by Hayley Doyle
‘Wait! I – erm—’
‘Oh, do you need an extra seat? Is there another person joining you?’
Is there another person joining me?
‘No. Thanks.’
‘Okay, see you later, Chloe. Have a great day!’
And Gianna hangs up. Guess I’ll be seeing her later, then.
14
Antonella is near London Bridge.
Through the main entrance is a grand silk curtain. I peek around, like I’m spying on the audience from the wings. I’m greeted by a striking woman dressed in black standing behind a high table, ‘Gianna’ embroidered onto her shirt with golden thread. Another theatrical curtain is draped behind her. The space we’re standing in is cramped and circular; we’re like two kids hiding in a tall, pink tent. I give her my name and she looks past my shoulder, asking, ‘Do you prefer to wait here?’
‘Actually, it’s just me tonight.’ I widen my eyes, grow an inch.
Gianna is thrown. This doesn’t happen often, clearly.
‘Just you?’
I give my best breezy shoulder-shrug.
‘So …’ Gianna says, as if she’s trying to remember where she left her keys, ‘a table for one?’
It’s the upward inflection on one that does it; the absolute disbelief that anybody in their right mind would show up to Antonella alone. To eat; to drink; to party alone. I return to my standard hunched pose, squeeze out a laugh and say, ‘No! Only kidding. Two it is!’
Gianna doesn’t find me funny. I imagine she’ll inform her superior, tell them to keep an eye on me, you know, sensing I might get a bit rowdy, lower the tone. But she remains professional, gives me a dead-eyed smile, then pulls on a thick rope with impressive strength. I brace myself for a loud bell to sound. Instead, the back curtain sweeps up with such captivating elegance that it’s like I’m transported into an old Hollywood musical. I am Dorothy stepping into Oz.
A satisfying blend of gold, rose, peach and orange dance around the room. Dimly-lit lamps sit on round tables draped with velvet and silk tablecloths, cosy booths hugging the walls. It’s bustling, the waiters carrying large trays above their heads. I follow Gianna, zigzagging past huge bowls of carbonara and arrabbiata, passing floor-to-ceiling wine racks, until we arrive at my table.
I’m handed a menu complete with a gold tassel. Gianna leaves another menu opposite, at the place where Jack should be sitting.
‘Would you like anything to drink while you wait?’ she asks.
‘Erm, Valpolicella would be lovely, thanks.’
And she’s off.
So, here I am. Jack’s bucket-list restaurant. It opened about two years ago, the cuisine simple but oh-so effective; Italian. The basics. Done exceptionally well, according to the reviews and framed certificates behind the bar with five gold stars. The party vibe is electric, yet sophisticated. Jack had tried to book this place for his work Christmas do, but had left it far too late, and ever since he had sought a reason to come. I surprised him on his birthday by putting the business card inside a little gift box. He told me I was magic.
‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he’d said.
‘And I reckon I love you too, Jack Carmichael.’
We’d celebrated with takeaway pizzas and danced in the kitchen to Daft Punk.
A different waitress brings my wine, showing me the bottle first before I sample. It’s perfect, but it lands in my stomach with an unpleasant slosh. I don’t feel whole. I feel cut in half with a blunt knife. Everything about me being here is wrong.
Nobody is looking at me.
Except they are. The more I dart my eyes across the room, the more eyes meet with mine. They talk. Who’s that girl on her own? Sat in the middle of the restaurant, of all places. Seeking attention, perhaps? Does she carry a confidence that normal people don’t possess? Oh, of course, do you think she’s been stood up? Yep. That’ll be it.
I sip my wine and take out my phone.
I swipe, I tap. I like Beth’s latest Instagram post. Her new killer nails.
Gianna walks past with a party of six, a stack of menus on her arm ready to hand out. I grab my phone, tap and put it to my ear. Antonella isn’t a quiet affair: the instrumental jazz ambience isn’t subtle; nor the conversations of its punters; the belly laughing; the clinking of glasses; the scraping of plates. So, I speak.
‘Hey!’ I say into my phone. ‘God, this is weird. What am I doing?’
