by Alix Kelso
And it was time to do something about it.
“Want to get some dessert?” he asked.
“Um no, I’m fine. Listen, can we get out of here? It’s kind of noisy.”
He looked in the direction of the ice cream station with an expression of longing, before signalling to the waitress for the bill. Outside, they began walking to where he’d parked his car.
“Want a coffee somewhere?” he asked. “Or a drink?”
“Would you mind just taking me home? The truth is I don’t feel too good.”
Concern spread across his face. “Was something wrong with your pizza?”
“No, the food was fine. I’ve been feeling off all day. I probably just need an early night.”
“Oh right, okay.”
They drove in silence. She decided she had to end this thing – tonight. As soon as they reached her flat, she’d explain that she’d enjoyed their time together but didn’t want to see him any more.
Except she couldn’t say that, could she? It was too blunt: I don’t want to see you any more. What an awful thing to hear.
She tested alternative options in her head. John, we’ve had a few nice dates together, but we don’t really share a lot in common and I think it might be time for us to go our separate ways.
Go our separate ways? Ugh.
John, you’re a lovely guy, but we’re not right for each other, and with the way things are at work right now, with the restaurant going on the market, I just think ...
But it didn’t have anything to do with the restaurant, so why would she bring Valentino’s into this?
There had to be some set of words in the English language that could communicate the essence of a break-up, words that didn’t involve half-truths, or leave someone feeling hurt.
John, I think that ...
“Okay, here we are,” he said, steering the car into a parking spot outside her flat. She hadn’t even realised they were back already. The passing scenery of the city had simply flashed by as she’d been racking her mind for something sensible to say.
And now that they had arrived, she still hadn’t thought of a way to say what needed to be said.
“John, um—”
“Laura, listen,” he said, switching off the engine and turning towards her. “The two of us seeing each other isn’t working out. I think we should call it a day.”
Stunned, she could only stare. “What?”
“Don’t be upset,” he said, making soothing gestures with his hands, like he was trying to calm a skittish horse. “You’re a lovely girl. But you’re not what I’m looking for. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for, either. I’d hoped tonight we might have a final go at things and see if we could find stuff to talk about. But we couldn’t.”
Literally speechless now, Laura stared at John, then out of the windscreen, where rain had begun falling in hard, thick sheets that had simply blown in from nowhere.
He was breaking up with her. He was breaking up with her. If it hadn’t been so awful, it would’ve been hilarious.
“Okay,” she said, and opened the car door.
“Wait, I’ve got an umbrella, let me walk you to the door.”
But she was too embarrassed to even consider allowing that. He’d dumped her. And he’d been planning on doing it all the way back, just the same way she had. Except he’d managed to say it first.
Hauling herself out of the car and into the rain, she stumbled, her silver stilettos almost taking her down with their treacherous height. She should never have worn the damn things. And now she’d have to navigate the curb and the uneven pavement and the steps to the tenement door, while her beautiful evening dress – the only one she owned – got soaked and her cheeks burned with the mortification of rejection.
She fished her keys from her bag and fought to unlock the door, her wet hair hanging in rat-tails over her face. Her headache was now firmly lodged behind her left eyeball and blooming into something monumentally catastrophic. As she trudged up the stairwell, she began sneezing too.
It had been a terrible day. Just a terrible day.
The only way to end a day as terrible as this one, she decided, was to get into bed and hope that tomorrow had the decency to be a little less gruesome.
Chapter 9
For the second Saturday in a row, Yvonne was packing an overnight bag. This time, Laura was leaving her flatmate to her own devices.
She was too groggy to help locate items of saucy underwear or hear about the spa hotel Olly had booked as part of his continued campaign to convince Yvonne to forgive him for the canoe debacle.
Laura needed some space alone.
After towelling off following the drenching she’d endured while running back to her flat the night before, she’d gone straight to bed. But sleep hadn’t come, and her headache had persisted through the painkillers she’d swallowed. She’d tossed and turned, thoughts spinning about her hopeless run in the park, about the potential buyers who’d been swaggering around Valentino’s, and about the humiliation of being dumped by a guy she’d been too nice not to dump first.
But sleep must have come at some point, because in the morning she’d woken feeling better. Relieved, she’d decided to make up for her training setback and had gone for a run, hoping to log better numbers.
But that hadn’t happened. The first half mile towards the park began well enough, but once she was jogging around the pond, it felt like she was hauling dead weight. By the time she hit the hill around the golf course, she might as well have been running through cement. Since she’d begun her new training regime, she’d never felt so bad.
She hadn’t just walked the rest of the way home; she’d all but limped.
After dragging herself to Valentino’s for a nine-to-three shift, she’d focused only on getting through each minute, watching the clock hands spin slowly around to when she could go home.
But when Natalie took her aside and told her one of the waitresses had called in with a family emergency and that Natalie herself couldn’t work the evening shift because she was going to the opera with Keith, Laura had had no choice but to agree to cover the shortage. After all, she’d been the one who’d set Natalie up with Keith, and if there was any chance the two of them might have something going on, she had to do whatever it took to help it along.
