by Shari Low
‘Yvie, my darling!’ he bellowed, making everyone within earshot – which included most people in his postcode area – smile. ‘I thought you cancelled your table, bella, no?’ Bugger. That small but pertinent detail had slipped her mind.
‘I did, but we’ve had a change of plan. Do you still have a table free? If not, it’s no problem. It’s my fault for cancelling.’
‘For you, I find the moon and the stars,’ he promised her, with a twinkle in his eye. He gestured to his son, who had just delivered a pizza the size of a satellite dish to a nearby table. ‘Carlo, show our favourite lady to her special table.’
Carlo grinned as their gazes met, both of them acknowledging the inside joke that Gino told everyone – male or female – that they were all his favourite customers, and there was absolutely nothing that made the table she was being shown to any more special than the other forty just like it.
‘You’d think it would get old,’ Carlo quipped, with a grin, as she sat down at a gorgeous red leather banquette, that semi-circled around a solid, aged, but utterly beautiful deep mahogany table.
‘And yet, I’ll take it every time. Honestly, my ego adores him,’ Yvie chuckled. ‘How’s Suzanne? Suzette? Suz—’
‘Ah, long gone,’ Carlo admitted, with not too much regret, as he took a white cloth napkin from the table and flicked it expertly on to her lap.
‘Carlo! You’re really going to have to come to terms with the concept of longevity, you know.’
After Gino and the chicken arrabbiata, teasing Carlo was her third favourite thing about coming here. They’d been friends for years and over that time she’d watched a string of girlfriends come and go. It was easy to see why he didn’t have too many problems securing dates. In his early thirties, his omnipresent stubble, sallow skin and beautiful brooding dark eyes balanced the Roman nose and angular jawline. Add a genetic win with his father’s charm gene, and it pretty much made him irresistible. Except to Yvie. She’d never even considered anything more than friendship because he was a guy that liked them dark, slim and exotic – the closest she got to exotic was necking a Turkish Delight on payday.
‘How many times do I have to tell you I’m waiting for you to fall in love with me? The others are just a distraction until then.’
Ah, his father’s charm struck again. They both knew that just as Gino promised that each customer was his favourite, Carlo turned on the charm to everyone he served and his declarations of affection were throwaway lines to make her smile.
‘Sorry, I’m saving myself for Zac Efron. I’ve got such a feeling he has a thing for chunky nurses.’
Carlo’s laughter was raucous, but he was prevented from continuing the conversation by a bloke a few tables away, who was beckoning him with a loud, ‘Excuse me.’
Instead of using words, Carlo feigned stabbing himself through the heart, then staggered off in the direction of the customer. Yvie was glad she’d come. She needed a giggle. And she also knew Carlo would be back shortly with a large glass of vino. He didn’t even have to ask. They had an ongoing tradition where he would bring her a new wine to try every time she came. Some of them were awful, some were wonderful. A bit like her sisters, she could hear Kay saying in her head.
Talking of which, strange that Verity wasn’t already here. She was sure she’d said something about already being in town.
Yvie opened the flap on her gorgeous black Ted Baker bag (a gift from Zoe, naturally) and pulled out her phone.
Shit. A text notification on the home screen and even just glancing at the first line, she could tell what was coming.
Sorry Y – another change of plan. Too bloody furious to meet. Just going home. Will call you tomorrow. PS: Hope you haven’t left yet. Vx
Spirits down, blood pressure up. Damn.
Checking the time, Yvie saw the text had come in while she was in the Uber. She’d been too busy chatting to the driver to notice the screen light up and she must have accidentally flicked it to silent when she slid it into her bag.
Again, damn.
‘Can I have that to go?’ she asked, as Carlo returned with something of a rosé variety.
‘You have been stood up?’
‘I have.’
‘I’ll kill him,’ Carlo offered, making her laugh again.
‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. It was Verity I was supposed to be meeting.’
‘Okay, I’ll let her live. But only because she’s family.’
‘I’ll pass on the good… Aw!’
Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her.
She didn’t even have to look at the screen. It was her mother’s standard time slot.
Carlo backed off as she put it to her ear.
‘Hi, Mum,’
‘It’s not mum, it’s me,’ Marina said tersely.
Yvie’s worry mechanism switched to high alert. Marina sounded stressed. But then, when was she not?
‘Where are you?’ Marina demanded, dispensing with any small talk.
‘I’m at Gino’s. I was supposed to be meeting Verity, but she’s stood me up again.’
‘Oh, thank God.’
Not the reaction Yvie had been expecting.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Marina continued.
‘You want me to come over?’
‘No, I’ll come to you. I’ll be there in about half an hour.’
The line went dead before Yvie could ask any more.
A twist of anxiety began to make her breath just a little shallower and she fought to suppress it, push it back down. What now? What fricking drama was about to befall them this time? And how was she going to sort it and keep everything on an even keel? Christ, life would have been easier if she’d taken another path. Maybe joined a United Nations peacekeeping force in a war-torn nation.
Deep breath. Try to exhale the knot in her chest. Big smile on. She could do this, but she might need a little help. She held up her wine glass. ‘Carlo, keep them coming. It’s going to be a long night.’
