by Cocktails
She tilted her head in that way women do when they’re working out your intentions. A small smile played about her lips, and I felt my cheeks redden even as she answered. ‘Yeah, he’s helping set up for an event downstairs, but I think he’s on his way up. I’ll send him over.’
‘Oh no, that’s just –’
‘No, really –’ She smiled, overly helpful. ‘It’s no problem.’
‘No…’ I paused, searching for a lie. ‘He served me the other day, and I was a little curt with him, so I just wanted to apologize, that’s all.’
The girl blinked, as if she’d never heard of a customer doing that before, and her gaze seemed to soften. ‘That’s so nice. People tend to not even really see servers half the time. It’s nice that you would do that.’ Then she straightened, realising that was probably not the right thing to say. ‘Your drink will be over shortly.’
As she retreated I wanted to shout after her, I’m one of you! I get shouted at each night, or hit on, or mocked, or have to deal with someone using me as an emotional punchbag because they’ve had a bad day! I get it!
Instead, I was on the other side now. I was the customer who wondered what the heck was so special about the dressing, if they had aioli instead, and asked if they could have it on the side.
I decided Soraya was definitely somewhere Alba should be proud to have on her list, as long as the food was as good as the coffee. Then I started looking at cookery schools. There were so many options. I’d started looking around London; then I found one in Scotland, using locally grown produce. Then there was France, where everyone trained. If you were going to be a classical chef. But did I want to be a classical chef? Maybe I wanted to train in cooking with foraged ingredients in Denmark, or make pasta in Italy. Maybe I wanted to make sushi, or do a course pairing wine with food? I thought back to watching Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina with Jen, not long after Mum had left me with her. ‘Watch this, Savvy! Look how all her dreams come true!’ And I had loved it, even though it was black and white, and everyone spoke so quickly and I wasn’t really sure why she’d been sent away to learn how to make soufflés. Sabrina was sent to Paris to learn to cook and she came back someone glamorous, beautiful and sophisticated. That was what Paris could do for a broken-hearted girl. But I didn’t want sophistication. I didn’t want classic. I wanted something new, something about flavour and experimentation and the music of food. I wanted to do what I did last night every night, getting better and better, learning more and more ways to make people sigh in delight as they ate.
I had never really travelled, and now there were so many places to see, things to eat, recipes to try. I could go anywhere I wanted, depending on whether the cookery schools would accept me. I had some money saved up, scrimper and saver that I was, as well as those odd cheques my mother sent to Jen, who had deposited them in my account over the years. I had never touched them, out of pride, but as Jen has pointed out, my mother would never know if I’d cashed them or not. And sometimes, when it came to money, you had to swallow your pride. Especially if that money could float my dreams. I could go somewhere sunny, somewhere I could ride a bike in the morning, or walk down little cobblestone paths. I pictured myself buying vegetables from a local market and cooking in a cute flat with hardwood floors and colourful kitchen tiles. I enjoyed the dream for a little longer, imagining what wine I’d be drinking and the view I’d see out of my window, when I saw Milo turn up behind the bar. I got up to walk over to him, eyes focused, and was immediately knocked into.
She hadn’t aged at all. Her golden hair still curled gently, long and heavy with perhaps a couple of lighter streaks. She was still wearing the jeans and floaty tops and those goddamn cowboy boots with the daisies up the side. There were hundreds of necklaces laced one over the other, and almost each finger had a ring on it. She swirled round as she knocked into me, grabbing my shoulder to stop me hurtling along.
‘Sorry, sweetheart, you okay?’ Her voice was drier, rasping just a little. It used to be deep but sultry; now it sounded like she’d been smoking since she left all those years ago. I searched her face for recognition, waiting for that moment, for that light to come on in those brown eyes, but she just blinked again. I saw the tan lines, faint around her eyes, where she’d been wearing sunglasses. Papers said she’d been playing in LA. She looked good, but I took joyful notice of the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and the chapped lips.
