Love, Lies and Lemon Cake

by Sue Watson

  The following Tuesday morning, I popped into the deli to buy lunch. Who am I kidding? I went to lust over the gorgeous man behind the counter and buy lunch.

  ‘I do hope those “yummy” tomatoes were harvested from the Tuscan slopes near a fig tree on the outskirts of Florence?’ I asked with a serious face.

  ‘Ha... the exact same ones: third fig tree from the left. You know your stuff,’ he smiled. ‘Now for the bread... what kind would you like?’

  ‘Focaccia?’ I tried to say this with an Italian accent, like I ate it every day, but focaccia wasn’t easy on my English tongue and emerged sounding vaguely indecent.

  His pale blue eyes twinkled with amusement at this forty-something in her parka and woolly panda hat stammering obscenities. I blushed slightly at my own image of myself, but was thankfully distracted by a heaving wall of sweet delights. These were biscuits... but not as I knew them. As he lovingly placed chorizo and chilli jam onto the bread, I dragged myself away so he wouldn’t think I was getting cheap thrills watching him. Which of course I was. I took myself to the other side of the shop to cruise the sugary morsels, reaching out to run my eyes and fingers along the brightly coloured beribboned packets crinkly to the touch. Biscotti, Panettone, Florentines and Cantuccini were strange and wonderful biscuits bursting with nuts and almonds and chocolate. I never bought stuff like this; Craig preferred Rich Tea and as I was always on a diet I rarely ventured beyond the odd Jaffa Cake at work, but this was a lovely, unexpected new biscuit experience. And the sheer Italian ambience in there was making me feel quite cosmopolitan, so I picked up a pack of Florentines.

  ‘Something sweet,’ I smiled, placing it on the counter as he gently placed the tomatoes on my focaccia. As he was busy creating, I kept on talking... I’m good at that. I was used to filling silences all the time when home with Craig.

  ‘These Florentines look delicious; I’m sure I’d love them... but I’m dieting so I won’t actually be eating them. These are for my friend.’

  ‘Oh...’ He continued to work on his masterpiece.

  It would have been nice if he’d looked surprised that I was dieting, even suggested I didn’t need to lose any weight, but he probably wasn’t listening. I’d recently put on a few pounds due to lack of exercise. Emma and I used to run some evenings when she’d lived at home, but I didn’t want to run on my own, it wasn’t the same. I wondered if I’d ever get used to her not being there. Her absence had made more of an impact than I had expected and my life seemed suddenly empty. She didn’t need me to cook or wash for her anymore, and my taxi service wasn’t required either... but more than that, I just missed chatting with her, hearing about her day, her friends, her life.

  I watched Dan ringing the pack of Florentines into the till. Long, slender fingers, a battered metal pinkie ring on one, his wrists covered in faded braided leather and cotton, reminiscent of the friendship bracelets Emma used to wear.

  ‘These Florentines are imported from Italy... caramelised almonds... crisp, but real sweet on the tongue. A hint of ginger and orange zest gives them a spicy, citrusy... zing. Basically, they’re addictive; once you open them you’ll have to eat them,’ he smiled.

  ‘Oh, I’ll try to resist. Like I say, they aren’t really for me—these are for my boss, Sue. She owns Curl Up and Dye where I work. She’s been a bit down lately because her husband made a fortune in plastic balls then left her for an anorexic stewardess.’ I added, unnecessarily, ‘He kept the house and all Sue’s soft furnishings, and Sue gets upset imagining them making love on her Laura Ashley throw and matching handmade cushions. She calls her ‘flight-deck floozy or Aeroflot Annie.’ I looked at him and he smiled, not quite sure how to react. I am one of those people who by nature are shy, but this lack of self-confidence is a strange contradiction as it also compels me to fill silent air with my own waffle.

