The Night That Changed Everything

by Laura Tait

  ‘I’ve got a frighteningly good memory.’

  ‘Then how come I’m the only architect in the world without a pencil, because you keep forgetting to order stationery?’

  She’s right, though. I recognize his quiff and his rectangular, black-rimmed glasses.

  ‘There’s something a little Clark Kentish about him, don’t you think?’ I ask Jemma, cocking my head.

  Before she has a chance to answer, something kicks off next to our booth, between a guy carrying three pints and a guy who isn’t watching where he’s going. The first guy ends up wearing his beers.

  There’s a bit of pushing and shoving, then Clark Kent rushes over, places his hands unthreateningly on each of the guys’ chests and says something quietly to them, before they both scuttle off to their own friends.

  ‘Superman!’ says Jemma, winking at me. ‘Hey,’ she calls after him before he heads back to his friends. He turns around. ‘Do you work in Farringdon? And sometimes go for lunch in that Vietnamese cafe on the corner?’

  ‘I do,’ he confirms, obviously confused.

  ‘You were right,’ she tells me. Then to him: ‘Rebecca said she recognized you from when we had lunch there, but I was all, Nah, that was months ago, how could you possibly remember him?’ She ignores my glare. ‘Hey, are you and your pals standing? Come join us, there’s plenty of room in our booth.’

  Jemma’s lucky she’s already scored so many points with me today, otherwise I might very well kill her.

  After he’s hollered his mates over, the man introduces himself as Michael. Jemma holds court trying to establish whether the group would rather have their genitals on the back of their necks or the palm of their hands, and I pretend not to notice how Michael keeps looking at me.

  I start to wonder if my hair is falling out of my huge bun, but when I excuse myself and nip to the loo I find every strand in place.

  Could Michael have been flirting with me? He was being very nice. But he seems like a very nice man.

  The door swings open. ‘Cab’s here,’ shouts Jemma.

  Oh well. I’ll never know.

  The converted Ironmongers’ Hall where the party is being held is already heaving when we arrive – folk are less inclined to be fashionably late when it’s an open bar.

  The hall is vast, with high ceilings, wood-panelled walls and huge chandeliers. White-clad servers work stealth-like around the room, topping up champagne flutes.

  ‘Tell me we don’t have to mingle with clients,’ Jemma whispers to me, scanning the room.

  ‘Well, we should . . . But, given the choice, I’d rather shoot myself in the face.’

  ‘Great, then let’s go stand by that entrance. It’s where the canapés are coming in.’

  No sooner have we claimed our spot than a tray of mini pulled-pork rolls appears in front of us.

  ‘So, Michael was nice,’ Jem says as she pops one in her mouth.

  ‘Yep.’ I shrug, sipping my champagne.

  ‘And he liked you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘He was just being friendly. It’s not like he asked for my number or anything when we said goodbye.’

  ‘Would you have given it to him?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Jemma looks around the room. ‘Oh, look, a chandelier.’

  ‘Jemma?’

  ‘OK, fine. I gave him your mobile number . . .’

  I groan. It’s fine, I tell myself. I can just ignore any numbers I don’t recognize.

  ‘. . . and your landline.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, and your direct line at work. Plus my number in case he cannae reach you on any of the above. I said I’d put him through.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you? He’s handsome, brave and available. What single woman wouldn’t give him their number?’

  I go to answer her but realize I have nothing. Maybe she’s right. What am I scared of?

  ‘I’m just crap in those situations,’ I tell her lamely.

  ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’

  I spot Jake and wave hello, then notice Adam next to him leaning cockily against a beam.

  ‘Ladies,’ Jake calls, waving us over. ‘Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes?’

  ‘You both look great,’ Adam agrees, meeting my eye. I instinctively look away.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ says Jemma, clearly chuffed.

  ‘You know what else is a sight for sore eyes?’ Jake continues. ‘The cinema. I went to see it yesterday, Rebecca. It’s coming along splendidly. I’m impressed.’

