by Laura Tait
It takes a moment for my mind to reboot. Of course. It makes total sense. It wasn’t serendipity at all. Why didn’t I twig at the time? And now . . . now I’ll never get to say thank you.
‘Rule six,’ says Rebecca with a smirk. ‘Cook for Jamie.’
Shit. She must have seen the chalkboard when she went round to the flat.
‘They were Jamie’s way of . . .’ I stutter, blushing.
When I make eye contact I see that her smirk is actually a soft smile.
‘Right,’ says Rebecca. ‘I think if Jamie was here he’d tell me to go mingle, so I better do as I’m told.’
Alone again, I have to focus on the canapés and repeat my mantra so that I don’t cry all over them.
Once I’m done I find Tom and Avril talking Rebecca through a sketch of a feminized Mussolini.
‘I told him it was unoriginal,’ Avril chips in, and Rebecca glares at her like she is Mussolini.
‘Have you met Avril properly, Jem?’ says Russ, the two of them appearing behind us.
‘Nope,’ says Jemma, putting down her drink to offer her hand, but Avril either ignores or doesn’t see it.
‘Like Avril Lavigne,’ says Jemma, and Russ snorts through sealed lips.
‘That’s why you’re my girlfriend,’ he whispers to her, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
If it was a game of musical statues then Rebecca would win, because instantly she stops dead.
‘What did Russ just say?’ she says to Jemma.
Jemma takes a piece of sautéed sherry chicken liver toast when Erica sashays past. ‘Oh, yeah, he calls me his girlfriend – I prefer care worker, though.’
‘This is massive!’ says Rebecca. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Oh, you know – you’ve had a lot going on lately. And anyway, I’ve never been one to tell people every little detail of my love life.’
Rebecca laughs. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, it just proves there is someone for everyone,’ Avril mutters to Tom.
We ignore her.
‘When, how, where?’ I say.
‘I think the moment I knew I was going to ask her out was in the pub after the funeral, when she made a vagina out of a napkin.’
‘It’s a chicken!’ says Rebecca to Jemma. ‘I taught her that.’
‘I was, like, This girl is special,’ continues Russ. ‘So I wrote her a little note and put it in her coat pocket so she’d find it later – that way I didn’t put her on the spot.’
‘I taught you that!’ I say.
‘Why do you pair always have to make everything about you?’ says Jemma, and we erupt into celebratory laughter until . . .
‘What on earth is that?’ Avril says with a scowl.
She is pointing at the signed disc that Tom has positioned in pride of place above the till.
‘I just don’t get why anyone would listen to Chas ’n’ Dave – it’s music for simpletons.’
I see Rebecca’s face. She goes to say something but is beaten to it.
‘Avril?’ says Tom, his lips twitching.
She barely lifts her eyes. ‘Yes?’
I observe Tom’s body rocking back and forth ever so slightly. The words seem to take an age to form, but when they do, they spew from him without punctuation. ‘If-you-haven’t-got-anything-nice-to-say-then-I-think-you-should-go.’
Our eyes shift collectively from Tom to Avril, who looks utterly stunned, so that you would mistake her for a waxwork of Avril but for her face, which is becoming redder and redder. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Instead, she curtsies down for her bag, turns sharply and thunders out without looking back.
No one is quite sure where to look, except for Russ who is wearing an expression of unbridled joy.
‘Bye, then!’ chirps Rebecca.
Russ bearhugs Tom, who seems as speechless as everyone else. Once released he picks up his coke, but after inspecting it for a second or two he puts it down, takes the Rob Roy from my hand and downs it in one.
‘Welcome back, buddy!’ says Russ as Tom coughs through the burn of the alcohol.
‘We might as well go home,’ says Jemma. ‘Everything else is going to be shite on toast after that.’ She takes another canapé. ‘This isn’t shite on toast, is it?’ she says, but doesn’t wait for an answer before shoving it whole into her mouth.
‘Sorry I’m late!’ says Danielle, waving around the group. ‘Hi, everyone.’
