I’d laughed, and she’d laughed and we’d left it at that. Occasionally, when I cut a night short she’d wrinkle her nose, or if Rob was on his way home I’d have to make a point that he really wasn’t expecting company and she’d huff and sigh as she left, but that was it.
‘So what did the epic knobjockey actually do that was bad enough for you to leave?’ Mia swished her dark curls and sat back, grasping her glass of wine. It was Saturday afternoon in the Ferret and Trouserleg, and the atmosphere was relaxed. We’d spent our teenage years drinking in this pub, and the sticky floors and the fact that there was only house red or house white was really comforting. There were four dishes on the menu, and they were the same four dishes that had been there since I was a kid and had come in for sausage and mash with Dad every Sunday. The place felt like being enveloped in a hug, from the smells of the food to the quiet grumbles of the old men watching television in the corner.
‘I didn’t leave… I mean, I left, physically, but he left me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I didn’t like music? Because we were different people?’ I shrugged.
Mia raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. ‘What was her name?’
‘Leah.’
The name tasted sour, and I bit my bottom lip to stop it trembling.
‘The TV presenter?’ Mia asked.
‘I… excuse me?’ I blinked, and stared at my friend, waiting for an explanation. ‘Why did you ask me if you knew?’
‘It’s the internet – I thought it was all fake. The same way that TV show, and most of Rob’s existence, is fake. The way he plays fake music to fake people who pretend to listen whilst Instagramming about the great time they’re having. Fake.’
Mia dared me to contradict her, tilting her head slightly. I knew that look, and I knew that I would back down, as I had every time in all the years we’d been friends.
‘It freaks me out when you ramble.’
She tried not to laugh, settling for licking her lips and shaking her head. When she looked back at me, she was serious again. ‘Savs, I honestly thought it was just media bullshit. It’s only because you said the name.’
I took a breath. ‘And you didn’t feel like you’d want to show me?’
‘No, I did not,’ Mia said staunchly. ‘I am glad the fucker’s gone, and I don’t want you obsessing.’
‘But –’
‘No, Sav, he’s gone and good riddance. What’s the point of looking to see if her hair’s super shiny, or listing all the ways you guys are different, or the same? It doesn’t achieve anything. He’s gone.’
I remembered all the times we’d laughed when he was in articles, how we’d print them out and place the pictures on the pinboard, all those mini Robs lined up, with the sunglasses and leather jackets, or big headphones around his neck. We had a little Rob army on that pinboard. And now she was there too.
I tried to shrug it off, ‘Well, I saw it anyway. And I didn’t compare myself to her. Although her hair was super shiny.’
Mia placed her hand over mine, her well-manicured red nails vibrant against my pale skin. The silence settled, and I tried to figure out how I felt. Everyone seemed to want to fall over themselves to tell me Rob was awful and I was better off. But no one seemed to think about what that said about me.
‘Mia, you’ve got to tell me the truth,’ I said.
‘I always do.’
I took a breath. ‘Have I always been such a pushover?’
‘You want it sugar coated or salty as hell?’ She sighed, putting down her glass.
‘Sugar, always.’
‘You need people to love you, so they won’t leave you. So you do anything they want to keep them, and it makes you loveable, but it makes you weak.’
I winced. ‘And the salty?’
Her hazel eyes softened, and she reached across the table for my hand, her thumb stroking my wrist. ‘I could probably count the footprints on your back from all the people who’ve walked all over you.’
‘Okay, count them.’
‘David. Jeremy. Patrick. That guy you met at that party that time.’
‘Okay, so I dated bossy guys – maybe it’s a type thing.’ I tried not to sound defensive.
Mia laughed. ‘Savvy, Patrick asked you to look after his cat for a week!’
‘So, I’m a nice person.’
‘You’re allergic, and he broke up with you the week before, and you still did it!’ Mia laughed. ‘And what about David – you helped him practise his Spanish all summer, and then he took a different girl on holiday to Spain.’
