Which is why I’m here, now, on my way into his restaurant, to catch him just before he starts lunch service. I can’t just leave a voicemail or a text to let him know I’m turning down his generous offer of accommodation. It’ll set alarm bells off, if I seem to be avoiding him when passing on such important information, and the last thing I want is to set alarm bells off.
Mostly because I’m a tiny bit terrified of Tash, obviously.
But also because it might lead to a conversation with Olly that I’d rather stick red-hot needles into my eyes than initiate.
So I’ve come to Nibbles in the hope that he’ll be too busy and too distracted by the restaurant opening in five minutes, and that therefore he will accept the explanation I’m offering, which is that I’m going to stay at Dillon’s instead, so that I can be there for him as soon as he gets out of rehab.
This isn’t, I should add, entirely untrue. I am going to stay at Dillon’s instead. It’s just that it’s not specifically to ‘be there’ for him as soon as he gets out of rehab. If anything, I’ll have to make sure I’m well clear of his place before he gets out of rehab, because I know it’ll actually be really important for him to have his own space when he gets out, and not to have me there as some sort of co-dependent crutch to lean on. But this aside, it’s actually a pretty good plan. Dillon called me early this morning – his daily permitted call from Grove House, which I’m very flattered that he made to me – and once he’d grunted a few reluctant replies to my questions about his welfare and swiftly moved the topic off himself again, I mentioned Tash’s late-night visit.
‘For fuck’s sake, Lib,’ he said, once he’d inveigled the rest of the story out of me (his appetite for Olly-related gossip being, apparently, limitless), ‘just move into my flat for a bit instead. The place is going to be empty until I’m out of here. And I promise, I won’t let any of my psycho girlfriends come round and threaten you into going elsewhere.’
‘Look, I didn’t say Tash was a psycho,’ I said, firmly. ‘I just don’t feel right about moving in with Olly when … well, it probably wasn’t the best idea in the first place.’
‘Trust me, sweetheart, moving in with Olly Walker is always going to be a lousy idea. I’ll bet he’s the worst flatmate alive, anyway. Leaves hair in the shower drain. Gets butter in the Marmite. Skidmarks on the—’
‘It’s all right, Dillon. You don’t need to persuade me.’
‘Not to mention the phwoar factor engendered by all that cosy domesticity,’ he goes on, clearly feeling that, despite what I’ve just said, he does need to persuade me after all. ‘I mean, there you’ll be in the mornings, all fresh and damp out of the shower, seductively licking toast crumbs and jam off your lips, accidentally brushing past each other in your dressing gowns … poor bloke won’t be able to contain himself.’
I glance, sharply, at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about? He doesn’t fancy me any more. He’s with Tash, remember?’
‘Oh, come on. You don’t think the sight of you with the toast and the jam and the licking … you don’t think that’s going to take him right back to where he started?’
‘OK, well, all I think right now is that you’ve obviously got some sort of toast/jam fetish going on yourself,’ I say, hastily, because I’m finding this whole topic rather heart-hammeringly uncomfortable, and I’d rather not dwell on it. (I mean, you never know, with Dillon, if he really thinks what he’s saying, or if it’s all just a bit of a tease and a wind-up.) ‘But if it’s really all right with you, moving into your place for a few weeks would be brilliant. I promise, I’ll have found somewhere else by the time you get out of Grove House.’
‘Hey, there’s no hurry. Anyway, there’s a good chance I won’t even be back at the flat for long when I do get out of here. My agent called yesterday with a potential offer of a new TV series, filming in Vancouver.’
‘Wow, Dillon, that’s terrific news!’
‘Yeah, it was unexpected, that’s for sure. I thought I might never work again, to be honest with you. But either way, you can stay as long as you need. And I promise you, if I do end up living with you, I’ll be the world’s best flatmate. A nice clean shower. Untainted Marmite jars. I can even provide an extra, fully complimentary service where I come and warm you up in bed at night …?’
Which is why, obviously, I need to be long gone by the time he’s home.
Anyway, this is what I’m here to explain (a version of) to Olly, right now.
I push the door of the restaurant open and head inside.
I love this place.