‘You’ve just missed the big news,’ I tell her. ‘Russ and Jemma are together.’
‘Aw.’ She tilts her head warmly at Jemma. ‘That’s great news.’
‘I thought so too until I found out he had an incontinent cat,’ says Jemma.
I see Rebecca and Danielle turn to one another and smile. They notice me noticing them and for a second I wonder if things are going to become awkward.
‘I wouldn’t mind a nose in the kitchen,’ says Danielle. ‘I’ll give you a guided tour once everyone is here,’ I say.
‘It’s OK,’ says Rebecca. ‘I’ll show her now.’
And off they go, just like that.
I still can’t get my head around all this being mine. Frank is casting an eye over the Queen in a miniskirt, while Tom is staring blankly in the direction of the door. He doesn’t look sad as such. Just a little drunk from his Rob Roy.
‘You did the right thing, mate,’ I say, clutching his shoulder.
‘Women, eh?’ says Russ. ‘You can’t live with them, and you can’t kill them.’
‘This,’ says Jemma, ‘from the man who told me last night that he’d never appreciated the lyrics to “Flying Without Wings” until he met me.’
‘It really is a shame you can’t kill them,’ says Russ.
He takes another canapé and smirks at me. ‘You’re hoping this place is going to be a chick magnet like it was for Jamie, aren’t you, buddy?’
I laugh but don’t answer. For the first time in ages I feel like I’m climbing up the Snakes and Ladders board. I’m not looking for anything else right now.
I go see Mum and Dad in the corner and Mum starts along the same lines.
‘It’s nice to see you and Rebecca getting on,’ she says.
I put her words through my Mother Google Translate and they come out as, Should I buy a hat?
Together we watch the crowd mingle, and soon I’m picturing Jamie here again. The thought of what he did with this place makes me scared. How am I going to live up to that?
Not that I’m having any doubts. I owe it to him to stick at this, make a go of it, because after all, Jamie is the person who has led me to every amazing thing in my life: Man City; Rebecca; cooking for a living.
Maybe Mum can sense what I’m thinking because she takes my hand in hers and squeezes it, and I can feel the emotion getting the better of me again, so I release myself.
‘Right,’ I say, with a single, mildly ridiculous clap of my hands. ‘I reckon it’s time we got this show on the road.’
I grab my chef’s hat and put it on while people gather outside.
‘Hello, everyone,’ I start, and for some reason I clap again. I peer at my hands and titter, and when I look up again Russ and Jemma are peering at me like I’ve lost the plot. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking about what Jamie would say if he saw me standing here repeatedly clapping my hands.’
Everyone laughs.
‘So anyway, you lot have heard me waffle on enough over these past few months so I haven’t written another speech.’ Jemma boos. Russ echoes it. ‘But I just want to thank you all for coming – it means a lot to me. I especially want to thank my mum, who has risked quite a lot of money on this being the first career idea that I don’t change my mind about within two months.’
This bit gets a bigger laugh than I expect. I see Mum looking proud.
‘I want to thank Erica for putting in every hour God has sent this past month to help me get things set up, and also Tom for kindly decorating the bistro with his amazing artwork.’
&
nbsp; ‘And for telling Avril Lavigne to do one,’ shouts Russ.
‘That too,’ I say, and Tom, after his moment in the spotlight, stands with his chin lowered but a smile on his face, returning to his usual state of coyness at the slightest hint of attention. ‘So I guess all that remains is the big reveal.’
Everyone’s focus turns to the sheet covering my new sign. The old one was fine for a cocktail bar, but red neon isn’t really the vibe I’m going for with the bistro. So I had something more fitting made.
I grab the thick string attached to the sheet while Russ initiates a countdown from ten, and when finally they reach one I yank the string, but something must be stuck because most of the sheet remains fixed.
Only the H and the A are visible.
I see Rebecca’s lips part. She covers them with a hand. I look away, not wanting to cry in front of everyone, and yank the string again. This time the sheet does come loose, falling into a heap on the pavement. I take in the remaining letters. We all do.