‘Okay, but I got quite good at Spanish –’
‘Okay, fine,’ Mia huffed. ‘What about your mum?’
I felt my shoulders drop; my voice was dull. ‘What about her?’
‘The school talent show? The first time she came to see you after leaving you with Jen?’
I didn’t need Mia to continue. I had been so excited to be included in the talent show. I didn’t even question why they let me have a solo song, or why my listing in the programme was ‘Savannah Curtis, daughter of singer-songwriter Persephone Black, sings Amazing Grace’. I just thought they liked me. I hadn’t even noticed how Jen’s lips had turned downwards when she saw the programme. She just hugged me and told me she was proud.
I had practised for weeks in the shower. Mum had always said the acoustics there were great for highlighting your range. I wanted a range. I knew Jen told her I was singing; she said Mum had called and she’d told her, and she had wished me luck. I wasn’t really bothered; it was bad, but for once, I wanted to be the singer. I wanted to be the one on stage who got the applause.
And on the night, I had stepped onto the stage, into the spotlight, and looked out into the crowd to find Jen. Next to her sat my mother. She looked magical, as if she glowed, even without a spotlight, and some of the other parents turned around in their seats to look at her, nudging each other with elbows, raising eyebrows.
The music started, and I lifted my voice, following the tune, getting stronger and more confident, until another voice had joined mine, twisting in and making it thicker, more impressive. I looked, and my mother was standing, singing back to me. The audience gasped and the spotlight went to her, her gorgeous face as she sang to her daughter, and everyone commented on how moving it was. I stopped singing and shuffled from the stage, letting her be the star, as it was meant to be.
‘She took everything from you, and you never fought back. You never told her off,’ Mia pointed out.
‘What, you want me to fight for Rob? I thought you were pleased?’
‘I am pleased.’ She sounded too emphatic and put up her hands. ‘I mean… I think this needed to happen. He wasn’t a good person.’
‘What, are we great people?’
Mia snorted. ‘Of course, we’re the best people.’
‘Yeah, the bartender and the make-up girl. Changing lives, solving world hunger.’
‘And what’s Rob doing?’ Mia countered.
‘Holding hands with kid’s TV presenters, I guess.’
We paused in conversation, just sitting quietly as I closed my eyes.
Mia’s perfect brow wrinkled. ‘Are you terribly heartbroken? Is it too soon to say that actually I think this is a really good thing?’
‘I bloody well wish everyone would stop saying that!’ I grasped my wine glass. ‘It’s going to be the making of me, it’s the start of my adventure, good bloody riddance! How about the fact that I’m hurt, regardless of whether he was knob?’
Mia rolled her eyes and shook her head, leaning forward. ‘The thing is, babe, anyone could see you weren’t really happy. Like, did you ever just look across the room and smile because he was there? Were you ever desperate to get home because you missed seeing his face? You didn’t seem happy. You seemed settled.’
‘I was comfortable!’ I argued. ‘So sue me, comfortable can be happy! Settled can be happy!’
‘Of course,’ Mia shrugged. ‘But not you.’ S
he thrust her wine glass at me to make her point. ‘You stayed because you’d invested so much time in your relationship that it would be a waste to walk away.’
‘Fuck.’
There are moments when people say things, and you can feel the truth of them deep down to your bones. Like the meaning of the words reverberates through you, creating an echo. I had loved him like I loved my comfortable red jumper, or the stripey blanket with the holes in, or the panda cup with the broken handle: because I always had, and there was no reason to stop.
‘You’re too loyal,’ Mia continued. ‘And too nice. And a people pleaser.’
‘And terribly good at taking criticism,’ I laughed, throwing back the last of my wine.
‘You’re also the best person I know,’ she grinned. ‘Ever since you turned up that first day at school, and everyone kept singing your mum’s songs, and you just smiled and told them all what nice voices they had until they went away.’
‘And then you told them to jog on and audition for Popstars if they were so bloody bothered,’ I laughed, shaking my head at the memory. Even then, Mia had been terrifying, beautiful and dominant. She was the tallest girl in the class, had towered over the kids teasing me, and when they’d run off, she’d linked her arm through mine and said, ‘We’re going to be friends, okay?’
