by Cocktails
The menu listed a variety of coffee as well as cocktails, wine and food, including the famous avocado dishes. I asked stupid, pernickety questions about almond milk and hazelnut milk, and every other kind of ‘not really milk’ I could think of, and got out my notebook. On one page, I made notes for Alba.
On the other page I had written, in large capital letters, ‘Savvy’s Big Life Plan’.
It felt a bit pathetic, even just looking at it. More pathetic still was the fact that nothing was written underneath that title. Just empty space, judging me.
The problem was, I had too many options. I could do anything. If I wanted to go travelling for a year, I could. If I wanted to go to university, train as something. The problem, for once, was not the could. Which made it worse. It was the fact that I had no idea. I liked writing about food for this company, I liked eating and cooking. Maybe I could become some sort of social media star, shouting, ‘Wham!’ as I chucked some chicken in a pan, and people would love me. I could at least take a class – that would make sense.
I looked up as the coffee was put down on the table, and smiled my thanks. It was black and strong, served in an old-fashioned teacup, with a pot of sugar and a little rustic-style jug holding some almond milk. Or whichever milk it was I had finally settled on.
Alba had explained to me that I shouldn’t worry about asking questions or requesting adaptations to the menu, because people who spend that much expect to have things their way. ‘I’m not fussy – I just like things the way I like them,’ she’d said. ‘Make that your motto.’
I sipped at my coffee, looking around at everyone else. They all seemed fascinating, somehow. Part of a secret society who made reservations at hidden coffee shops and paid eighteen pounds for avocado on toast. Please do not stare at the possible celebrities, a zookeeper voice narrated in my head. They are likely to either huff and become rude, or throw a hissy fit.
Perhaps that was unfair. Who knew what these people were really like?
I looked across at the bar and blinked as I saw Milo, the bartender from Cafe Argentine, cleaning glasses and chatting with another bartender. Alba did say some of the restaurants were owned by the same company.
It was nice to properly look at him, the dark hair flipping over his eyebrow, only slightly too long. His eyes were dark, like his features. He looked like he was of Italian descent, not only the hair but the quirk of his lip, the hand gestures. His colleague asked him something, and he grinned, shrugging with one shoulder and holding his other hand up. He was full of energy, and I smiled looking at him. He seemed like the most alive person in the room, despite the growing noise from the party in the corner. His colleague seemed less impressed, frowning and shaking his head.
I wasn’t going to go over, I wasn’t going to say anything. But he looked up and saw me looking. His eyebrows raised and he tilted his head slightly, as if to say, Well, what do we have here? Even as he answered his colleague, his eyes never left mine.
I stood up, suddenly feeling foolish, and crossed to the bar, leaning my elbows down as I slid onto one of the high stools.
‘Word on the street is, there’s a bartender here who serves the best cocktails in London.’ I tried for charming, and came across as awkward schoolgirl, but he smiled nonetheless.
‘Unfortunately, today it is mainly Macchiatos,’ he smiled, then faux whispered, ‘although apparently brunch is code for “booze with breakfast”.’
‘I think you’re the only person in London who didn’t know that.’
‘Well then, I have learnt an important lesson,’ He winked, sliding the cocktail menu over to me, carrying on talking before I could babble incoherently in response. ‘So, are you a Restaurateur Club member?’
‘Do I not look the type?’ Oh god, what was I doing? Drawing attention to myself.
He smiled easily, ‘All types of people love good food.’
I nodded, ‘It was a gift. My family know I’m a foodie.’
‘Family and food go together pretty well. Whatcha having? Negroni? Espresso Martini?’
‘It’s kind of early to be drinking, isn’t it?’ I looked at my watch. ‘On a weekday.’
‘They don’t think so.’ Milo nodded his head to the corner group. ‘Not a big drinker then?’
I shrugged. ‘It kind of has to blow my mind to be worth it.’
His eyes lit up. ‘A challenge! Let me make something for you?’
‘Off menu?’