And so she’d agreed to return for a six-through-ten evening shift. But by five o’clock, as Yvonne was finishing packing her bag, Laura was already wondering how she would manage to put in another four hours on her feet on a busy Saturday night.
“You look peaky,” Yvonne said, wheeling her little suitcase into the living room. “Do you really think you ought to work tonight?”
“I agreed to do it, so I’ll do it,” Laura said, unenthusiastically sipping some tea.
Yvonne sat on the edge of the sofa. “Are you feeling any better after what happened last night?”
“Not really.”
“You should’ve dumped him ages ago.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Sorry.”
Outside, a car horn blasted. Yvonne looked out the window and picked up her suitcase.
“Does Olly know we have a doorbell he can ring?” Laura asked. “That he doesn’t have to honk his horn and make our neighbours hate us?”
“He knows.” Yvonne leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You feel too warm. Are you sure someone else can’t cover this shift?”
“I’m sure.”
“Come home early if you feel any worse. And if you need me back here to look after you, just phone. I mean it.”
“I’m fine. Stop worrying about me.”
Outside, the car horn blasted a second time.
“See you soon,” Yvonne said and darted for the door.
“Bring me something nice from the spa if—”
But the door had already slammed before she could finish the sentence.
She glanced at the clock on the bo
okcase. It was five fifteen. All she wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and close her eyes. But that, she knew, would be a bad move.
After carrying her teacup to the kitchen, she got ready for her second shift at Valentino’s. Four hours, that was all she had to get through. It was probably just one of those twenty-four-hour bugs that disappeared as quickly as they came.
And Saturdays were always hectic at the restaurant, so the time would fly. She’d be home before she knew it. And tomorrow morning she wasn’t scheduled to work until ten o’clock, so she’d sleep late. No running. The running would have to wait until she felt like herself again.
Once she’d changed into her uniform, she stood at the door checking her pockets for her phone, her purse, her keys. And found herself swaying on her feet, as the hallway tilted and fuzziness clouded her brain.
This was a bad idea, surely? If she was on the cusp of illness, she shouldn’t go back to work.
But then she thought of Natalie, who was probably already hoping to take herself off into her office so she could get ready for the opera with Keith. If she didn’t show up, Natalie would cancel the date.
Four hours, she reminded herself, shaking off the funny spell and heading out towards Valentino’s. Four hours and then her lovely warm bed would be hers.
Natalie let the soaring music of the finale of Rigoletto wash over her, felt her skin prickle as each crescendo was reached and the tale unfolded to its tragic conclusion. The story itself was ridiculous: a young woman who allowed herself to be stabbed to death in order to save the life of her unfaithful lover. Absurd, as indeed so many of the stories that comprised operas tended to be. Women always seemed to be dying and sacrificing themselves, and the operatic tragedies were never complete until female blood had been spilled.
Yet she loved these operas just the same. They reminded her of being a new bride on her honeymoon with Angelo and going to the open-air Arena di Verona to see Tosca. The two of them had sat in the gauzy heat of a summer’s evening, high up in the amphitheatre seating terrace, sipping the wine they’d brought along. As Natalie watched the final scenes of Rigoletto on the stage below, she realised this was the first time since Angelo had died that she could recall such memories without tears immediately brimming in her eyes.
Not that she would have cried here anyway. She was having too much fun, and even if she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t embarrass Keith by crying in front of him. He had taken a risk in making the opera booking and it had paid off. Natalie was glad she had agreed to come. It had been a long time since she’d gone to the opera.
And she couldn’t have imagined enjoying this man’s company so much, she thought, stealing a look in his direction as the curtain fell and the audience applauded the performance. In all the time they’d run their respective businesses on either side of Shaw Street, he had simply been Keith, the landlord of The Crooked Thistle, a man who continually found himself entangled with an endless parade of women seemingly intent only on hurting him.
She and Angelo had given small presents to Keith on each of his three weddings. But while Angelo had shaken his head in bafflement as each marriage disintegrated, Natalie had felt tremendous sympathy for this perpetually unlucky-in-love man, who epitomised the triumph of hope over experience. Keith was a good man and had surely deserved more than he’d got from those women on to whose fingers he’d slipped those wedding rings.
Yes, he was a good man and a gentleman too, she decided, as he retrieved their jackets from the cloakroom and helped her into hers. And not a bad-looking one either, when he took the time, as he had again tonight, to tame those mad tufts of hair that sprouted from his head.
Or maybe that was just the wine talking. He’d insisted on treating her to pre-theatre drinks and had also ordered champagne for the intermission, waving away her protest that she would be well and truly sozzled by the time they sat down for their late supper. As they exited the theatre, Keith held out his arm, and she smiled as she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“You’re old style, Keith,” she said as they walked companionably along the pavement.
“Old is the only style I know.” Looking up, he gestured to the summer sky that was deepening to twilight above the city. “It’s a fine night.”