  I brush off his compliments, though inside I’m doing the Riverdance. I’ve been putting in all the hours under the sun to turn things round since his diplomatic warning.

  ‘Let’s not talk shop, though,’ he adds. ‘You girls should let your hair down.’

  ‘You know what this calls for, don’t you?’ says Jemma, after they’ve gone. ‘Shots.’

  Reluctantly, I get on board and let Jemma direct me to the bar.

  ‘Do you do Jägerbombs?’ Jemma asks the barman.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  I review the bottle shelf. ‘Two Patrón XO Cafes, please,’ I tell him. Then to a baffled-looking Jemma: ‘It’s coffee-infused tequila.’

  ‘Yuk, gross. Change one of those to normal tequila!’ she yells down the bar. ‘Coffee tastes like bum rubbish. That’s why I’m a tea lassie.’

  ‘But you drank coffee at Arch 13 that time – I saw you.’

  ‘Jamie is fit.’ She shrugs. ‘He could have given me a tumbler of his own pish and I’d have drunk it.’

  ‘You should come to his for a drink soon,’ I tell her.

  ‘His house?’

  ‘No, the bar, you knob. Maybe not on a night Ben’s working, though.’

  Jemma makes a face. ‘You still OK with that?’

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘Guess I’m a bit jealous they’re getting to hang out together so much.’ At least Ben’s looking for his own place now so they won’t be working and living together.

  ‘Maybe you’re not really over Ben,’ says Jemma as she pours salt on her hand.

  ‘It’s not that.’ I wave a dismissive hand. ‘I just don’t really feel part of the gang any more.’ She looks like she’s going to say something else so I pick up my shot. ‘C’mon, let’s do this.’

  Jemma wants to dance but I make her wait until the dance floor is half full before I let her drag me on to it. She moves to every song like there’s a routine and she knows it, and she ends up in a dance-off with Eddie to ‘Moves Like Jagger’. Everyone steps back and gives them the floor, clapping and cheering.

  That’s what I’m doing when I feel someone standing close beside me.

  ‘Hello, Adam.’ I flash him a smile. I feel the good kind of drunk – oiled enough to feel confident and relaxed, but in control.

  ‘Hello, yourself.’

  Just as I’m trying to work out where to take the conversation from there, everyone starts joining in with the dancing and Adam takes my hand and spins me round. He’s a good dancer. Maybe he learnt to dance at Lothario Night School.

  I smile to myself and close my eyes, and allow myself to get lost in the moment. Things are good. Jake’s impressed. Jemma’s become a real mate. A decent guy wanted my phone number.

  A few weeks ago it felt as if my life was snowballing out of control, but it finally seems like I’m getting myself on track again. Ben is no longer always the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing on my mind when I fall asleep, although I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t regularly on it between those two things.

  I become aware of my own body as it moves with Adam’s, and the feel of his hands on the bare skin of my back. It sends tingling sensations over my entire body.

  It’s been a really long time since I had sex.

  For
a moment the drink blurs my mind and it’s Ben whose arms I’m in, but when I open my eyes it’s Adam’s blue eyes I see, not Ben’s brown ones, and I’m OK with that.

  ‘You look stunning, by the way,’ he says softly into my ear.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, grateful he can’t see my cheeks from that angle. ‘You don’t scrub up too badly yourself.’

  ‘Careful,’ he gasps. ‘That was almost a compliment.’

  ‘Almost.’

  He smiles but his eyebrows knit together slightly. ‘Remember that night we went out in Soho?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Well, we never really talked about what—’

  ‘Sshhh,’ I tell him, making myself meet his eyes. ‘I know what you’re going to say, and you don’t have to. I know we’d had a lot to drink. I don’t want to complicate our working relationship either.’

  He looks exasperated and starts to say something, but just then the lights get brighter, and I realize the music has stopped. The party is over.

  ‘Um, I should say goodbye to Jemma,’ I tell him, half of me wanting to run away but the other half curious about what he was going to say. ‘Have a good weekend.’

  ‘You too,’ he says, releasing me.