10
Marina – A Month After Sushi-gate
Marina barely heard the noise of the crunching gravel as she accelerated out of the driveway. The dual thunders of guilt and panic were blocking out all sounds, just as they were now in control of her driving, putting her on autopilot as she made her way to the restaurant.
It went without saying that the previous night had been a mistake. Perhaps her biggest one ever. And until the day she took her last breath, she’d never understand why it had happened.
There was nothing too out of the ordinary about the first few hours of the day before. As always, she’d got up at 5 a.m. to work out, then ordered an online grocery shop to be delivered at the weekend from Waitrose, answered all the emails about sports practices, social events, kids’ parties and dinner invitations and checked everyone’s schedules for the day. So far, so normal.
Graham regularly accused her of being a helicopter mother, but what he didn’t realise was that the world demanded this level of parental input now. One of Oscar’s friends had spent the summer in Beijing practising his Mandarin, another had a former professional footballer as a private sports coach, and so many of Annabelle’s friends were being hothoused, there must be an orange glow over their area that could be seen from space. This was the reality of bringing up children in the post-millennial generation. The twins weren’t falling behind, she’d make sure of it. Besides, he seemed to require her to organise the minutiae of his life too, so it was definitely a case of the pot calling the kettles high maintenance.
Early morning duties complete, her mind went to the day ahead. Oscar had a maths exam that she wasn’t too worried about, because she’d doubled up on his tutor this week to prepare for it. Graham had an important meeting, so she’d had his favourite suit dry-cleaned. The housekeeper would be in at 9 a.m., so she’d left meticulous instructions on the extra tasks she wanted completed, then dropped a text to the florist, reminding them that she wanted only long stem lilies in her weekly de
livery. Fresh flowers in the hallway were a must.
Only when all that was done, did she make three individual, nutritionally balanced breakfasts, rouse a snoring Graham with a cup of coffee and a copy of the newly delivered Financial Times, then wake the kids. As always, he was dressed and out of the door, newspaper under his arm, before Annabelle and Oscar even made it down for breakfast. Sometimes she wondered if he had any idea what was going on in their lives, and every time she came up with the same answer – he hadn’t a clue. Their marriage had somehow evolved into an arrangement reminiscent of the 1950s – he focussed on work and financially supporting them while she took care of everything else. Although, unlike a fifties mother, she was a woman with an international business management degree who’d given up her career before it even started and who now spent her day mapping out her offspring’s lives using Excel spreadsheets, Google diaries and tracking their every movement with Find My Family.
At the kitchen island, she made a quick slice of wholemeal toast with avocado for herself, then. ‘Annabelle, are you ready for today? Have you done your stretches? I’ll come up after breakfast and check you’ve packed everything you need in your bag. I’ve notified your teachers that you’ll be off today and tomorrow. Oh, and Oscar, I’ve called Mr Angus about your French grade. It’s clearly wrong. There’s no way we’re settling for a C after all the work that we did to prepare for it.’
What was the point of bringing in a French tutor for six months if the result was going to be a diabolical C? It was total nonsense. There had to be an error in the marking and she was damn well going to get it sorted. Graham had suggested letting Oscar deal with it himself, but this was too important to leave it to a twelve year old who would undoubtedly be railroaded by some incompetent teacher who was probably too busy planning his next holiday to concentrate on getting Oscar decent grades.
Urgh, she despaired. But that was a problem for later. Today there were other priorities.
Twenty minutes later, they had loaded overnight bags into her Range Rover Evoque – she’d wanted the Discovery Sport, but Graham had said they couldn’t justify it, although apparently they could justify his new top-spec Jaguar – and were on the way to the first drop-off of the day.
They’d pulled up outside the private school that both he and Annabelle attended, but unlike every other morning, Oscar was going to school but Annabelle was staying in the car.
Oscar had unclipped his seat belt and leaned forward to whisper to his sister, ‘Good luck.’
Annabelle stopped biting her bottom lip for long enough to reply, ‘Thanks.’ She even sounded like she meant it.
Well, well, well – a whole conversational exchange without an argument. Hallelujah. She and her sisters still hadn’t managed that and they were far from their pre-teenage years. Perhaps by the time the twins thirteenth birthdays rolled around in a few months, they’d be bosom buddies. She could live in hope.
‘Goodbye, darling,’ Marina said, as Oscar pulled the door handle. ‘I’ve texted you reminders of everything you need to do before we get back tomorrow, but just call me if there are any problems.’
Oscar gave her something between a nod and a shrug that she took to mean ‘okay, Mum’ in the body language of the prepubescent male. And female for that matter. Although her children were twins, they shared very little in common except the same family, same environment, same birthday and same ability to react to most instructions with a blank stare and a shrug.
Marina blew him a kiss as he closed the door behind him.
‘Are you okay there?’ she’d asked her daughter, who – right on cue – shrugged and nodded her head.