The thing about it is that it’s pretty much exactly the way I always imagined Olly’s restaurant would look, long before the idea became reality. It’s cosy without being twee, cool without being try-hard. There are comfortable booths for couples to snuggle up in, and a couple of big tables for groups, or for communal seating. There’s a tiny bar area that I know Olly would love to expand, by knocking through into the vacant property next door, as soon as he can comfortably afford to do so. The room is light-filled, and somehow sunny, even on this rather grey June day, and there’s all kinds of hustle and bustle from the waiting staff setting the tables as I walk in.
‘Hi,’ I say, with a smile, as one of the waiters approaches me with a sorry, we’re not quite open yet forming on his lips. ‘I’m a friend of Olly’s. Is he around?’
‘Oh, sorry, yes, he’s in the kitchen.’ He smiles back. ‘I’ll pop back and tell him you’re here, shall I? Sorry, can I get your name?’
‘Libby.’
‘Oh! Libby! I’ve heard so much about you.’
I blink at him. ‘You have?’
‘Yeah, you’re like Olly’s best friend, right?’
‘Yes, I suppose … I mean we don’t hang out as much as we used to, unfortunately, but—’
‘Oh, well, he still talks about you all the time. You’re the one he used to go travelling with and stuff, aren’t you?’
‘Um, well, yes, we Inter-railed around southern Europe a couple of summers in a row.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he told me. You went to some tapas bar in Madrid that he modelled the look of this place on, he said.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember that place …’ I swallow down the lump that’s suddenly arisen in my throat. ‘God. That was so long ago.’
‘Well, he obviously remembered it. Anyway, I’ll go and get him, shall I? Unless you’d prefer to pop back there yourself?’
‘Oh, yes, if that’s OK, I’ll do that,’ I say, and then am already halfway to the kitchen before I remember that some of Olly’s chefs tend to be a bit on the leery side, behaving as if they’re recently released convicts who haven’t seen a woman since they were sent down for aggravated assault five years ago. Still, it’s too late to do anything about this now, because I’ve told the waiter I’ll find Olly in there, so I push open the door and peer inside.
As ever, it’s hot back here, and full of steam, and frying pans spitting and hissing, and people in chef’s whites talking loudly to each other in mingled Italian and Spanish (Italish?) … and I can see Olly, all the way at the back near the walk-in refrigerator, holding a list in his hand and looking faintly stressed.
‘All right, Jorge,’ he’s telling one of the chefs. ‘If we’re this overrun by rhubarb, then I agree with you, we need to find some other way to get it on to the menu today. Is there any way you could make some ice-cream from it this afternoon, and we could serve that with the almond tart on the dinner set menu instead of the plain vanilla … Libby!’ he says, in a startled voice, as he sees me hovering. ‘What are you … sorry, Jorge, can we finish this later?’
‘No, no, don’t worry, I’m only here for two minutes,’ I say, hastily. ‘If you’re dealing with a rhubarb emergency, that’s far more important.’
‘Oh, it’s just that the supplier delivered about four tonnes of the stuff this morning instead of what we ordered. We’ll make it work, won’t we, Jorge?’
Jorge doesn’t respond to this,
but simply stares at me for a long moment before raising a hand in greeting.
‘Hola, Libby,’ he says. ‘We have all heard so much—’
‘Let me go and make you a quick coffee,’ Olly says, swiftly, coming over and holding the swinging door open for me to head back out towards the bar area. ‘It’s really great to see you,’ he goes on, ‘and it’s been ages since you came to the restaurant!’
‘I know. It’s looking terrific, Ol.’
‘Well, it’ll be even better if we can get the licence to extend into next door … create a proper bar, more tables for eating, even expand the kitchen if it doesn’t look like it’ll blow the entire budget … I must show you the plans, actually, Lib. One morning after you’ve moved in, we’ll have a leisurely breakfast together, and you can have a proper look while I ply you with hash browns and bacon—’
‘Actually, that’s what I’m here to let you know,’ I interrupt. I keep my tone casual. Which is easier said than done, frankly, given that he’s just brought to mind precisely that toast-and-jam-licking breakfast Dillon was teasing me about. ‘Just to say, Ol, that I’m ever so grateful for the offer, but I’ve made other plans instead.’
