Three's a Crowd

by Simon Booker

  ‘I lied,’ she said, chewing on a thumbnail.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Not being able to cook.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to do it.’

  ‘I feel bad about lying. It’s just…’ She tailed off.

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘There was a bloke. I used to cook for him. But he turned out to be a total twat-sack.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She cocked her head to one side. I loved how she did that. It was all I could do not to kiss her.

  ‘Maybe another time,’ she said.

  Trying to ignore the galloping of my heart, I turned my attention back to cooking, prepping the ricotta, spinach and eggs and making the white sauce.

  ‘Are you a vegetarian, too?’ said Harriet.

  I managed a nod.

  ‘Nothing with a face, right?’

  A lie, but what the heck. She set a tray for her grandmother then laid the table. The kitchen smelled of home cooking. The house was warm and snug. A haven. Nancy called from upstairs. ‘Is your gentleman caller behaving himself?’

  ‘So far, Nan.’

  ‘Never mind. The night is young.’

  Their banter continued while I set the lasagne to bake. Harriet took a glass of wine up to Nancy but it was rejected in favour of a schooner of Baileys. When the meal was ready Harriet carried the tray up to the bedroom. Sipping my wine, I walked into the sitting room.

  Like the kitchen, the walls were lined with photos: Harriet – gorgeous, green-eyed Harriet – laughing with her Nan and her parents. Holidays, birthdays, Christmases, picnics – everything that makes up family life. There were a couple of her and her mum, doing yoga. Taking stock, I felt a lurch in my stomach. When it came to happy families the Brocklebanks were a disaster. Forget picnics and parties – rifts and feuds were our thing.

  I went back through to the kitchen and was grating a block of Parmesan as Harriet took her place at the table. Before she could start eating, Nancy yelled again.

  ‘I think I’ll watch another film. Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Loud. So I won’t be able to hear you. In case you get up to hanky-panky.’

  ‘We’re having dinner, Nan, same as you.’

  ‘I hope he’s not touching my sardines.’

  ‘No one’s touching your sardines, Nan.’

  Upstairs, the TV began to blare. Harriet and I exchanged a smile then began to eat, lapsing into silence. There was something unnerving – too intimate – about sitting at a kitchen table, like a long-established couple having supper at the end of a tiring week. I started to worry. Maybe we didn’t have anything to say to each other… Maybe I shouldn’t have come… Outside, the rain lashed the windows. Harriet pushed the food around her plate. I could sense her groping for something to say. I blurted the first thing that came into my head.

  ‘Not much chance of seeing Saturn tonight.’

  ‘Nope.’

  More silence. More chewing. A sip of wine.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have turned up on your doorstep.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘A bit stalker-y?’

  ‘Well, now you mention it…’ She smiled to show she was kidding. ‘I had some good news,’ she said. ‘But it’s supposed to be a secret.’

  ‘So why mention it?’

  ‘Because I’m excited. It means I might be able to go to Hollywood.’

  My stomach gave a lurch.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Maybe forever. If I can stop the thoughts.’

  ‘What thoughts?’

  She looked away.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Hollywood would be cool,’ I said but my voice must have lacked conviction.

  ‘You don’t sound too happy about it,’ she said.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be happy? Whatever it is, it sounds great.’

  The truth was, I was taken aback by the strength of my reaction. I’d only met her a few times yet it felt like the universe was playing one of its bad jokes. I was brought back to earth by the sound of Nancy yelling from upstairs. ‘What’s this food?’

  I called towards the staircase.

  ‘It’s vegetarian lasagne.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s Tom,’ said Harriet. ‘I told you he was cooking dinner.’

  ‘Tom who?’

  ‘Tom Brocklebank.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He cooked your lasagne.’

  ‘It’s Friday. I have sardines on Friday. Everyone knows that.’

  Harriet rolled her eyes and carried on eating.