Marina had steered the car out of the space, dodging streams of other 4x4s on the school run, and made their way to the M8 motorway, heading towards Edinburgh. The destination was only an hour away, but it had taken two years of work to get this far. The Caledonia Academy of Contemporary Dance and Drama was a revered place in the world of theatre and art, a boarding school that had been the training ground for some of the nation’s biggest stars. Now Annabelle was about to audition for a place and Marina could feel the anxiety rising with every passing mile. Annabelle must be feeling it too, because she’d barely spoken a word since they left the house.
‘Are you okay? Are you coming down with something?’ Marina had asked, the car wavering slightly as she reached over to the passenger seat to check the temperature of Annabelle’s forehead.
‘I’m fine,’ came the sullen reply, as her daughter ducked away from her reach, swatting the air as if defending herself from an irritant.
That had made Marina even more concerned. Sure, Annabelle could be stroppy, but this was her dream, the goal she’d been working for since she’d pulled on her first leotard at four years old. A career in dance was all that she’d ever wanted and her talent had been clear from the start. Well, perhaps not right at the start, but after two years of supplementing her classes with far too bloody expensive one-on-one lessons, she’d began to rise above her peers. Everything they’d done – all the training, the shows, the competitions, the sacrifices Marina had made to facilitate Annabelle’s ambitions – had been leading to this. And now Marina was getting the sullen treatment?
‘Are you nervous?’ Marina had probed.
Annabelle didn’t even drag the gaze of her beautiful big brown eyes from the window. She’d definitely taken her looks from Marina’s side of the gene pool. Thank God.
‘Then what’s wrong, darling? Surely you should be excited about today?’
‘I am. But it’s just… I’ll be at boarding school for years. Don’t you even care that I’ll be gone?’
Marina was so shocked, she momentarily lost concentration and the car swayed again, this time the left hand wheels crossed on to the hard shoulder.
‘Of course I’ll miss you! Every single day! How could you even think that I wouldn’t?’ Astonishment mixed with irritation had made her knuckles turn white as they gripped the wheel.
‘Darling, everything we’ve done over the years has been to support you in your dreams, and that dream has always been to go to the dance academy. If you’re telling me you’ve changed your mind, then I’ll turn this car right around and we’ll go straight back home.’
Like hell we will, said the voice in her head labelled ‘maternal martyrdom’. Getting Annabelle to this point had been almost a full-time job – she’d been chauffeur, costume maker, advisor, financier, agent, manager and bloody cheerleader for years and she’d done it all because she was going to make sure Annabelle reached her full potential. Didn’t that girl know how lucky she was? When Marina was a kid, she’d had no support, no help. Everything she’d achieved, she’d done it on her own. In fact, it was the opposite way around. She was the one who’d taken care of her sisters, who’d made sure everyone was where they needed to be, who filled the maternal role when their mother was off on another bloody yoga retreat.
A full-scale rant was building up like a tsunami of recrimination, but she’d held it back. Now wasn’t the time to escalate any kind of emotional confrontation, not when Annabelle had a group choreography and rehearsal session this afternoon and then a two hour dance audition the following morning.
She’d watched her daughter’s flawless face turn to her. ‘No, I do want to go,’ she’d murmured, shoulders shrugging, her words saying one thing, her body language and the hesitation in her voice saying another.
It was all Marina needed to hear. Back on course. Situation normal. Puberty had a lot to answer for, she’d decided, and the best thing to do was… The thought had tailed off as it suddenly struck her that she had to call Oscar’s French teacher. And then the travel agent who was planning their mid-term ski break to Gstaad. And the car needed a service. And dammit, she’d forgotten to cancel her yoga class today. Maybe if she called right now, they’d waive the twenty-four-hours’ notice policy. Especially after all the money she’d poured into their Lycra pants over the years.
The rest of the jo
urney had been spent ricocheting from one call to another, organising, sorting, firefighting. When they’d reached the hotel, there was time for a quick lunch and then a five minute drive to the school.
Marina had tried to watch the session through the window of the dance studio door, but was shooed away by a member of staff who eyed her with blatant disapproval. Afterwards, all she could get out of Annabelle was that it had been. ‘Fine. And like, seriously, Mum, you need to chill. By the way, Cindy is here too and she’s asking if I can stay in her room at the hotel. Can I? Please? They’re on the same floor as us, but they have a suite and there’s an extra bed.’
Marina’s display of nonchalance was so well portrayed she could have secured herself a place at the Academy of Contemporary Dance and Drama. Cindy Holten was the other star in Annabelle’s dance club, and the closest one to her in talent. Personally, Marina was sure her daughter was slightly ahead of the competition, but Cindy’s mum, Geraldine, was one of those relentless stage mothers. She shouted the loudest, pushed the hardest and she’d sell her granny and her Mercedes GLC if it would further Cindy’s career. It was typical that she’d booked a whole suite for just the two of them, and typical too, that she hadn’t even given the slightest hint that Cindy had secured an audition.
‘Honey, no. You need your sleep before tomorrow and–’
‘But it means we can practice!’ Her daughter had countered.
‘It also means you won’t get enough sleep and that’s more important.’
‘But, Mum! Aaargh, you never listen to me! I need to PRACTISE!’
Marina had thought about it for a moment. Compromise. ‘Okay, well, you can go and practise and then come back here at nine o’clock to sleep.’
