"There's something I need to tell you." She muttered, eyeing our fellow patrons with suspicion. I leant in.
"I want you to be in charge of the Hen Do - I'm going to have it in London. But I don't want any L plates, or any of that shit."
My hear sank.
"Yes, of course!" I spluttered, the pain of my dented pride surpassing the feeling of mild disappointment.
"What I want, though, is pizza. Good pizza." She added.
I understood completely. You see, L is quarter Italian. And she is about to marry an Italian Italian. "Good pizza" to her is not what it is to you or I - I can quite happily chow down a Pepperoni Passion from Dominoes and feel satisfied. No, what we were talking about was the real deal: fresh buffalo mozzarella and a paper thin base, cooked to perfection in a wood fired oven. I swallowed awkwardly, my throat suddenly dry. I took a sip of my beer.
"Good." She sat back in her chair and lit a cigarette before turning her attention back to the rest of our party. I let the conversation wash over me as I digested the enormity of the task ahead of me. I knew that I couldn't screw this up, and I knew that there was only one way that I could fulfill this brief.
I was going to have to eat pizza. A lot of pizza.