The last time I did anything like this was in youth drama, having to improvise being on the phone to a parent, apologising for getting caught smoking or something. Never thought I’d be testing out my skills two decades later in one of London’s trendiest restaurants.
But there’s so much I have to say. And only one person I need to say it to.
‘Jack?’ Saying his name makes me smile. I repeat, louder, then pretend he’s saying something back. Nothing fancy. Just that he’s working late.
‘It’s kind of embarrassing,’ I tell him, ‘but I went to Next after work twice last week to look at baby clothes, something I can put me hand on me heart and say I’ve never done before, not even when a mate’s had a baby.’ I take another sip of wine. The waitress is coming towards me but she backs away when she clocks I’m on the phone. ‘Jack, I wanted to tell you I’m having your baby. I wanted to tell you that you’re never gonna be dead, not really, ’cause you’re living on in me. I wanted this so much it’s been keeping me sane, I mean, I put lippy on today. Lippy! And that was before I knew me mum was coming.’
I wish he could see me, see my efforts. I’m wearing a floor-length summer dress, tiger-print. My black ankle boots aren’t really appropriate for a sticky July, but they look right with the dress and besides, it was raining when I left the flat. I haven’t brought a jacket; just an umbrella. My mum breathed a sigh of relief when I washed my hair and even offered to blow-dry it for me, an offer I couldn’t refuse. I hate blow-drying my hair. I told her I was out tonight with some colleagues, new work pals. She was delighted. I gave my dad a number for a local Chinese.
A champagne cork pops and the table in the corner cheer.
‘Look, since your funeral,’ I say into the phone, ‘I’ve found meself wondering what your relationship with Florrie was like. And then I’d tell meself how it shouldn’t matter, there’ll be a reason why it never worked out for you both. You’d never have met me if you’d stayed with her. But I’ve gotta be honest, the only thing that stopped me feeling – well, I hate to say it, but – jealous, was the sudden realisation that I might be pregnant. Like I’d won. No, no. Not won. Like I’d made me mark. With you. Like I was real.’
I play with the rose-pink napkin.
In my head, I try hard to hear Jack blurt out, ‘Of course you were real!’ or something poignant and rom-com worthy. I listen, I concentrate, and nothing comes. Because Jack would never say that sort of shit. How can I imagine him being anything other than what he was?
‘I need to face facts, don’t I? I don’t want to, but I’ve got to, or I’m gonna drive meself mad.’ I choke up; the back of my throat is dry, aching. I drink some more. ‘Fuck. Why? People have unplanned babies all the time, so why didn’t it just happen for us, for me, now? I thought if I can’t have you, then at least – at least – I can have that. God. Sounds like a shit consolation prize, doesn’t it?’
I want to hang up. This conversation is nothing like one I’d ever have had with Jack. We would finish each other’s sentences or talk over each other. We disagreed and fought and laughed. Once, in a posh burger bar in Liverpool, I prodded Jack with my foot mid-chat and the next thing, we were having a thumb war. A fucking thumb war! We were every bit that annoying couple who were just having the best time in each other’s company. And we didn’t even need to go out to date. We had just as much fun at home, in PJs and bare feet and hair that desperately needed a wash. If there was a packet of KitKats in the cupboard, we’d devour the lot.
I’ve been quiet for a while, longer than I would be in a real
two-way phone conversation.
‘Okay … okay … That’s fine …’ I act my arse off. ‘Bye bye!’
‘Would you like to order a drink for …?’ The waitress has appeared so quickly she’s just missing a puff of smoke. She gestures to the empty seat opposite me.
‘No,’ I say, my breeziness wearing thin.
‘Perhaps some water?’
‘Please.’
And she pours some still bottled water out for two.
‘I’ll come back when you’re ready,’ she says, nodding to Jack’s place. Ping! She’s gone.
I stare at the water that won’t be drunk. I’m so grateful for my wine, and for a small moment, I’m glad to not be pregnant. Oh, the power of alcohol. I order a bottle. One large glass down and one entire fake phone conversation completed, and I feel slightly better. Fewer people are looking at me; the mood has softened. The music is louder. The bottle arrives.
‘Another glass?’ I’m asked.
‘Sure!’