‘Well, kids are dicks,’ she shrugged. ‘I still remember you standing there in your shiny new shoes and little flowery headband.’ She smiled at me, eyes full of affection. ‘You know, if you said you were happy, I’d shut the hell up and never say another word.’ She topped up our glasses and looked at me, waiting for my response, eyes wide.
‘I wasn’t happy.’
I let the truth settle around me, wondering if I should tell her. It had been bothering me, and I knew the minute I admitted it, I would have had to leave. But Rob got there first, so I was the injured party, instead of such a disgusting coward.
‘If… If I tell you something, will you promise not to judge me?’
Mia snorted. ‘Absolutely not. But tell me anyway.’
I took a deep breath, ground my teeth together, and looked at my wine glass, tracing the rim with my finger.
‘I couldn’t have sex with Rob unless I was drunk.’
She physically jolted, and I looked at her, awaiting the shocked, disgusted look. She just seemed concerned. ‘How long?’
‘About six months. I just didn’t feel anything.’
‘Well, sometimes you don’t feel like it, that’s okay. Sometimes that happens. He wasn’t pressuring you?’
I let out a slow breath. ‘No, he didn’t know. I just… the last time I had sex with him, when I was sober, it just felt… wrong. Like my body was just… it was just wrong. But we had this life, and I knew I loved him, so I used to have a couple of glasses of wine, or a shot, just to… That’s really fucked up, isn’t it? God, and I still wouldn’t leave him! How pathetic is that?’
‘Your body knew what your mind wouldn’t accept.’
‘Do I still get to be angry that he left me? If I should have left him?’
‘Yes! You get to feel whatever the hell you like!’
But that didn’t seem fair. Everyone was saying I was better off, and now I could be happy. But my chest hurt whenever I thought about Rob, and I missed my flat. I didn’t like sleeping alone any more.
‘Why didn’t you just leave?’
‘I liked being an “us”, part of a team. I liked having someone to have my back, to be on my side. Be a partner.’
‘Yeah, a partner who partied all night whilst you worked and saved and planned.’
‘Hey, come on, it’s not like I’m perfect. He did the hoovering, and hung the washing up sometimes. And he booked holidays.’
‘To places where he was DJ’ing!’ Mia protested.
‘Yeah, but he wanted me to go with him.’
Mia paused. ‘Did you ever go on a holiday that wasn’t for his work?’
I shrugged, tired of talking about it. What did it matter now anyway, who had booked holidays and where we had been? He was with Leah, and I was alone. I sipped my wine and frowned at the table.
‘This is a good thing, I promise you.’ She smiled across the table, and I looked up at her, my gorgeous friend who never seemed to have problems like this because she avoided relationships at all costs. She only did things that made her happy, or made her family happy. ‘Besides, you wouldn’t have stayed with a man who you had to get drunk to sleep with, just to protect your little bubble of security and stability.’
‘You know, I hate myself for it, but I really think I would have.’
It was then that I felt the judgement, that look she gave me as if she didn’t know me at all. And I couldn’t blame her, because I was judging me too.
* * *
The next week was a busy one. The Martini Club was booked solid each night, and I suddenly had no idea how I’d spent so much time working in an office during the day and nights at a bar. How did I find the energy? And the Martini Club was much nicer than some of the other dives I’d worked in over the years. How could I possibly have got enough sleep? I slept all the time now, curled up in my duvet having joyous, lazy mornings, emerging only for tea before I returned to bed with a book.
It was fear. I worked that much out of fear, a need to survive, to make ends meet, to still be able to have date nights and drink a cheap bottle of wine at the pub or have a visit to the chippie on a Wednesday night.
And now I didn’t need to fear any more. I could just work.
‘Hey, Africa, come tell me what you think of this sauce.’
