tooth. He was kind of amazing with the partners,” I said thoughtfully. “He even persuaded them to donate $25,000 to the Canine Crusader fashion show. He was so smooth with them. It was … weird.”

  Cady cocked her head on one side. “You like him.”

  “I don’t hate him. He’s still annoying, but he’s got a good side.”

  She raised her eyebrows but didn’t speak.

  I shook my head. “No, absolutely not. Don’t even go there.”

  “Fine, I won’t. How was your dress fitting?”

  That brought a genuine smile to my face. “Fantastic! The fitter even made it look like I have a cleavage!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your girls.”

  “Well, I like them, but you
have to admit they’re small. Mammograms are hell for someone with small breasts.”

  “They’re hell for everyone,” Cady said mildly, as I gazed enviously at her extremely well-endowed chest.

  “I’m serious! When I take off my padded bra, the nurses…”

  “You wear a padded bra?”

  “Only because the air conditioning in my building is so cold,” I said defensively. “But the nurses look at each other as if to say, ‘what are we going to do with those peanuts?’ So they tug hard to try and get some boob to squish, and all they end up with is a mammogram of my nipples! It’s not funny!”

  “I’m grimacing in empathy; it’s different from laughing.”

  “Not very different, apparently. I have no boobs, no waist and no hips. Half the time, I have to shop in the boys’ department in stores.”

  “You have great legs—your legs would give the Pope second thoughts.”

  “Ha, well, thanks. I got so fed up of sales assistants asking if I’m clothes shopping for my son that last time I said yes.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “I ended up in a very bizarre conversation about which school my non-existent son wants to go to, and which softball team he plays for.”

  Cady bust a gut laughing. “That’s hilarious! I hope you said he was a Yankees fan?”

  “Ugh! You’re such a wench!”

  Just as we were settling the bill, Cady said innocently, “Has Vince said anything to you about the maid of honor / best man dance?”

  I froze, then my eyes narrowed as she tossed some bills on the table and ran for the door.

  “Cady Callahan, get your ass back here and explain that!” I yelled as she waved from outside, striding down the sidewalk with a huge grin on her face.

  I swear my colon clenched in horror at the thought of a maid of honor / best man dance with Vince, the hapless harbinger of doom. It would be a disaster, a very public disaster. Cady was in so much trouble.

  And so was I.

  I hurried back to my office thinking of a thousand ways to get Cady back for her disloyalty—she was really pushing the best friend code. Could Vince even dance? Because I knew I couldn’t. I barely had a rhythmic bone in my body and found swaying in time to the music a challenge.