So now there are two glasses of water, two glasses of wine. The room feels busier. I have to move my chair further in to allow the fella behind to get into his seat. I ask for a bread basket. Jack bloody loved a bread basket. When it arrives, the focaccia is warm, as delicate as cake. It goes down a treat with my wine. For the first time in weeks – five weeks and three days to be precise – I am tasting food in all its glory.
‘I’m ready to order,’ I say, catching Gianna’s eye. She’s on high alert, it being Saturday night and all, and she doesn’t waste time turning around to check if Jack has arrived yet. She just gets her colleague to tend to me pronto. ‘Buffalo mozzarella pizza please, and a carbonara. Can’t come to Antonella without sampling that, eh?’
I’ve ordered for two. I know, I know.
I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Jack having a birthday, so it’s the least I can do.
And it’s all I can do. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.
‘Whooaa!’ I’m knocked forwards by the fella behind sliding backwards out of his chair and the jug of still water topples over. I save it before it rolls off the table. The bottle of wine shakes, but stays on its base. The fella is now standing, dabbing the spilt water with a pink napkin, apologising profusely. He’s a large man, particularly around his middle, and while he looks as though he enjoys his food, he doesn’t look enamoured by this restaurant.
‘It’s no problem,’ I say. ‘I probably should’ve been sitting closer to the table.’
‘They know how to pack out a house here, don’t they?’ he says, now dabbing his brow.
The fella excuses himself to the gents’ and I watch him go, struggling to get past the waiters and their huge trays, dodging Gianna on a mission, hanging back a moment as a family introduce a fancy birthday cake with about thirty lit candles. I can’t help but think Jack would be feeling similar to this fella. Not because he was big. Well, he was, but in a different way. This fella is sweating, overweight. Jack was big and broad, both in physique and personality. He was the centrepiece, the one with the jokes. He brought colour to the most dismal of pubs. But in a restaurant as extravagant as this, he would be uncomfortable; he’d feel swamped. It’s not his style. He mustn’t have seen photos of the interior; must have simply gone on word of mouth.
I, on the other hand, bloody love it.
And I don’t have to put up with Jack huffing about moving his seat in for the person behind to get in, or having to pause his story because a party of twenty are singing Happy Birthday. God, this wine is fine! I throw my head back, feel the warm buzz. I’d much rather he were here, of course. Of course, of course, of course.
‘Carbonara?’
The food has arrived. The five-star-rated creamy pasta is plonked down before me, swirling and bubbling in a traditional hand-painted Italian bowl. The pizza, thick with fresh dough and glistening with buffalo mozzarella, is placed down opposite. For Jack. He might have ordered something more meaty, but my thinking was that this isn’t takeaway on a Friday night. This is London’s top Italian and Jack would have gone classic.
I eat fast. Decadence on a plate. The pace of the restaurant keeps me moving, eating, chewing, washing it down with wine. I could be mistaken but the lights seem dimmer, the music louder. I wipe my chin with my pink napkin.
A quarter through the carbonara and two slices into the pizza and I’m done.
I head to the ladies’ and reapply my lippy beside another woman, around my age, doing the same. She’s bobbing to music we can hear from upstairs. The lighting is flattering: movie-star lightbulbs surround the mirrors. Through them, we catch eyes, smile. To her, I’m just another person having a night out, perhaps with my husband, my girlfriend, my entire workforce. She would never guess how painful it is for me to open my bag, fish out this lipstick and paint it on, knowing that Jack won’t be smudging it with his beardy kisses during the taxi ride home.
‘Love your dress,’ she comments.
‘It’s just Zara,’ I say.
She checks herself over once more and leaves. I release a long sigh. Without the circus of Antonella dancing around me, I don’t feel so good any more. I grip the sink, look into my smoky eyes. I don’t want to be me. I want to be that other woman. She might have pain, too; but whatever it is, let’s trade. Please.
Back on the restaurant floor, the birthday boy from the large party is between the booths and tables, hugging some guests who are leaving. His arms are laden with gift bags, fancy tissue paper poking out. I’m in no hurry, so I hang back, lean against the booth. When his guests brush past, he turns around and realises he’s been blocking my way. His hand slaps his forehead and he mouths, ‘So sorry!’
