by Jenny Colgan
“Lizzie! I am back! I am back! And you have not burned down the café! Truly, my happiness could not be more complete.”
His smile was so broad and his cheeks so rosy, Lizzie couldn’t help but crack open a huge smile in return, and she dashed across the road to see him. As she stood in front of him, he regarded her gravely.
“Oh, madam, I am terribly sorry. I thought I was addressing Elizabeth Berry. But now I see that I was quite mistaken and you are a very beautiful model on her way to a high-fashion modeling shoot.”
“No, it’s me, Georges,” said Lizzie, giggling and feeling ridiculously happy that he’d noticed. He peered into her eyes and she caught the sharp black spirit of him as he did so.
“So it is!” he said, standing back. “You are a miracle.”
Lizzie kept looking at him and, slightly, his face seemed to change.
“A miracle,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Well, well.”
Lizzie smiled at him again, more hopefully, wondering why his face suddenly looked a little sad. Then there came a noise from inside the car.
“Georges!” came a heavily accented voice. “Georges! Comece sobre aqui!”
Lizzie didn’t understand a word of the string of speedy high-pitched sentences that came out in a stream from the back of the car, but she saw Georges’s face as he hesitated, then put on a wide smile and extended a welcoming hand toward the back seat.
From the car arose a shortish, sturdy figure, dark hair, dark eyes, and heavy-looking brows, which were presently pulled together in something approaching a scowl.
“Maria-Elena, I would like you to meet my friend and co-worker, Lizzie,” said Georges.
Maria-Elena glanced at Lizzie, then let fly with another long flurry of Portuguese.
“And now we are in England,” said Georges gently, “we should speak English, don’t you think? Especially in front of our friends.”
“Hello,” said Lizzie timidly, wondering what was going on. Was this his sister? It could be.
“Hello,” said Maria-Elena, not sounding too thrilled about it. “It is wonderful to be here in your very cold country.”
She looked toward the café. “Is that your shop?” she said to Georges.
Georges nodded proudly.
“This is one of the cafés, but I must say,” and he smiled at Lizzie, “it is my favorite.”
This provoked a new torrent. Lizzie had never had a talent for languages, but at a guess it wasn’t an entirely positive critique. She looked at Georges, raising her eyebrows. Georges, uncharacteristically, looked wrong-footed. He coughed and cleared his throat, fiddling a little with his tight collar.
“Uh, Maria-Elena . . . she is my third cousin,” he said to Lizzie almost apologetically. Lizzie thought she knew what was coming. Maria-Elena was going to be her new boss. She was going to move into the café, start running it, she would never see Georges again, and Maria-Elena would be difficult and shout at her a lot. Her good mood started to evaporate.
“So, uh, when I was in Portugal . . .” started Georges, but stopped again, as if this wasn’t quite right. Maria-Elena gave him an impatient look and fired a volley of Portuguese at him again.
“Yes, yes,” said Georges. “Well, I spent a lot of time with my family and it is decided. Maria-Elena and I are getting married.”
Lizzie stopped dead and looked from one to the other. Sure enough, Maria-Elena was wearing a huge, almost grotesque ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. She smiled complacently. Neither of them, though, was exuding the obvious joy that normally accompanies such announcements.
“Well,” Lizzie said. Inside she shook herself for being an idiot. Of course Georges wasn’t just swanning around waiting for someone like her to pull herself together and then, one day, magically notice her . . . of course he was going to get married and have lots of beautiful Portuguese babies. And, of course, it would never have been her anyway, it would have been Penny. In fact, Penny was going to take it even worse than she was. Imagine, the two of them being sad over some short fat sandwich maker. It was ridiculous. Except that he’d become so much more to her.
Lizzie swallowed loudly. Of course it was ridiculous. And it would always have been impossible, and by the looks of things he would never even have considered it: he would always have gone back to his town and married a nice local girl, of course. She was probably a virgin. She got a glimpse of Maria-Elena’s slightly feral teeth. Definitely a virgin.