  The rest of the evening went okay, despite the hollow sensation that was gripping my stomach, a feeling no amount of alcohol seemed to ease. But the wine had loosened me up enough to find myself staring longingly in the direction of Harriet’s graceful neck. I managed to keep my eyes from straying towards the tantalizing curve of her breasts, but it wasn’t easy. Being close to her was driving me crazy. Resisting the temptation to stroke her arm, to raise her hand to my lips, I tried to focus as we discussed my musical and Harriet’s ambitions – how she’d done some theatre in her twenties and had good reviews. They’d given her a sense that she might be on the right track so she’d pegged away. Now, if she could just overcome a bout of what she called ‘mega stage fright’, it looked as if she might be moving into a position to take a crack at the big-time, the break she’d been waiting for. In Hollywood. Six thousand miles away. I couldn’t shake a sense of impending doom.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Harriet.

  ‘Nothing. Been a long week.’

  She didn’t press the point. I could hardly tell the truth. A couple of cocktails, one kiss, and I was acting like a love-struck teen. Apparently it’s not uncommon for women to meet a bloke and start projecting years ahead but I seemed to be doing it too. Fuck’s sake, mate, get a grip.

  ‘Do you like cats?’ I said.

  ‘Love ’em. Why?’

  ‘I’m going to the Cat Café tomorrow lunchtime. In Shoreditch. They do tea and cakes and the cats wander around, or sleep on your lap.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Harriet. She wiped her mouth on her napkin. ‘As long as Nan’s okay, the answer’s yes.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘You are going to invite me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  My spirits lifted. Perhaps the Hollywood plan wouldn’t come to anything, after all. Maybe the stage fright would persist. But… then she’d be crushed. A lifelong ambition would have come to nothing. She’d become disappointed and bitter…

  My thoughts were running away with themselves. She was saying something.

  ‘Wait… Tomorrow? Saturday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry. Got a lunch date.’

  The world stopped turning. I managed a smile.

  ‘Never mind. Just a thought.’

  ‘I’d cancel it but it’s to do with… the secret thing.’

  ‘Understood.’

  I stood up. Time to go. My face felt hot. I couldn’t wait to get out. Harriet didn’t seem to notice my eagerness to leave.

  ‘Any idea where The Wolseley is?’ she said.

  ‘Piccadilly. It’s the sort of place my dad takes people he’s trying to impress.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  I was about to tell her but Nancy yelled from upstairs. ‘I could do with a cuppa to take away the taste of that muck.’

  Harriet pulled an apologetic face.

  ‘Well, I liked it.’

  ‘No problem.’

  I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

  ‘Have fun at the Cat Café,’ said Harriet. ‘Maybe another time?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, trying not to sound brusque. ‘Enjoy The Wolseley.’

  I walked out into the teeming rain. Head down, hands in pockets, heart in boots. I was halfway down the street when I heard a voice.

  ‘W
ait!’

  I turned to see Harriet running after me, sheltering under my umbrella. She was smiling. ‘You forgot this.’

  I held the brolly over her head, shielding her from the rain. I held her gaze. Then I took her in my arms and kissed her. It was the best kind of kiss: soft, tender, filled with promise. I could have stood there all night but she pulled away.

  ‘Hold the brolly still,’ she said. ‘I’ve got rain running down my neck.’

  ‘Me too. I don’t care.’

  She grinned. ‘Idiot.’

  We kissed again. For all I knew the rain may have turned into a monsoon or ceased altogether. I didn’t care about weather, or anything else, and neither, it seemed, did Harriet Brown.

  GEORGE

  Just after eleven o’clock on Saturday morning I emerged from my fifth appointment at the Kentish Town tanning salon sporting a skin tone somewhere between pine and teak, as befits a man who is supposed to have spent a month in Peru.