  I find Jemma and we head outside to look for cabs.

  ‘You get this one,’ I insist when I see an orange light.

  ‘OK, doll. Text me when you’re home.’

  ‘Will do. And thanks for today,’ I add, feeling a rush of affection for her. ‘Thanks for everything, in fact. You were right what you said earlier – it has been a shit few months, but you’ve been a good mate.’

  ‘You know what, Rebecca?’ she says seriously, taking my hands and meeting my eyes through her false lashes. ‘I really think things are about to turn a corner for you.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, touched.

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ she asks, dropping my hands. ‘But it felt like the right thing to say.’ Then she plants a kiss on my forehead and clambers into her taxi.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  BEN

  Saturday, 14 February

  I try to open the door but the postman seems to have deposited his entire sack through the letterbox, and it won’t budge.

  ‘My door was the same this morning,’ Russ quips.

  ‘Sorry,’ says the landlord, squeezing past Tom, Russ and me, then shoulder-barging the door so he can show us around. ‘It’s been a while since anyone lived here.’

  The reason for this soon becomes clear. It’s a converted basement in an Edwardian house. The website had pictures of a bathroom, a bedroom, a kitchen and a living room, but it turns out they’re all part of the same room.

  ‘And this is the en suite,’ says the landlord, pointing to the toilet without a hint of irony.

  His accent is reminiscent of the Kray twins but he looks more like a Chuckle brother.

  ‘The advert said there was central heating?’ I ask when I notice there are no radiators.

  The landlord waves a finger in the air like, yes, he’s just remembered the advert did say that.

  ‘I’ll just go and get it,’ he says, disappearing without another word.

  Russ and Tom are wearing the forced smiles of people who can’t think of anything positive to say.

  ‘I could paint you something to hide some of the damp,’ says Tom eventually. ‘That could be my moving-in present.’

  ‘Fucking hell, Tom,’ says Russ, ‘are you gonna rob the paint aisle at B&Q?’

  The two of them have offered me my old room, but the whole point of this is to move forward, not backwards. Though admittedly this doesn’t feel like much of a step forwards.

  ‘You should see his latest doodles, though, Ben.’ Russ clocks Tom giving him an evil. ‘All right, all right: sketches.’ He pulls a pear from his pockets and starts eating it like a chicken wing. ‘Actually, they’re shit hot. Like, you know sometimes you have to lie and be enthusiastic because it’s your mate—’

  ‘That’s what I have to do with Avril’s poems,’ says Tom.

  We turn to him, shell shocked. Tom has never said anything remotely unflattering about Avril before.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ says Russ, lodging an arm around Tom’s shoulder. ‘This is a devilish development.’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone,’ I say, as Tom starts to blush.

  ‘No, no, no. Come on, buddy – what are they like? Can you give us a bit of one?’

  Tom shakes his head and hides under his fringe.

  ‘How’s work?’ I ask to help him out.

  ‘You were the talk of the office for two days,’ says Russ. ‘That’s the most epic resignation anyone has ever seen.’

  ‘What happened after two days?’

  ‘We got a toaster in the kitchen,’ says Tom.

  Russ approaches the two-seater couch. He scrutinizes it and then slaps the cushion, producing a plume of dust.

  ‘So what have you been up to, buddy?’ he asks, putting down the toilet seat and sitting there instead.

  ‘Well, obviously I’ve been working four nights a week at the bar.’

  They nod, wordless, as though expecting me to continue.

  ‘Jamie has let me give the menu a revamp.’

  ‘That’s great,’ says Russ, but I can tell from his tone that he’s doing that false enthusiasm thing on me now.

  ‘We really respect what you did,’ says Tom. ‘Giving up a steady job to go follow your dream.’

  ‘What is your dream, by the way?’ says Russ.

  They’re starting to sound like Mum. She’s so worried she asked if I wanted the careers advisor at her school to call. And I don’t have a comeback, because I’m no closer to knowing what I want to do with my life than I was when I quit six weeks ago – and now I’m having to extend my overdraft. I reckon I’m going to have to do some freelancing in HR to tide me over.