“Congratulations,” she forced herself to say. “It’s . . . it’s wonderful news.”
“The family thought . . .” said Georges. “It is a very good thing.”
“Can you marry your third cousin?” asked Lizzie, in what she’d intended to be a playful tone but came out as slightly aggressive.
“But of course,” said Georges. “Nearly everyone is third cousin in the world. You are probably my third cousin also.”
She looked at him for a moment then, but Maria-Elena was tugging his wrist.
“Also I am very good businesswoman,” she said in English. “Will help with smartening up all the business. I want to look at . . . hmm, in English, how do you say? Profit margins. Yes. My English is very good also.”
Georges nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “It is very much a good thing.”
“So when . . . when are you getting married?” asked Lizzie.
“In six week,” said Maria-Elena. “I will organize it magnificently.”
“Are you getting married in London?”
Maria-Elena snorted rather wonderfully.
“Yes,” she said. “We are getting married in London. With the rain. And we would like to eat bacon and fried eggs for our wedding feast and we would like to drink beer and have a cup of tea, yes, please excuse me, I am so terribly sorry, thank you very much.”
“We will get married in Portugal,” said Georges. “All our families will come.”
“Just the one then,” said Lizzie, but quite quietly.
“There will be four hundred people there,” said Maria-Elena. “To watch Georges do his duty.”
“Your duty?” Lizzie couldn’t help asking with a smile.
Georges looked slightly haunted for a moment.
“Yes. I have been away for too long. It is time for me to settle down and get married and have children and make a good family in Portugal.”
“And that’s what you want?” said Lizzie gently.
“Of course it is,” said Maria-Elena. “Now, let me see how you work at this restaurant, please. Then, Georges, we are going to Harrods.”
“Bollocks!” said Penny. “That is so unfair! I don’t understand it. Every time I get hold of a millionaire, they slip through my fingers. Or turn out to have been ratbags.”
“The world is standing in the way of your true destiny,” said Lizzie, who to her annoyed surprise had stopped off at the corner shop on the way home (of course it was a Chelsea corner shop, which meant it was hard to buy things that weren’t Bendicks bittermints and vintage Pol Roger) and bought a whole loaf of cheap and nasty white bread and some Nutella. She was methodically working her way through the whole loaf, next to the toaster, and loathing herself.
“You say she’s ugly?” said Penny. “Maybe there’s still time.”
“She’s not ugly,” said Lizzie. “She just looks a lot like Georges.”
“That’s quite ugly,” said Penny. “Especially on a girl.”
“No, it’s not!” said Lizzie hotly, before quickly turning back to the toaster. Penny stared at her.
“Oh, no,” she said, realization finally dawning. “Of course, of course. Oh, Lizzie! I didn’t realize! You’ve got a massive thing for him.”
“I do not!”
“You do! Oh my God, all this time I was pulling him . . .”
“You were not pulling him!”
“I would have pulled him. Oh my God, Lizzie, I had no idea.”
“I didn’t . . .” Her voice petered out. Was there even any point in denying it?
“Well, I thought . . .”
“What, you’d have pulled the millionaire?”
“I didn’t know he was a millionaire. Not until he came into the art gallery.”
“Which is when you started fancying him.”
“No, it’s not,” said Lizzie, hoping she wasn’t about to cry. “I fancied him a long time before that.”
“You can’t have done,” said Penny. “He’s short and covered in hair, like an ewok.”
“You wanted to go out with him,” said Lizzie defensively.
“I didn’t fancy him. I . . . uh, respected him.”
“And his big fat wallet.”
Penny rounded on her.
“And you think I’m about to start apologizing to you.”
Lizzie moved backward, slightly startled by the strength of the onslaught.
“What do you mean?”
“You of all people. You know what I’ve been through.”
“Exactly what I’ve been through,” said Lizzie.