‘A twist on the menu. I call it a Spicy Mule.’ He started getting together the ingredients, moving speedily but with efficiency, with purpose. ‘It’s all about the quality of the ingredients. Just like food. Sounds clichéd, but it’s true.’
I watched him relaxing into the process, the wriggle of his fingertips. ‘What makes it different from a traditional Moscow Mule?’
‘Well, madam, I’m glad you asked! The flavours are the same – ginger, lime, light and spicy. Traditionally served in a tin cup.’
‘So what do you change?’
‘Brown sugar on the lime, high-quality vodka, the slight difference between a ginger cordial and a ginger beer, and I make my own ginger infusion, with tea, takes the fizz out, but you bump it up with a little sparkling wine.’ He topped up the drink and grinned, dropping in the lime.
‘Go ahead.’ He wriggled his eyebrows and paused, bouncing on his heels like a puppy waiting for praise.
I sniffed it first, and he was right, a strong ginger flavour hit me, making my taste buds tingle. The lime was strong, tart, but there it was just like he’d said, the brown sugar. It tasted like summer, hazy days lying in the park, nights with too much liqueur on your tongue, a slight naughtiness, a recklessness.
I closed my eyes briefly, revelling in it. When I opened them, he was staring at me, waiting.
‘How do you do it?’
‘What?’ That lip quirk again.
‘You make them taste like memories,’ I said, sipping delicately again and biting my lip, licking the last of the sugar. ‘It’s like magic.’
‘It’s science.’ He looked pleased, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘And maybe just a pinch of flair.’
‘A lot of flair, maestro.’ I nodded to him. ‘Well, I’d better…’ I tilted my head. ‘I’ve got work to do. Thanks, though.’
Milo nodded, smiling, ‘My pleasure. The rest of my day will be much less interesting, probably just ferrying bottles of champagne over to the midweek party animals.’
My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out – Mia.
‘Hey.’ I mouthed an apology at Milo. ‘Everything okay?’
‘I think I left my scarf at the restaurant we went to. I know it’s stupid, and it wasn’t very expensive, but it was my mum’s and –’
She sounded distraught, rambling on about where she’d looked and how it was the only possible explanation.
‘It’s okay, I’m early for work – I’ll pop by Cafe Argentine and see if they have it.’
‘You’re an angel, thank you.’
I put down the phone and checked the time.
Milo came back down the bar from where he’d retreated. ‘You okay? You need something at Cafe Argentine?’
‘The friend I was with thinks she left her scarf there. It’s got sentimental value. I’ll walk over and see if they found it.’
Milo held up his hands. ‘They’re closed for a private function today, that’s why I’m working here. I’ll give them a call and see if they’ve got it– wait one second. What’s it look like?’
‘It’s white, a sort of pashmina with watercolour red flowers on it.’
He held up his hand and went out through the back of the bar. Poor Mia, she cherished the few things she had left of her mum’s. I knew she’d be devastated if she didn’t get it back.
Milo returned, jubilant. ‘They’ve got it! If you head over, tell them you spoke to me, and they’ll let you in.’
I felt my smile echo his as we stared at each other for a moment. ‘Thank you, really.’
&nb
sp; ‘No problem. I hope to wow you with another cocktail very soon.’
I paused, wondering whether I was making a terrible mistake. ‘If you’re ever doing research on excellent cocktails, you should try the Martini Club, in Covent Garden. Their bartender makes magic happen.’
‘Is he better than me?’
‘She is pretty damn good. You should check it out,’ I said, biting my lip.
‘I definitely will. Thanks for the tip.’
I walked away before I could make even more of a fool of myself. Invisible. I was meant to be invisible. Not inviting bartenders to my place of business.
* * *
It was a quick walk down to Tottenham Court Road, where Cafe Argentine sat staunchly between two ancient buildings, all worn brick and chandeliers sparkling through glass. The doorman greeted me with crossed arms, ‘Sorry, lovely, private event today.’
‘Milo called ahead? My friend left something here and I’m picking it up?’
He nodded, flashing me a smile. ‘For Milo, of course.’ He stepped aside. ‘Go through to the end of the bar and up the stairs – someone will be able to help you.’