  ‘She has ginger hair and does things with her tongue,’ I added. ‘Aeroflot Annie, I mean... not Sue.’ I doubt blond Aussie Deli Guy wanted the intimate details of the mistress of some man once married to a woman who worked in a hairdressers down the road, but he was getting them. As I progressed on to more pointless minutiae about Sue’s tragic marriage and monumental struggle with Internet dating, I guessed it was a matter of time before he switched off. I should stop now, I thought, as I heard myself telling the story of Sue’s date with a man who could only have sex dressed as Darth Vader, and a high-court judge who kept only his judicial wig on throughout. Now why did I feel the need to tell him that? It wasn’t even my story to tell. I was waiting for his eyes to glaze over as Craig’s did when I addressed him for longer than thirty seconds. But, throughout my monologue, Dan was laughing, genuinely amused at my stories. I decided to quit while I was ahead, when I still had his attention and asked how much I owed for the sandwich. He told me and as I rummaged in my purse, a teeny chink of silence dared to open up. It was, of course, my duty to fill this silence.

  ‘Where are you from? Are you here permanently or on one of those extended holidays... you get Australians doing those here don’t you? You all live communally... sleep together... sleeping with each other... I meant sleeping asleep... not anything sexual. God, no... Europe... yes, are you “doing” Europe. When I say ”doing”, I mean...?’

  ‘Yeah... I’m from Sydney.’ He folded his arms and leaned back, watching me, still with an amused twinkle in his eyes. ‘I’m staying with the British side of my family, who happen to own this shop—and being Australian doesn’t mean we all sleep together. I have been to Europe—sadly I haven’t “done” it yet. Oh, and my mother’s maiden name is Smith, and my inside leg is...’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t being nosy. I just...’

  ‘Don’t apologise... I’m joking,’ he smiled. His eyes crinkled and for a stupid nanosecond I allowed a little sparkle to tinkle through my veins. It was good to feel that again, the indefinable frisson of attraction—from me, anyway; I doubted it was reciprocated, but who needed reciprocation? I’d been getting it on with half of Hollywood in the past few years and none of my partners were even aware of it.

  ‘I’m having a gap year.’ he was still smiling. ‘It’s kind of delayed, you know... I should have done it when I was in my twenties, but I’m thirty-three... this is my European gap.’

  A quick mental calculation told me he was nine years younger than me. Was that a bad thing? And more to the point, why did I feel the instinctive need to work that out? It wasn’t like it mattered. There was no way anyone like him would see me in any other way than what I was—a boring, middle-aged, married woman.

  ‘Sweet and tender,’ he said quite seductively as he pushed my wrapped focaccia towards me across the counter. ‘Kissed by the cool mountain breeze.’

  ‘I take it you’re referring to the ham...?’

  ‘Take from it what you choose,’ he smiled, getting me straight away, which was lovely.

  ‘I wonder, could you tell me which particular mountain?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, madam. It’s the one with the snow on and the hanging hams.’

  ‘Okay... I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it,’ I nodded in mock seriousness. ‘But if, when I taste it, I discover it was dried in the breeze of a different mountain... I shall be back.’

  ‘In that case, I hope I’m wrong, because, madam, you have rather entertained me this morning.’ He reached over and popped some of the dribbly green olives into a polystyrene pot. ‘And here is a little thank you—an accompaniment to your focaccia, on the house.’ He bowed slightly and handed me the pot, our eyes meeting.

  I loved the attention, and as he opened the till, his smile was captivating and my mind had gone on ahead. There was no law that said I couldn’t pack ‘Aussie Boy, the fantasy’ into my bag to be savoured later along with Brad Pitt, the focaccia and the Florentines—not all at the same time you understand, that would be greedy. Okay, I wasn’t kidding myself; I knew his twinkly smile and flirty nature was all about customer service and flogging fancy hams...
and those free olives were a loss leader, not a come on. But a girl could dream.

  ‘Your hat’s... cool, by the way,’ he said, ringing my money into the till and shuffling for change.

  Now, there’s mild flirting with a woman to whom you want to sell overpriced Italian meats—and then there’s patronising, or worse, making fun. He clearly found me very amusing, regaling my friend’s weirdo love life to him in a floor-length fur-trimmed parka with a panda on my head. I felt a rush of humiliation, and as he handed me my change, he saw the look on my face.

  ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you,’ he said uncertainly, placing the coins into my open palm. ‘It’s a cool hat...’