“Which is why you should understand.”
“Understand what?” said Lizzie. Suddenly, she was furious. “That you should get everything you want just because you’re blond? That you could treat Georges like a toy and play around with him just because you don’t like working for a living? That you can’t see what is patently obvious in front of your eyes—like your sister liking someone, which would have been completely bloody obvious if you’d ever paid attention—you know some twins have that secret communication thing? Maybe we should work on our basic communication thing—and even our grandmother who is one hundred and thirty years old and lives in a bed in an eight-by-eight room, which by the way you’d also know if you ever went to visit her, if you could take time out of your own selfish bloody lifestyle, even she spotted that I really liked this bloke, at which point you went all out to ruin it for me, and for him and, well, it doesn’t matter anymore, OK? I’m used to coping with disappointment in my life. But don’t you fucking dare to ask me to sympathize with you.”
When she finished talking, Lizzie realized she was completely out of breath and quite shocked by how much she’d said. Penny too was completely taken aback, mouth open.
“I didn’t mean—” Penny started to say.
“Save it,” said Lizzie. “Really. Save it for people who don’t see completely through you.”
And she unplugged the toaster, picked it up, placed it under her arm and retired to her room.
Although they bickered a little—well, nonstop, Penny realized—they didn’t actually have stand-up fights that often. And, well, she just wasn’t used to seeing Lizzie so shouty. Testy, yes, but usually in a slightly low-key way, under her breath, which Penny could usually quite happily ignore. This whole Lizzie doing home truths thing was new. A lot of things about Lizzie were new. How could she not have noticed? But she hadn’t realized Lizzie’d really had a crush on fat Georges. She supposed it made sense when she thought about it—the new interest in food, the losing weight, the fact that she hadn’t complained that much when they’d given her her makeover—yup. It was all there.
But the fact that Lizzie fancied Georges suddenly made him much more attractive in her eyes. She could see why you might like Georges, as well as how you could admire him, and want the security and life he could provide. Fancying, she hadn’t really figured on. But if Lizzie could see it . . . and had seen it even before she knew about the money. An uncharacteristic thought came to Penny—could she help?
Lizzie stomped to work the next day feeling sick and grumpy. Suddenly, without the chance of bantering with Georges and hearing him pronounce on things and teach her what to do with chili peppers (“No! No, Lizzie, you want to kill all my customers stone dead?”), it was just another job. In a café, basically. She was coming up to thirty and buttering sandwiches for a living, while staying in someone else’s borrowed apartment without even her stupid idiotic sister to talk to. Things didn’t look good. Maybe she should call Grainne; hearing about her life always put things into perspective.
When she got to the café, she was surprised to see someone already waiting outside it. There were a few regulars who popped in for their excellent coffee, but they were well aware what time the café opened. She’d seen Sloan there a few times, apparently on his way home from the night before, but he was usually wobbling on the pavement inquiring loudly about the availability of wine, so it wasn’t him.
“Hello?”
The figure, skinny and wan, slowly lifted up his head and she recognized him immediately.
“Will?” she asked incredulously. “What are you doing here?”
Will didn’t look terribly good. Well, thought Lizzie, if you weren’t being too harsh, the stubble slightly suited him, and being so thin gave him the look of the starving artist, and his gaunt face made those puppy-dog eyes look even bigger. But on the whole he looked unkempt, uncared for, a million miles away from the confident charmer she’d met earlier that year.
He looked at her rather piteously as she opened up.
“Will . . . are you hungry?” she asked as he followed her in.
He shrugged. “Well . . .” He looked around the little restaurant, his eyes coming to rest on the panini toaster.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“Why, are you having some?”
In fact, Lizzie was so ashamed of her previous evening’s stress-related carb blowout that she had vowed to stick to fruit until lunchtime.
“Of course,” she said encouragingly. “Full English OK?”
“Well, if that’s what you’re having,” he said, looking incredibly grateful.