* * *
There was a party in full swing, which was insane for a weekday afternoon, and yet a DJ was playing background techno beats whilst waiters swanned around with canapés and glasses of champagne. There were cameras everywhere, and I wondered if it was a setting for a film. Texting Mia that I was grabbing her scarf, and would drop it off later, I ran up the stairs and knocked on the door. A waitress poked her head round, frowned, and then said, ‘Ah, the pashmina, right?’ handing it over.
‘It looks crazy down there. What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘They’re filming a new reality TV show, I think? The guy’s a musician, and she’s an actress? The journalists are all down there too. I’m staying out of the way, don’t want to be on camera!’ She waved a hand around her perfectly attractive face, as if there was something wrong with it.
I thanked her, jogging back down the stairs, and was about to push through the doors to the exit when I saw him. The crowd was gathered around them in a semicircle, the beautifully coiffed extras looking delighted at a man down on one knee. As he looked up adoringly at the dark-haired woman, I could hear his voice clearly. The same voice that had whispered ‘I love you’s and sung loudly in the shower, the voice that had hushed me when I cried, now that voice was asking Leah to marry him.
There was the perfect pause before she jumped up and down, clapping her hands. He stepped up, pulled her into his arms and they kissed, an excellent movie moment. I ran.
* * *
I have always been an incredibly practical person. I survive by micromanaging, and if there’s something I’m feeling I don’t like, then I deal with it. Which was why I called Jacques, told him I was being violently ill (I felt like it) and couldn’t come in to work. Then I called Mia.
‘Thank you for finding it! The biggest bar of chocolate for you!’ she sang, the smile audible in her voice.
‘I found some other things too – you done at work?’ I sounded like I had a cold.
‘Just finishing.’
‘Meet me at the Trouserleg. I am going to need the largest drink imaginable.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘No fucking clue,’ I sighed. ‘See you soon.’
* * *
The train ride back was about avoiding those circling thoughts, tapping my feet and fiddling with the strap on my bag. I had been with someone for nearly ten years who had expressly said he didn’t believe in marriage, when what he really meant was that he didn’t want to marry me. Second, how long had this thing with Leah been going on if they were engaged now? He’d said he’d met someone, not that he’d cheated. All those late nights at clubs, I’d never even considered that he might be unfaithful. And why hadn’t I considered it? I’d been one of those girls in the club, flirting with him and demanding his attention. That was how we’d met.
Rob was so desperate for fame and validation, and I had wanted a quiet life with marriage and stability and a mortgage. Everything my mother dismissed and rejected.
Rob hated the idea of marriage. He said it was archaic and pointless and tied people together legally so they never had to make an effort any more. A small, dark part of me hoped it was that the TV show was making him do it now. That it would offer great ratings. Seeing the tears in his eyes as she said yes and he scooped her up into his arms, I didn’t think he was acting. But what did I know any more?
‘Married!’ I huffed to myself. ‘Married!’ The man next to me looked up and shuffled away slightly, brandishing his open book like a talisman.
I tried to distract myself on my phone, kicking my leg irritably until the woman across the train carriage tutted. I apologized, launching myself from the seat and out onto the platform as soon as it stopped. I just had to make it to the pub. I would get there, and Mia would call Rob some hilarious name, and remind me that I didn’t really want to be with him anyway. She would explain that it was probably all to do with my mother, and that the only cure for mother issues was a large drink and four tiny packets of jumbo salted peanuts, before watching Clueless for the 100th time.
And everything would be fine.
* * *
I stumbled to the pub and burst in, happy to see Mia standing there, her bright eyes full of worry. She grabbed me, hugging me, squeezing me tightly. ‘It’s all going to be all right, lovely, it really is.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Right. Good. Yes.’ I kept on holding her, arms tightly around her as we swung side to side, tears threatening to fall.
‘You know why I called?’
She winced, holding up her phone. An article and photo were already being shared on Twitter.