He turns round from the coffee machine. ‘Sorry?’
‘Other plans for somewhere to stay. So that I won’t put you out, I mean.’
‘But I already told you, it wouldn’t be putting me out.’ His forehead is creased in confusion. ‘Honestly, Lib, it’s absolutely no trouble whatsoever.’
‘That’s so nice of you, Ol, but actually, I’m going to go and stay in Dillon’s flat for a while. I mean, it’s empty right now, which is good, because I can spread out all my work without having to worry ab—’
‘Dillon?’
‘Yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘He’s, um, sorting out a couple of problems at the moment, but it’ll be really good for him to have me around when he gets back home.’
‘He’s drying out in rehab again, you mean.’ Olly’s voice is short. ‘And he wants you there to cosset him and stoke his ego the minute he gets out.’
‘No! That’s not it at all.’
‘Oh, so he doesn’t like being worshipped morning, noon and night by a beautiful girl, then. My mistake.’
I’m all ready to announce, crossly, that I don’t worship Dillon, as a matter of fact, but another part of what Olly’s just said stops me in my tracks.
‘Beautiful?’ I croak, the word tumbling out before I can stop it.
Olly looks faintly horrified for a moment, then turns, sharply, back to the coffee machine. ‘Well, obviously you’re a very attractive girl, Libby. Woman. Person. Black?’
‘What? No, I’m—’
‘Coffee. Black coffee. Is what I’m asking,’ he gabbles, not quite putting together a complete sentence. ‘Or was a cappuccino it? God, hang on, that makes no sense. I mean, was it a cappuccino you wanted?’
‘Oh! No, black is fine … in fact, I think I don’t really have time for a coffee anyway, Ol.’ I can feel my heart hammering; this conversation isn’t going at all the way I wanted it to go. ‘Look, I really just wanted to tell you how massively appreciative I was of your offer, it’s just … better if I stay at Dillon’s instead, that’s all.’
‘All right. If it’s better for you.’ Olly doesn’t turn round. ‘That’s all I wanted,’ he goes on, ‘just somewhere for you to stay. If it’s better for you to stay at … his … then that’s obviously no problem. Whatever suits. Here’s your coffee.’
‘Oh, but I should let you get on with—’
‘Please,’ he says, turning round, ‘have a coffee.’ He’s got a slightly strained smile fixed on his face. ‘Please, Libby. Just while I … well, while I say this.’
‘Say what?’
“This … thing I have to say.’ He holds up a hand, opens his mouth, closes it again, and then opens it a second time. ‘I’ve just got to tell you something. All right?’
‘Yes, Olly, of course, you can say … anything. You know that.’
‘Good. Because I …’ He stops. ‘I … I’ve got a new coffee supplier.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’ve got a new coffee supplier,’ he repeats.
I don’t know what I was expecting – something a bit more momentous, perhaps, given his tone of voice – and I’m obviously pleased to hear he’s found a new coffee supplier, given how important coffee is to Olly. But I wasn’t expecting it to be about a coffee supplier.
‘That’s, er, good to hear,’ I say, rather hoarsely.
‘Yes. It’s been a struggle. Finding the one. The right one, I mean.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘They’re based in Verona,’ he goes on, suddenly fussing and faffing with getting me a spoon I don’t need, and a little almondy biscuit from a large jar beside the machine. ‘And it’s really small batches so it’s pretty pricey, but I think it’s worth it. I’d love your opinion.’
‘Um, right …’ I take a sip of the coffee. ‘Delicious!’ I fib. (I mean, it’s probably not a fib; it almost certainly is delicious, but I’m too wound up to be able to taste anything just now.) ‘Really … er … coffee-flavoured.’
‘Well, yes. I mean, I’d hope.’ Olly lets out a rather mirthless (as Dillon might call it) laugh. ‘But do you find it too bitter? Too strong?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Olly! It’s exactly what I said about the cheese thing: I don’t know about all this stuff!’
He doesn’t reply for a moment. Then he says, ‘You know more than you think you do, Lib. About coffee, I mean. And cheese. And …’ He stops. In fact, he sort of freezes, before saying, stiffly, a couple of moments later, ‘Actually, I probably should really get back to Jorge in the kitchen.’