  Paddy was already in the pub, sitting at his usual corner table and scanning the Racing Post. A swift half later, we repaired to the jeweller’s on the corner of the high street. I asked to see a pair of sunflower stud earrings – white gold with diamonds – priced at £3,995. While Paddy distracted the jeweller, I performed a sleight of hand he’d taught me more years ago than I care to remember, surreptitiously pocketing the earrings and leaving the jeweller with a pair identical to the real thing in almost every way except value. The man will probably never notice and neither will his customers so no harm done.

  Bidding au revoir to Paddy, I took a bus to Old Bond Street, sauntering into one of Imelda Shine’s favourite stores where I sweet-talked a sales assistant out of a small gift box and an Asprey bag. In my experience, packaging is an essential part of any gift.

  Walking along Piccadilly, I stopped in my tracks. On the other side of the road, Richard was getting out of a taxi, looking silly in a fedora hat. He didn’t see me. I watched as he paid the driver and greeted the doorman outside The Wolseley restaurant then hurried inside. Although tempted to peer through the window to find out with whom my son was lunching I swerved and headed for Green Park tube station. His social life was of no interest to me. Besides, I had other poissons to fry.

  HARRIET

  Wow.

  The Wolseley.

  I mean, wow. Seriously.

  From the moment you walk in you feel like royalty, only more glam and less stuffy. The friendly staff. The huge, high-ceilinged room leading to the bar. The hubbub of people doing deals, swapping gossip, being in the swim. The sense of being in the hands of professionals who know exactly what they’re doing and will do whatever it takes to make you feel not just welcome but…

  Okay, I’m going OTT, but only because I need you to understand how my mind was blown. And that’s before the GQ-handsome maître d’ in the charcoal grey suit whisked me to a table where the DJ was waiting. Mr GQ held my chair as Richard Young OH MY GOD YOU’RE GORGEOUS rose to greet me. I wasn’t sure whether to go for an air-kiss or a handshake but Richard solved the dilemma by extending a hand.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

  Like I was doing him a favour. Classy, right? A twinkle-eyed silver fox. Posh black suit, cream shirt, big smile.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Bloody Mary? Glass of champagne?’

  I BET YOU LOOK GOOD NAKED!

  I tried to silence The Thoughts and sound sophisticated.

  ‘Why have tomato juice when you can have bubbles?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Smiling, he turned to the man in the suit. ‘A bottle, please, Max. The Veuve Clicquot.’

  The maître d’ nodded, settled me into my chair then glided away. GREAT ARSE! I smoothed a hand over the starched tablecloth and spent the next few minutes making small talk while trying not to show how overawed I was by my surroundings. It’s not that I never eat out (I love a cheeky Nando’s) but I’d only once been to a place like this and that was the most famous restaurant in London, The Ivy. My first agent took me to celebrate a TV contract then ruined everything by making a pass. I said no, he dropped me and the job never happened. Finish the well-known saying: there’s no business like…

  A waiter arrived. A menu appeared. The champagne was uncorked, a glass poured, a toast proposed.

  ‘Congratulations on making the Voice of London shortlist.’

  Richard raised his glass and smiled.

  ‘Cheers.’

  We clinked glasses and drank. (By the way, if anyone tells you there’s no difference between champagne and prosecco they’re crazy.)

  Richard turned out to be charming but not smarmy. As I watched his lips move I BET YOU’RE A GOOD KISSER he recommended the Eggs Benedict with a side of caviar and another of chips. I asked for the veggie version, Eggs Royale with smoked salmon. (Okay, not strictly veggie but this was a special occasion and sometimes fishaterian is okay.) I thought he was joking about the caviar but he wasn’t. I’ve only ever had lumpfish but I followed his suggestion and OMG! If this is how the other half lives where do I sign up?

  ‘I’m thinking of becoming a vegetarian,’ he said.

  We talked animal welfare for a while, and how he was careful to eat only free-range chicken and eggs. To tell you the truth, nice though he was, I had trouble concentrating at first – my mind kept wandering to being with Tom last night, kissing in the rain like something out of La La Land (except he’s no Ryan Gosling but then who is?). But the way he put up with Nan’s nonsense? What a Mr Nice Guy. His lasagne wasn’t bad either. I’d managed to scoff it without thinking about Cockweasel once. (Well, a couple of times but that’s an improvement. Perhaps things are finally looking up.)