HAWLEY’S.
Others emulate Rebecca, hands on mouths, and for a few seconds no one says anything. And then . . .
‘To Hawley’s,’ shouts Danielle, and the crowd of people, my friends and family, Jamie’s friends, and everyone Erica invited, all erupt, and I’m not even having to think about the smile on my face now.
‘To Hawley’s,’ I echo, under my breath.
Chapter Forty-two
REBECCA
Tuesday, 5 May
‘So, this is it – the completed works.’ Bobby uses his hand to shield his face from the sun as he tries to read my expression. It’s cold out here on the street, but the sun is poking through the clouds. ‘What do you think?’
‘Nice,’ I tell him.
‘Nice?’ he repeats. ‘Oi, Ravi!’ he yells. ‘She thinks it’s nice.’
Ravi saunters out of the entrance and pretends to throw his hat down. ‘I give up.’
‘All right, lads, fine.’ I roll my eyes. ‘This cinema is the best thing I’ve ever seen with my face.’
‘That’s better.’ Bobby nods, satisfied. ‘Wonder what the first film will be?’
‘Apparently new releases will be on the downstairs screen and the one upstairs will show old movies,’ I explain, excitedly. ‘First one is The Jazz Singer, which was the film they showed when the cinema first opened in 1927.’ I turn to smile warmly at them both. ‘Anyway, thanks so much for everything. You did an amazing job.’
‘Why, thanks,’ says Adam, retreating from the building.
‘I wasn’t talking to—’
‘And you’re welcome,’ he talks over me.
I tut playfully. It’s the building team’s last day on site today so I came to say goodbye, and found Adam doing the same. I’m not sure at what point I stopped finding him irritating and started to find him amusing.
‘You getting the Tube?’ he asks me, after we’ve said our farewells to the others.
‘Yep.’
‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘Cool,’ I lie, as I start marching off down the street. It’s not that I object to his company – I just can’t stand having to wait for people.
‘Finally someone that walks at a normal speed,’ he says.
‘Ha ha,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Feel free to hang back. I won’t take offence.’
When I glance at him he looks confused. And actually he does seem entirely comfortable with this pace. ‘I usually hate walking with other people,’ I confide.
‘Me too.’
The silence that follows is more comfortable, and lasts until we turn the corner.
‘Think you’ll ever go to East House Pictures once it opens to the public?’
‘Actually, it’s about to become my local cinema,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve bought a flat down the road – I pick up the keys this weekend.’
I wasn’t even looking to buy in this area. All the properties I arranged to see were south-east, but I couldn’t find what I was looking for: something spacious and structurally sound but that needs a lot of love to turn into a home. Then I saw the For Sale sign as I walked to the site a few weeks ago, advertising the top flat in the big Victorian house behind it. It was in my price range thanks to the deposit from Dad, and it occurred to me I could live anywhere. There was nothing and no one tying me to the area I was in. So I made an appointment to see it, and I fell in love with it right away. The floors need sanding and the crumbling fireplace will have to be repaired, and the walls are so dirty I couldn’t say what colour they were originally. I can’t wait to make a start.
‘Well, congratulations,’ Adam says. He stops looking at me and focuses on the street ahead instead. ‘What are you doing on June eleventh?’
‘Um, I don’t know. Nothing, I think. Why?’
‘The cinema opens.’
‘Right . . .’
‘Would you like to come and see The Jazz Singer with me?’
‘Oh. Er . . .’
Where did that come from? I feel a flutter of excitement before drowning in panic. Adam has grown on me, sure, and yes, I sometimes find myself thinking about that night we almost kissed. I’ve even considered the possibility of us actually going through with it. But go on a date with him?
‘Calm down with your enthusiasm, won’t you, Rebecca?’ he says. ‘You know, I’m going to go off you if you keep acting too keen.’
‘Sorry.’ We stop at a crossing and I look away from him at the oncoming traffic in case I’m blushing. ‘I just wasn’t expecting that.’