Liking the way he turned and smiled at her, his eyes twinkling beneath the streetlights, she moved a little closer as they walked and thought how amazing it was that life could manage to pleasantly surprise you, just when you needed it most.
“How are those travel plans of yours coming along?” he asked.
“They’re not, and they won’t, not until I have my buyer in place. I’m not prepared to jump the gun and make assumptions about how this sale process might play out.”
“Smart thinking. You’ll make a grand old go of things, Natalie, whatever you decide to do in the future. I’ve no doubt about that.”
“What’s in the future for you? What are your plans?”
He half-shrugged, half-laughed. “I’m thinking I ought to take a leaf out of your book and organise a trip somewhere. Ever since you told me about these travel plans, I’ve been thinking I should get myself out there, see more of the world.”
“Good for you.”
“Since I started thinking about stocking more single malt whiskies in the bar, I’ve been doing research into some of the distilleries, and I might take a trip to visit one or two of them.”
“That sounds wonderful. I didn’t know you could do that.”
“What, visit the distilleries? Oh aye, that’s a big tourist industry. And it’ll help with this whisky menu I’m planning if I can say something about visiting the distillery myself. To begin with, I’m going to keep the menu simple, but later, once I’ve got a few trips under my belt, I’d like to tweak them.”
“I love that idea.”
“And I’ve probably spent far too much time behind the bar at my pub over the years. I’ll be nice to get out and about.”
“In our business, work isn’t something we can just set aside because we feel like taking a trip. You committed yourself to your pub and that’s not a decision to regret. You have a good, solid business there, Keith.”
“Luck has been kind to me.”
“We make our own luck.”
He glanced in her direction and gave her a smile that struck her as filled with mystery and mischief. “Maybe we do.”
He stopped walking, stepped closer, and when he looked in her eyes, Natalie understood he was searching for hesitation or discomfort. Knowing he’d find none, she savoured the moment as he moved closer still and kissed her. The tingles that rippled across her skin felt exquisite as his lips gently brushed hers.
She laid a hand on his arm and kissed him back and thought that it felt wonderful. Surprising and lovely and wonderful.
Bruce, still asleep long after the sun began sliding between the curtains, was caught in a dream where he stood beneath the shade of a tall oak tree beside a riverbank, looking towards an old tumbledown red sandstone building that glowed in late afternoon sunshine. Some of the windows were broken, many of the roof slates had slipped, and the guttering was hanging off at one end. But Bruce – dream Bruce – liked standing there looking at it just the same. It felt peaceful beneath the boughs of the tree, listening to the gentle rippling of the river.
He felt somehow that he knew this place, knew this spot beneath the oak tree, and knew that red building. It all felt familiar, in that eerily tantalising way that happens inside dreams.
He opened his eyes and the dream slipped away. Sitting up in bed, he glanced around the room. For the last few mornings, every time he awoke it seemed smaller than when he’d gone to sleep the night before.
Just a trick of the imagination. Still, if he didn’t find someplace else to live – and soon – he worried he might wake up one morning and find the room had grown so small that his arms and legs were poking through the walls. What had started as a comfortably compact space where he could lick his wounds was f
ast turning into a self-imposed prison cell.
He showered, hauled some clothes from a drawer, and made a mental note to get some laundry done. As he buttoned his shirt, his gaze wandered to the painting that hung above his bed, the one he’d bought for Heather and then taken to spite her.
It truly was an ugly painting, he thought, wincing at the harsh brushstrokes, the cold greys and acid yellows. He felt prickly just looking at it. He didn’t understand how anyone could enjoy looking at it. No doubt that was just one of the many reasons his marriage had collapsed. He simply had not understood why Heather had found the painting so alluring, because he had never really understood Heather.
And why exactly was he already torturing himself with these gloomy thoughts, less than ten minutes after waking up?
No mystery there. He was living in a room the size of a shoebox and keeping in plain sight a memento from his marriage that would always make him unhappy.
Downstairs, he began cleaning up the public bar. They’d had a good busy night, and he’d been pleased to hold the fort for the second Saturday night in a row while Keith went out with Natalie. He’d always loved the buzz of a Saturday night in his old pub in London and loved seeing people having a good time, laughing and talking, dancing to the music, drinking a little more – sometimes a lot more – than was good for them. Mostly, the drunkenness had never resulted in anything more sinister than too-loud laughter and some ill-advised gyrating on the little dance floor near the DJ booth.
God, he missed that place. He missed the pub that he’d made his own.
Yet just as he’d loved the noise and energy of a good Saturday night, he’d also loved the quiet that followed on the Sunday morning, when he was alone amongst the detritus of empty glasses and soggy beer coasters and getting ready to do it all again. If you knew what you were doing – and Bruce did – there was as much money to be made from the Sunday lunch and dinner crowd as there was from the Saturday night hordes. In fact, it hadn’t been unusual in his old pub for the Sunday takings to be highest of the week. He’d always booked a band for Sunday evenings, which drew in punters looking for some live entertainment before the start of the regular working week, and his pub had quickly earned a reputation as a Sunday hot spot.