The Real Way DJ Rob Jensen and TV presenter Leah Williams get engaged! In the background, Rob’s ex, Savannah Curtis, daughter of rock-and-roll legend Persephone Black, seems distraught. The pair had been together almost ten years before DJ Real met Williams on The Real Way, back in season two, and sparks flew. Maybe Miss Curtis should have been watching the show more carefully if she wanted to keep her hands on her man. We suggest she follows in her mother’s footsteps and writes a song to woo him back. Seems to have worked with Persephone Black and her record producer boyfriend Dez ‘Copper’ Taylor last year, where fan-recorded videos of her song ‘It’s Not Over Yet’ went viral, and Mr Taylor returned to their home in the South of France. Come on, Savannah, is it going to be ‘I Will Survive’ or ‘Stand by Your Man’? Vote at the bottom for who you want to see DJ Real end up with!
The photo could only have been taken half an hour ago. And I did look pathetic, standing watching as they kissed. It was artistic as hell, I’d give the photographer that. Next to it was another photo of me taken years before, blotchy eyed and tearful after watching a tearjerker in the cinema. God, they must just save these images up so they’re useful one day.
‘Oh, fuck.’ I closed my eyes. ‘This is awful. This is worse than them getting engaged, the papers painting me as a pathetic dumped loser!’
She held me tightly, grabbing me by the shoulders as she pulled back. ‘Listen, I’m going to get us a ridiculous array of drinks, and we’re going to down a bunch of shots and we’re going to list one hundred reasons – that’s right, one hundred reasons – why Rob is a wimpy, spineless wombletoff dickbag. And we don’t even have to stop at one hundred!’
She kissed my cheek. ‘Go and grab our table.’
I walked resolutely, head held high as I headed to our normal booth. And then someone turned the music louder. Too loud for a quiet Wednesday in a half-empty pub.
It was that song.
Her song.
Listening to it at that moment was the thing that drove me over the edge. Hearing her soft voice, the one that had sung songs to get me to sleep, imagining her hands brushing back my hair gently at the exact moment I had felt betrayed again, it was too much.
Which was why when Mia came over, brandishing a tray wi
th a bottle of wine and two flaming sambucas, I looked at her and promptly burst into tears.
* * *
Mia walked me home, rubbing my arm and telling me it would be fine. The panicked gasps for breath in between sobs had slowed to a quiet rasping, my shoulders shaking. It was everything. It was Rob, and Leah, and moving back home. It was the paparazzi finding me. And it was that song, that same song that had haunted me for the last ten years, ever since she sent me a copy in the post. ‘Baby Don’t Ask Me to Stay’ wasn’t one of her best, in my opinion, but people liked it. They sang along. Going into sixth form one day to hear one corner of the common room singing that line, ‘Don’t ask me to stay’, was excruciating. They didn’t know. They just thought it was my mum’s song. They didn’t know she’d written me a note, saying it was her ‘processing her feelings about what happened to us’. It was me she couldn’t stay for. She gave radio interviews about how painful it was leaving her daughter, but how she had a better life now, how she’d sacrificed motherhood to allow me to grow. It was infuriating, and painful. The only thing worse than your mother writing a pop song about abandoning you as a child is when it gets to number one on your birthday.
I’d gone off the rails completely, drinking too much, fighting with Jen, trying to prove that I didn’t need her, that she was selfish and awful to use me as an inspiration piece, a marketing ploy. The morning after my 18th birthday, I woke up in hospital. Alcohol poisoning. Jen was the angriest I’d ever seen her, asking me if I was finally done now, if I would stop letting my mother control my life. And I had to say yes, because I was tired of being Persephone Black’s daughter, and no one else. Every time that song’s come on, I’ve turned over the station, or I’ve left. If I can’t, I make conversation with someone, or put in my headphones. But that day, well, she got me good. With excellent timing, as always.
Mia helped me up the stairs into bed, like I was some ageing relative, but I did feel weak and empty. I felt like I was a hundred years old as I grasped the banister and held on to her. I crawled into bed and pulled the cover over me. I heard Mia’s footsteps as she closed the door gently.