‘You weren’t?’ He glances at me as we stride across the road. ‘That’s how it works. You meet, you rub each other up the wrong way, you try to kiss them and then even if they reject you, you ask them to a movie.’
The corners of my mouth twitch. ‘A few months later?’
‘Sorry, I know it’s fast, but I like you.’
I laugh, a little too hard, but it’s because I’m stalling for time. What should I say? My initial opinion of Adam was unfair. He’s direct and a perfectionist but, if I’m completely honest with myself, I kind of like those things about him now.
‘Well, you have a think about it and let me know, yeah?’
I remember the night Ben asked for my number on a napkin and I stalled, making him think it was a rejection.
‘OK,’ I say when we get to the bottom of the escalator, where we’re about to part ways and head to separate platforms.
‘OK . . . ?’
‘Yes, I’ll see the film with you.’ My train pulls into the platform. ‘Oh, I have to catch that. Email me, yeah?’
I run on to the nearest carriage and as the door closes behind me, I swear I can see Adam laughing. Why am I such a dick? There would have been another one along in two minutes.
Jemma is already waiting for me inside the restaurant, with a bottle of white wine and three glasses. Things have finally calmed down at work, and I managed to swing it so she gets a long lunch to help me celebrate my promotion. She was the first person I told after Jake called me into his office last week to tell me.
‘I’m starving,’ she says, picking up one of the menus the waitress just placed on our table.
‘I think I might have just agreed to go on a date with Adam Larsson,’ I mutter, reading my own menu. ‘Who, by the way, walks just as fast as me – if not faster.’ I smile smugly. ‘See? It’s not unnatural.’
Jemma grabs my menu from my hands and slams it down. ‘You think you agreed to go on a date with him? What happened?’
‘He asked me to see the first old film that’s on at the cinema and I said OK.’
‘Hmmm, right – I can see where the confusion lies,’ she says, holding her palms out and shrugging. ‘What. A. Riddle.’
‘What’s a riddle?’ asks Danielle, shrugging out of her coat. ‘Sorry I’m late, by the way. Bloody Tubes.’
‘There’s no riddle,’ Jemma says. ‘Rebecca has agreed to go out with a structural engineer who bears a striking resemblance to Eric Northman from True Blood, yet sh
e still won’t admit she likes him.’
‘Ooh,’ squeals Danielle. ‘The Sheriff of Area Five? I love that guy. This is immense, Rebecca.’
‘All right, a) it’s not actually him, and b) I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere.’
‘He’s snarky, watches shit old films and walks at a billion miles an hour,’ points out Jemma. ‘You were made for each other. And you know what this means?’
‘What?’
‘You are officially over Ben.’
I laugh. ‘I guess I am.’
‘How long has it been now since you guys broke up?’ Danielle asks.
I have a think. ‘It’s been about—’
‘Wait,’ cries Jemma. ‘Tell me the exact date you broke up.’
‘Why?’ I ask as she pulls out her diary.
‘I just want to work something out.’
‘Well, it was Ben’s birthday, so November first.’
‘And when did you get together?’
‘Twenty-sixth of October the year before.’
‘Right.’ She opens the diary, which clearly has nothing written in it, and turns to the year-by-year page at the back. ‘You two just talk amongst yourselves.’
‘I’m glad you’re over him,’ says Danielle, topping up the three glasses. She grins at me. ‘This Adam guy could be The One.’
‘I don’t believe in The One any more,’ I tell her. She looks at me sadly, so I add: ‘Not in a bad way. I just think that you can have more than one special person in your lifetime.’
She ponders this.
‘I wasn’t so much looking for The One as Any One,’ Jemma mutters.
‘You don’t mean that?’ I ask.
‘Course I dinnae – Russ was right, our love is the stuff of Westlife lyrics,’ she says without looking up from her diary. ‘But if you ever tell anyone I said that – especially him – I will kill you. Ha!’ She finally looks up. ‘Spot on.’
‘What’s spot on?’
‘Well, there’s a theory that—’
I give her an exaggerated groan. ‘There is no theory.’