  ‘It’s my daughter’s... and I didn’t put it on because I wanted to “look cool”—I’m aware I look completely ridiculous,’ I mumbled, feeling stupid, putting the change in my purse and the pack of Florentines into my bag. I pulled the hat off and jammed it into my pocket. I wasn’t just wearing the hat and parka to keep out the cold; it made me feel closer to Emma and I suddenly felt a deep surge of maternal longing. How dare he make fun of the hat my daughter wore when she was thirteen. I remembered buying it for her from a stall at the German Christmas Market in Birmingham and she’d worn it constantly. I even caught her wearing it in bed once, and remembering that made me suddenly, incredibly sad. How quickly she’d grown and gone; how like yesterday it seemed that she held my hand in hers and took her first wobbly steps. I bit my lip, my eyes brimming with tears. Where the hell had all this emotion come from?

  ‘Hey... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I do like your hat... really, it’s... cute.’

  I attempted a smile, but my bottom lip was quivering. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not really what you said... I just... I’m being silly. I just miss my daughter.’ I started to cry.

  ‘Ah, don't cry,’ he said gently. ‘My dad called last night, worried about me being halfway round the world, and I’m a fully grown man. It’s perfectly natural to miss your daughter. Why did she leave?’

  ‘She’s at university in Manchester. Stupid, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to her being away. It’s like my heart walked off and left me behind.’

  ‘Hey, does she know you’ve got her hat? Won’t she be cold... without it?’ He was trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.

  ‘Oh, she wouldn’t be seen dead with it on now. In fact I doubt anyone over thirteen years of age would.’

  I thought about how gauche I must seem to someone worldly like him and how embarrassed Emma would be to see me dressed like this. I started to really blubber then and no one was more surprised than me... except him. He stood there with his arms hanging limply, an awkward look on his face. After about a minute, when he realised I wasn’t going to stop sobbing and I might be bad for business, he moved around the counter and continued to stand helplessly by as I dripped salty tears all over his artisanal breads. I hadn’t cried about Emma going back this time. I thought I’d crossed a bridge, but I hadn’t. I’d just bottled it all up until that moment, because someone was nice to me and actually listened to what I’d said. I felt an emergency napkin being pushed under my nose and without looking up accepted it gratefully.

  ‘Thanks.’ I blew my nose and thought about how this guy must be wishing he’d never started the conversation with the crazy lady in the parka.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, and by the look on his face it was clear he thought I needed professional help. Trust me to spoil a beautiful fledgling friendship which had begun with such promise—firm arms, filled focaccia and free olives.

  ‘I’m okay. I’m quite okay. Thank you for the napkin,’ I smiled. ‘If anyone walked in now to see a woman blowing her nose in a fur-trimmed parka with a panda on her head, it might not be good for custom.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not sure you’re exactly good for business,’ he raised his brows with a smile, then the concerned face flickered back. ‘Oh, and... I’m joking, so please don’t start crying again.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I smiled and he seemed to relax but continued to stand awkwardly like he was waiting to catch me if I fell. For a moment the air was quiet, save the sound of cars outside and an ambulance in the distance, but even in deep distress I had to fill the air with my bloody voice.

  ‘I feel really stupid. I don’t normally burst into tears when I order a sandwich. I can’t remember the last time I cried... it was probably my birthday—I drank too much cava,’ I said, throwing the handle of my bag over my shoulder and pulling the fur-trimmed hood around my head. ‘Emma... that’s my daughter, says I talk too much sometimes. She’s right, I do. I talk and talk and... Anyway, I’ll get off. Thanks for the tissue.’ I wiped my eyes and walked towards the door.

  ‘I never caught your name, by the way,’ he called after me.

  I turned and smiled awkwardly, trying not to be swept up in those eyes. ‘Faye... I’m Faye.’ I opened the door and, clutching my focaccia like a protective sword, walked out onto the street. I had to get out of there with what little dignity I had left before making even more of an idiot of myself.

  I headed back for the salon and safety. Curl Up and Dye had always been my sanctuary, my second home. I’d worked there since Emma was six and had started school, and what started as a temporary job became more permanent and then it was too late for me to give it all up and go back to studying. I had now reached the dizzy heights of Senior Stylist, and although I had always dreamed of studying again, Craig had always advised against rocking the boat and messing about with college at my age.