‘Happy birthday!’ I shout over the noise.
‘Would you like some cake?’ he asks.
Before I can politely decline, he yells to someone called Eloise and she slides a slab of rainbow sponge onto a side plate for me. I say thanks and Eloise blows a kiss.
‘This might sound a little strange,’ I say, leaning closer to the birthday boy’s ear, ‘but can I borrow one of those candles, please?’
‘Of course!’ And on request, Eloise gets to it. She even holds up a lighter, to which I nod, and she brings the flame to life. How kind.
Careful not to blow out the candle prematurely, I creep away, baby steps. The flame dances delicately as I sit down. This is where I imagine Jack giving in. He’d bury his head into his large hands, ashamed at how stroppy he’d been all night. I’d say, it’s okay, don’t be daft. And he’d smile and he’d sway and he’d get bang into the spirit, deciding that after all, he did like this place. In fact, he loved it.
To the far left, I hear another chorus of Happy Birthday break out, harmonising in good tune. So I sing along, quietly.
‘… happy birthday, dear Ja-ack. Happy birthday to you.’
And I make a wish, and blow.
15
My mum and dad – to my relief – are in bed.
Earlier, my dad had had some wild idea about staying in a hotel around Park Lane, finding a last-minute deal. ‘When in Rome,’ he’d said. I’d said, please, sleep in the bed, I was more than happy to sleep on the sofa. I didn’t tell him I sleep on the sofa every night.
I’m tipsy and tired. Full from the feast.
But I’m not sad.
Wait. I’ll rephrase. I’m less sad.
Now, this could be the wine.
I take my boots off by the door and tiptoe along the hallway. My mum has tidied up, even folded the tea towels into neat squares beside the sink. There’s a lamp on beneath the mugs cupboard which has never worked since I moved in. My dad’s fixed it. The light creates a pool of calm and makes the kitchen seem more spacious. I smile at the man sat in the shopping trolley, a great centrepiece. The image is so sharp; it’s still incredible to me that it was taken – hungover – on Jack’s phone. I can see us there, feel the sticky heat, the grimy city dirt between my toes in my flip-flops.
I get a pint of water, lean against the
sink and down it.
Hugging the empty glass to my chest, I look at the fridge opposite, vibrant and busy. All of the should-have-beens and to-dos: ready-made plans, stuck in a time warp. I step forward, remove the Antonella business card from beneath the flip-flop magnet, hold it between my thumb and forefinger.
‘We did it,’ I whisper.
And instead of throwing the card away, I slide it into my purse. A keepsake.
Unlike going to the theatre with Si and paying that bloody gas bill, tonight feels like an achievement. Jack was so vivid. It was tough, but God, given the shit hand of cards I’ve been dealt, I’m glad I was there over any other place in the world. I had a good time. I did. A good time.
So what else can I do?
The estate agent’s card could come in handy when Jack’s brother moves in. But we missed Ross Robson’s gig. And as for the skiing lesson – well, I never had any desire to do it anyway. The tiny Vietnamese bowl of noodles sparks an ache in my chest. A trip we’ll never take.
‘Jack?’
It’s easy to imagine him here. Bloated; hiccups. He always got hiccups when we came home from fancy restaurants. He wouldn’t be staring at the fridge with me. No. His focus would be past my head, towards the wall. He’d be playing his favourite silly game.
‘What’s behind the picture?’ I hear him ask.
I turn around and face it myself. ‘What is behind the picture?’
The man’s eyes stare intently into Jack’s camera lens. Ronald McDonald stands behind the shopping trolley, a terrifying clown-god, a reminder of all things delicious and disgusting. I can taste the salt in my mouth; the sweet and sour tang of the dip. I can hear the buzz of the shopping mall, the bustle of the street. The man had sighed, and yet he was in no hurry to move. I’m there, too, now; I’m transported. And I want to answer Jack’s final question to me. I want to find out what’s going on; what’s really behind the picture.
‘We always said we’d go back there one day,’ I say, calmly.
‘And find him, Chloe. Ask him what he was doing.’
*