  It was a while before I could focus properly on what I was eating. The grub was delicious, the surroundings made me feel relaxed, something I hadn’t felt for a long time. I even used the right knife and fork without making a twat of myself WHAT IF I SPIT FOOD ALL OVER RICHARD?

  Maybe it was the champagne but I couldn’t stop thinking how nice-looking he was and how much I liked his voice. Well groomed, too. Hair: newly trimmed. Skin: moisturized. Nails: manicured. I wondered if he might be gay but he mentioned a wife and son so I’m guessing not and HE’S PROBABLY GREAT IN BED.

  I’d done my best to scrub up. In the hairdresser’s at nine. Proper make-up, too. Nan said my skirt was too short and my heels too high but I told her it was the twenty-first century and women are allowed to wear whatever we like. I don’t think I’d made the effort just for Richard – despite all The Thoughts, it never seriously entered my head that we might become more than friends – but maybe I’m kidding myself, even now.

  He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. His eyes twinkled.

  ‘So, Harriet Brown, are you in love?’

  The question came out of the blue and maybe the bubbly was going to my head but I didn’t mind.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Footloose and fancy free.’

  ‘Do you like being single?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Sometimes. Like now, if I was in a relationship I wouldn’t be having lunch with a famous DJ. I’d be pushing a trolley round Aldi or putting on a wash.’ I took another sip of champagne and could feel a nice buzz starting to settle in.

  ‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Are you in love?’

  ‘I’m married.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘My wife’s having a midlife crisis. She’s gone away with someone.’

  ‘Another bloke?’

  He cleared his throat and looked away.

  ‘Another woman.’

  ‘Oh. Not being funny but you don’t seem heartbroken.’

  ‘Well, I’m not jumping for joy.’

  ‘So you’re still in love with her?’

  He considered the question before answering.

  ‘We’ve been together a long time. Love changes.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  He sipped his drink.

  ‘People talk about being “madly in love”, don�
��t they?’ he said. ‘And with good reason. All those pheromones fusing the brain, getting in the way of rational thought. We go mad – literally. But that can’t last forever – a couple of years at most, long enough to guarantee the survival of the species. Nature’s way of ensuring “the heir and the spare”. Then things calm down. And that’s when love – the real deal – either takes hold, in which case people stand a chance of living happily ever after, or things fizzle out and they move on.’

  Was he mansplaining? Being cynical? It didn’t feel like either.

  ‘Will your wife come back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want her to?’

  ‘Good question.’

  I searched his eyes and suddenly the alcohol seemed to be doing all the talking.

  ‘Well, if you ask me, she’s a lucky woman.’

  He leaned forward, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘If I didn’t know better,’ he said, ‘I’d think you were flirting with me.’

  Was I? After snogging Tom? Was I what Nan would call a slapper or was I simply enjoying attention from two blokes who didn’t seem like total snot-bubbles?

  ‘What star sign are you?’ I said.

  ‘Leo.’

  ‘The king of the zodiac.’

  He gave an indulgent smile.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Aquarius.’

  ‘Does that mean we can be friends?’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said.

  I didn’t tell him what it really meant: that Leo and Aquarius make a great match, especially between the sheets, something I’d learned from Cockweasel. I could feel my cheeks burn at the memory and OH FUCK I’M GOING TO LEAN ACROSS THE TABLE RIGHT NOW AND KISS YOU.

  Thank God my phone beeped.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t turn it off in case it’s Nan. She’s not well and I’m the only one around.’

  ‘No problem. Go ahead.’

  I checked the text. It was from Tom at the Cat Café – a photo of a black moggy wrapped around a tea cosy, soaking up the teapot’s warmth. I scanned his message.

  Think I’ve reached peak cat.

  I showed the photo to Richard.