I hated helping with service – I was a terrible waitress. Being behind the bar was comfortable, there was a method to it. The few people who sat at the bar were relaxed and enjoying themselves. Most of the time, I was making drinks for the tables, so there wasn’t much interacting or pressure.
There was one thing I liked about working service. Hanging out with Ricardo.
Ricardo was the chef at the Martini Club. A round, angry Spaniard, he was consistently tetchy. He’d started calling me Africa, because he thought I was lying when I said my name was Savannah. Since then, it had sort of stuck and I took it as an affectionate nickname. Or as affectionate as the giant, burly man could be.
‘What do you think of the balance? These knobheads can’t taste for shit!’ He handed me a spoon, and I tasted, thinking. I took in the texture, the flavours, the slow emergence of the heat as it became a little spicy, just an edge of sweetness that followed.
‘More coriander, definitely. Is there lime in there? Because I can’t taste it.’ I shrugged. ‘That chilli is good, though.’
‘More lime! That’s what I thought, but these idiots smoke so much on their endless breaks that they can’t taste anything any more. Dead taste buds.’ He smiled widely at me and chucked my chin like a cheery uncle. It should have pissed me off, but I loved that I was special. Not that there was a reason my opinion mattered, beyond the fact that I could taste things properly. Anyone could do that, if you didn’t work in a kitchen and smoke 30 a day.
‘You’ve worked in a kitchen – don’t lie.’ Ricardo pointed at me, his lips a thin line.
I shook my head, and Ricardo’s expression didn’t change.
‘I did two months of cookery school,’ I said, holding my hands up, ‘but that doesn’t really count.’
‘Why doesn’t it count? It counts!’
I smiled at him. ‘My boyfriend… at the time, he lost his job, and we’d just got a flat, and we needed money. I dropped out to make money.’
‘Isn’t the point of training as a chef to make money as a chef? The outfit’s pretty cool.’ He nudged me with his elbow.
‘I had to make a choice, so I did. Never really thought about it after that, beyond the odd dinner party and some pretty good brunch recipes. Life goes on.’
‘You need to come work in my kitchen, Africa, I’ll teach you!’ Ricardo nudged me again. ‘You’re wasted out there making drinks
for drunken idiots.’
‘I’d last five minutes in a kitchen, I’d end up in tears.’ I shrugged. ‘Always happy to taste your wonderful food though, chef.’
Jacques walked in and narrowed his eyes, ‘Order up or what? If you’ve quite finished flirting to get yourself a better dinner, harlot.’
‘Hey! You leave her alone.’ Ricardo put a sweaty arm around me. ‘This girl’s got a magic mouth.’
Jacques raised an eyebrow and smirked. ‘Oh, well, with praise like that. Filthy cow.’
I stuck out my tongue. ‘Be nice, or me and my magic mouth will have some choice words for you.’
He snorted and shook his head. ‘Your table are looking antsy for their bill.’
* * *
I didn’t think any more about it until later that night, when I was back safely behind the bar, cleaning up, and Jacques handed me a business card. It was dark, with silver font: Love food? Know good service? Bottoms Up!’
I frowned. ‘What the hell is this?’
Jacques grinned at me, gesturing. ‘It’s a website where you get discounted meals for writing reviews! One of the customers was in here chatting about it. Perfect, right?’
‘What an awful name,’ I looked back at the card. ‘Do I look hungry to you?’
‘No, smartarse, it’s your chance to use your talents. It’s like TripAdvisor, but only the restaurant sees the review, not the public. So they can improve without being embarrassed. Plus, people love to write angry reviews. I think it’s bloody genius. Being invisible and your magic mouth, remember? No excuses. Time to find a purpose.’
With the taste of the chilli still on my lips, I smiled. I was excited about something for the first time in what felt like forever.
Chapter Five
‘So what’s this website dinner thing, eh? You going to take me out for a slap-up meal?’ Dad wriggled his eyebrows as he sat at the kitchen table. He had been working a night shift down at the O2 the night before, so our schedules were finally aligning.
Cocktails and Dreams Page 4