Lizzie quickly stuck the frying pan on the burner and started chopping mushrooms.
“Where have you been? You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”
Will shrugged. “Oh, I’ve been . . . about . . . not in this end of the woods, really.”
The first two pieces of toast popped up and Lizzie buttered them speedily and sent them over to him, just as the Gaggia squealed and the first espresso of the day squeezed out. Will immediately guzzled both down so quickly that at first Lizzie couldn’t quite work out where they’d gone.
“You really are hungry,” said Lizzie worriedly.
Will shrugged. “Well, my canapé diet has . . . uh, suffered a bit. I miss those mini fish and chips they used to do.”
“But Penny sold loads of your paintings,” said Lizzie. “Even I sold a few.”
“I know,” said Will. “Just covered my materials, really. And the two years it took to do them. Anyway, the exhibition is over now. And I don’t think I can expect another one in a hurry; apparently Sloan’s put the word out. I’m untouchable.”
Lizzie brought over some more toast and checked the frying sausages.
“That can’t be true. Sloan can never remember to tell anyone anything.”
“Hmm,” said Will.
“What about your parents?”
Will straightened his back and spoke in gruff tones. “You want to leave a perfectly good university and try and make it as an artist, boy, you’ll be standing on your own two feet with no help from us, do you hear?”
Lizzie finished his fried eggs and flipped them up into the air artistically so they landed perfectly on the plate, feeling slightly pleased with herself.
“Thanks,” said Will. “Where’s yours?”
“Oh, I don’t need it,” said Lizzie. “Could do with losing a few pounds.”
“Really?” said Will. “I think you look smashing.” And he bent his head to his food.
After ten minutes, he finished a second cup of espresso and mopped up the last of the egg yolk with the fried bread, letting out a big sigh of satisfaction as he did so. Noticing Lizzie watching him, he immediately pulled out a very bashed-looking wallet and started counting out twenty-pence pieces.
“Don’t be daft,” said Lizzie. “You just ate the staff breakfast. Don’t give it another thought.”
“OK,” sai
d Will, shaking his head in relief. “God, you think good days are going to last forever, don’t you? I spunked it all away.”
He swallowed and went quiet.
“Literally, I suppose. Sorry, that’s horrid.”
Lizzie took her own cup of tea, and a banana, and rounded the counter to sit at the table.
“Will,” she started. As soon as she did so, he looked up at her, his eyes shining.
“Lizzie,” he said, “I didn’t know there was a baby. I promise I didn’t. I wouldn’t make someone get rid of my baby in a million years. I’d love to have a baby, really I would. Someday. But it would have been all right. We’d have got over it. It’s just as soon as she came to see me we both realized . . . we both realized that it’s not . . . it’s . . .” He couldn’t finish and stared at the table, clutching his cup. “I can’t believe she killed my baby without even telling me.”
Lizzie stared at her fingers until he’d composed himself.
“Listen,” she said. “You have to listen to me.”
“What?”
“There wasn’t a baby. It was a mistake. A real mistake, not something to wind you up or anything. She just got a bit sick and we jumped to conclusions and, well, it doesn’t matter now.”
“She didn’t have an abortion?”
Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t think she could have. She loved you, Will. But when she saw how you lived . . . and Minty told her you were just after a meal ticket.”
“Minty,” said Will. “That crazy bitch pursued me for months and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“So you never slept with her.”
“Well. Just a couple of times, you know. But then she really got the knives out for me. Practically stalked me. She called me ‘Daddy.’” He shook his head in horror and looked at his empty plate again. “There never was a baby.”
Lizzie shook her head gently. She really thought he ought to know.
“So I messed it up all on my own?”
Just then, the door tinged, and Georges and Maria-Elena stepped in. Maria-Elena sniffed loudly.
“I see,” she said. “This place . . . it smells very much like something in your country I have heard of that is called a transportation café, no?”