‘Of course! I never meant to distract you!’
‘No, Lib, it’s fine. It’s always fine. Stay, please, and enjoy your coffee. I’m really glad you came over.’
‘Well, I just wanted to tell you in person.’
‘I know. And thanks.’ He comes out from behind the bar and takes a step towards me. For a very odd moment I think he’s about to shake my hand, or – I don’t know – give me a matey punch to the shoulder, or something. But I’m completely wrong, because what he’s actually doing is leaning down to put both arms around me and envelop me in a huge, long hug.
And I mean long. Because I count a full ten seconds go by – counting the seconds is the only way I instinctively know how to prevent myself from nuzzling his warm, lemon-scented neck, you see – and then another ten seconds …
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his heart thumping, noisily, in his chest.
Or maybe that’s my heart. More likely, that’s my heart.
Before I can work it out for certain one way or the other, he’s pulling away from me.
‘Let me know,’ he mumbles, as he turns and heads towards the kitchen, ‘if you still need any help moving stuff over to Dillon’s.’
And then he’s disappeared through the swing doors, back to his rhubarb crisis.
*
Packing up the flat has given me the best excuse ever to ignore my phone for the rest of the day.
Both incoming (Mum, Cass, Bogdan, Mum, Mum again) and outgoing. Which, all right, isn’t the most sensible thing to do when I have clients to deal with. But they can all wait. Like I say, packing up for my second move within a month is a perfectly reasonable explanation.
And I’m taking solace, I’ll be honest, from the silence. After all, I’ve had enough difficult, unpleasant and just plain crackers conversations these last few days that it’s a plain relief just to switch off from it all for a bit.
Which is a bit of an effort, to be honest, when it comes to that conversation I had with Olly earlier this morning. In fact, I don’t think I’ve so much switched off from that as played it over and over again in my head, on permanent repeat, to try to work out if his anger really Meant Anything.
Meant Anything beyond his age-old dislike of Dillon, that is. A dislike that was – as far as I
know – rooted in jealousy. A dislike that you’d think he might have moved past, now that he’s moved past me.
And then there was that hug. That hug that – at the time – I was fairly sure must Mean Something but that ever since, over the course of the day, I’ve convinced myself was just his way of making it clear that he’s always there for me. No more.
The trouble being that I can’t possibly ask him, can I? I can’t possibly try to have the kind of open and honest conversation I’m yearning for, not with someone who’s so very definitely attached to someone else. It would make me just as bad as my man-eating sister, wouldn’t it, if I started up a sneaky line of questioning with Olly to find out why he—
‘Oh, so it’s just you again, then, I see.’
The voice, coming from the Chesterfield, makes me jump.
I spin round from my packing case to see Grace Kelly, resplendently back in her wedding dress, sitting on the sofa.
‘You’re here!’ I gasp.
‘Yes. As are you.’ She sighs, rather irritably. ‘I must be honest, I really was hoping that marvellous Moldavian fellow would show up again. Things never really … got anywhere with him, earlier tonight. I mean, he was terribly doting, and it was all very sweet, but I was rather disappointed it didn’t go any further than that. It’s only a dream, after all. What are dreams for, if you can’t be gloriously ravished by a dashing stranger?’
‘No, well, I’m not really surprised things didn’t end up … going further with Bogdan.’ I gaze at her. ‘Wow,’ I add. ‘I mean, it’s really good to see you. I didn’t think you’d ever come back again.’
‘Back? From where? Actually, never mind about that,’ she adds, briskly, as I open my mouth to reply. ‘Who knows how long we’ll have before I wake up? I’d rather like to finish the conversation we were having earlier, if it’s all the same to you. Well, of course it’s going to be all the same to you, because you are me …’ She stops, casting a rather beady eye over me. ‘Though I must say, I’m a little surprised that my subconscious has chosen to represent me with someone quite so … scruffy.’
‘Hey! I’m packing at the moment,’ I say, indignantly. ‘That’s the only reason I’m wearing this.’ I gesture down at my baggy shorts and T-shirt. ‘Trust me, if I could swan about the place in a couture wedding gown, I would. Not that I’d look quite like you in it, I grant you …’
A Night In With Grace Kelly Page 18