  But recently I’d thought about going back to college, travelling, and doing some of the things I’d always planned to do. Rediscovering my New York postcard had made me think more about my life and how it had turned out, and though the salon had provided a wonderful, happy environment all through my twenties and thirties, I’d never intended to stay forever. I loved the girls but recently I had yearned for something else: people I could learn from and share new experiences with—and I didn’t think Sue or Mandy (or Craig, for that matter) were those people. The Lithuanian situation was causing more daily stress than necessary; I couldn’t take another story from a customer about a neighbour dispute or an incident at Aldi, and Sue’s obsession with online dating and astrology was driving us all mad. We were all like Lady Ga Ga the hamster on her relentless wheel, going nowhere and coming back for more every day—the same stories, the same faces, the same mistakes. It was a tiny world and I wanted to escape for a while. I had these same feelings at home and I didn’t want to stay with Craig either. I didn’t have the courage to just walk out, but if I stayed I knew I would die a slow death.

  I could almost hear the clock ticking.

  ‘Faye—you need to make a decision, love,’ Sue had said. ‘You either get on with it and put up with him, or get out before it’s too late. I’m a bit older than you and, trust me, it gets harder.’ Sue was forty-five and single and spent her evenings with strangers she’d met online—was that the only option for an older, single woman?

  ‘Last night I was the oldest woman in a line of speed daters,’ she’d told me only that morning. ‘It was like being at school all over again. I was always the last one picked for netball... and last night I went through it all again. So take my advice: get out while you’re young enough to enjoy being single.’

  The clock wasn’t just ticking now; I was on a timer. On one long, lonely evening with Craig I’d even worked out exactly how many hours I had left if I lived to my seventies. Now it scared me to think of each hour being eaten away, swallowed up by unhappiness and my own perceived failure.

  But what scared me even more was the thought of spending those hours as a woman like me, with a man like Craig in a life that didn’t work.

  Perhaps I’d never dance on a twinkly New York rooftop, or sip dirty martinis with Ryan Gosling; and the chances of ending up anywhere near Johnny Depp’s place were nada even though he was now officially single. For many middle-aged women who’d been married twen
ty-odd years, this would come as no surprise and they’d accept their lot, stoically boiling pasta for tea and putting another load in the washer. My tragedy is that I am a dreamer. My mother always told me anything was possible; I just had to believe in myself and do it. I had taken this literally from the age of five, and even as a grown woman I couldn’t let go of the idea that I could do anything. Perhaps this is why life had so far disappointed me? I'd never got my degree, achieved little on my Living List, and I’d never even been abroad. Yet being the contradiction that I am, my blind, ridiculous optimism continued to keep me naively hopeful that I would, one day, find what I was looking for.

  Since rediscovering it, I’d kept the New York postcard in my handbag and would often take it out, imagining I was dancing on that rooftop, along with the man who belonged on the other empty chair. I had no idea who the man was, but I knew it wasn’t Craig.

  Is this it? I thought, seeing only a long, straight road ahead with all the signposts in place, no sudden bends, the odd traffic light, but no surprises and no treasure at the end of the journey. Just a greying bra, ageing breasts and sex with the same man until I died? No empty chairs at rooftop tables, no dancing under the stars and no champagne waiting for me on ice.

  * * *

  ‘Dan from the deli has a look of Ryan Gosling, don't you think?’ I said to Mandy as we locked up one night.

  ‘The Aussie? Yeah, I know what you mean. He’s cute. Are you going for young blokes now, Faye?’

  ‘God, no. I don’t fancy him. I was just saying... he looks like a rugged Ryan Gosling.’

  ‘It’s okay even at your age to fancy other men, Faye,’ she said earnestly as we walked home together. ‘My mum had a thing for a bloke she’d gone out with at school, her first love. She’d not seen him since they were sixteen and every year she’d get an invite to the school reunion and I’d say, “Mum, you have to go,” and she’d put the invite in the bin and say, “Nah, they’ll all have big jobs and fancy cars and I haven’t got anything.” She always promised she’d lose weight, get a posh frock and a cut and blow and go next year. Then when she got poorly and the invite came, she said she would definitely go that year. She wanted to see him and her old mates one last time and was all excited. She even bought a new dress. I was going to do her hair and make-up... then a couple of days before the party she ended up back in hospital and she never came out. She never got the chance to see him or her old school buddies, and her dress is still in the wardrobe... Man that was tough.’