  Which reminds me: I still need to get my deposit back from Rebecca, and we probably need to discuss the furniture we bought together at some point. I haven’t wanted to push it, what with her having to cover the rent on her own, and I know she’s good for it.

  ‘Why don’t you try to get a full-time job as a chef somewhere?’ asks Russ.

  The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. It would be pretty cool, but then . . .

  ‘I can’t afford to retrain. You’d need qualifications unless you want to peel potatoes for a year – and I wouldn’t even be able to pay the rent on this place on those wages.’

  I approach the window to see if I can spot the landlord but it’s thick with dirt on both sides.

  ‘I’ve got a second date tonight,’ says Russ.

  ‘What’s supposed to happen on the second date?’ I enquire. ‘Kissing, sex?’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person.’ He stands up and then pulls the chain for effect. ‘I can never tell whether they’re up for anything physical, so I’ve developed a test.’

  I cross my arms, intrigued.

  ‘I’ll initiate some kind of physical contact. I might pretend I can read palms so I can take their hand. Or I’ll challenge them to a thumb war, and if they’re reluctant, you know it’s not going to happen, but if they’re, like, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, I DECLARE A THUMB WAR before you’ve even stuck your hand out, you know you’re in.’

  Finally the landlord returns with an electric heater, which he places in the centre of the room.

  ‘There you go, central heating.’ He laughs, but his face straightens when he realizes no one else is. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘What are the neighbours like?’

  ‘Upstairs you’ve got David and Debs,’ he says. ‘Professional couple, very quiet.’

  I give the place a final once-over. ‘OK, then – I’ll take it.’

  I clock Russ and Tom making eye contact.

  ‘This is the first place you’ve looked at,’ says Tom.

  He’s right, but it’s also the only place on the website in my budget, and it’s on the border of Greenwi
ch and Blackheath so I could just about walk or cycle to Arch 13.

  ‘I’ll need references,’ says the landlord.

  ‘I can sort that,’ Russ says. ‘We used to live with him.’ He emulates the landlord’s hands-on-hips stance. ‘He’s a great cook, he’s clean, he’s, you know, a bit flaky, so you’re best tying him down to a long tenancy but—’

  ‘I can get references,’ I interject.

  ‘OK, then,’ says the landlord, clapping his hands together. ‘When can you move in?’

  Jamie plonks two half-full plates on the stainless-steel worktop. He looks flummoxed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I say, inspecting the remains of the Vietnamese rolls with nam jim sauce, one of my new dishes. ‘Has there been a complaint?’

  He starts searching the kitchen.

  ‘No complaints,’ he says. ‘They want a to-go box.’

  ‘Have we got any to-go boxes?’

  ‘I don’t know, no one’s ever liked the food enough to ask for one.’

  The orders keep flying in. Mediterranean platters, ceviche, rare beef sandwiches on pumpernickel bread.

  ‘Two halloumi kebabs,’ calls Erica, pinning the order slip to my board.

  I prepare everything from scratch, deseeding and chopping the peppers for the kebabs, ribboning the courgettes and squeezing lemon over the cheese. What I love most is the instant feedback. An empty plate is my version of the crowd going wild when Agüero scores a goal.

  I lose track of time, and before I know it I’m wiping down the kitchen and joining Jamie at the bar, enjoying the tired satisfaction of a job well done.

  There aren’t many people left now. A couple sitting at the window cup hands across the table, silent but entirely at ease. Another pair share a margarita, their eyes chained as they lean into their respective straws.

  Before I started going out with Rebecca I was never one of those single people who hated Valentine’s Day, but today, if I’m honest, it has bothered me. But it’s not about Rebecca any more. It’s about me, my life. When we were together it was as though I was climbing nicely up a Snakes and Ladders board – but then I landed on the longest snake, and now I’m having to start again. And most days I just get on with it. The problem with Valentine’s is that you have no option but to think about it, because everywhere you look there are happy people who are ninety spaces ahead of you on the board.