217 Babel Street | Apartment 8
James: Do you think she heard?
Emma: How could she not? Her ear was at the door.
James: Oh Mrs Gillis! Oh Mrs Gillis, I'd climb up a trellis for you. . .
Emma: (smiling and freeing her hair from the band): I was starting to feel tense with it. I mean, truly tense.
James: I was about to chuck my peas at that ice cream van. (Both grin at the kitchen lino.)
Emma: What came over us?
James: No idea.
Emma: She's got no right.
James: Zero. Zip.
Emma: But lights out, James? What's that in aid of?
James: Duh. The dark stockroom.
Emma: Ah.
James: Plus I'll have a better chance of impersonating a handsome life model if you can't see.
Emma: Shush. I love your man-boobs.
(James blushes. The vein on his forehead rises helplessly. He switches off the kitchen light.)
Emma: You'll have to walk to Waitrose later. We're out of milk.
James (attempting Nigerian accent): And mushy peas, Miss. That was the last of the mushy peas. (He stops, as if listening for something quiet and half-forgotten.) Why are we talking in script format?
Emma: I was hoping you'd tell me.
James: Sometimes life is just so. . . so. . .
Emma: Random?
James: Yup. But less so, in the stockroom. Mind the boxes, Miss.
Emma: Can I leave my slippers on?
James: Tease.
Emma: Wait (stopping, grabbing his arm). What was that?
James: What was what?
Emma: That noise... Like... like... There. Did you hear it?
James: Yeah.