‘Darling, you all right there?’ She caught my eye, moving closer, still holding my arm. I waited, not saying anything, just breathing, just waiting for her to say, Oh my God, baby girl!
She got a little smile on her face, understanding but patronising. ‘Do you want an autograph, or a picture? I don’t mind. Especially as I knocked into you!’
Oh, St Persephone of the adoring fans, always thinking of how she can give back, make them love her more. But can’t recognize her own fucking child.
I shook my head, blinked in disbelief a couple more times, and watched as she shrugged and smiled, patted my shoulder and was gone, striding over to the other side of the room. She sat in intense conversation, and I realized her manager had changed again. This new one was young, too young to handle her. His blond hair slicked back, his suit a little too sharp for his surroundings, where everyone looked boho chic and shabby-but-expensive. He wouldn’t last. She always went back to Pete, no matter what. Pete was the one who jumpstarted her career, who recorded her album, got her the first tour. No matter how many times she switched labels, I was pretty sure she still spent nights smoking in Pete’s basement and drinking whisky, running back to her label when he told her what to do, or what to record.
I told myself I never looked for news about her, but if it came my way I paid attention. The word in the industry was that she’d dried up – there hadn’t been a new album in forever. There was a time when she put out hits like clockwork, but she was jumping from agency to agency non-stop. Now even the tours had stopped. It wasn’t like her to go quiet – she was frenetic, moveable chaos. She wasn’t about the long term.
I kept looking, twisting my neck to check she was still there, like picking at a scab. She didn’t look interested in what the Suit was saying. He was leaning in, all earnest, hands tapping the table to demand her attention. She was leaning back, unengaged, looking around at the other people in the restaurant. I willed her to make eye contact with me, willed her to suddenly see me and recognize me. But that moment had already passed.
I couldn’t just sit there. I shuffled in my seat, half stood, then sat again. What could I say? But if I didn’t say anything, this would be another incident like the other night with Rob. Another occasion when Savannah Curtis stood on the sidelines, watching as someone who had wronged her got away with it. It was painful enough to watch Rob propose to Leah, and stand there in the dark. Now I was standing in the dark again, letting her get away with making me invisible. I stood up, bridling with anger, ready to confront her. And then the waitress brought over my salad, looking at me in confusion. I sat down again, mumbling a ‘thank you’ and avoiding eye contact.
I just looked at that stupid sandwich, shell-shocked, angry at being denied my chance. I didn’t look at my mother again, instead focusing on the flavours of the salad, how the crunch of the cabbage and the light ginger dressing worked well, how the aioli was unnecessary and that I would have served the chicken hot.… but I truly did not give a shit. A salad had stopped my path to redemption. A salad. A few moments later, the same server brought over a Bloody Mary, with a receipt underneath. She was gone before I could say I hadn’t ordered it. It was served in a short glass, with a range of vegetation sprouting from it, a huge celery stick, vibrant carrot, herbs and ice, with a tiny bottle of Tabasco on the side. I looked at the receipt, and saw no charge, just a blank paper with an easy, looping scrawl:
Meet me tonight at the Attic for drinks we haven’t made ourselves. I’ll give you all my cocktail recipes if you stop looking so sad. 5 p.m.? Milo
I placed m
y shaking hand around the cold glass and sipped, considering the balance, allowing the flavours to ground me. I turned around before I could stop myself, and Persephone was gone, the slimy Suit along with her. The meeting would not have gone well. I suddenly thought I might have imagined her. But I remembered that physical bump, the smell of cigarettes and nag champa, still the same. Unforgettable. I took a breath and sipped the Bloody Mary again, looking back to the note. I added some Tabasco and a little pepper, tasting it again, before sighing, focusing on my breathing.
Milo looked at me from across the bar, dark hair falling over his eye as his tilted his head in a question. The note. Right, see Milo. The whole point I was here. Apart from being blindsided by the mother who abandoned me. I held up the drink and nodded. He tilted his head to the note and raised his eyebrows. I nodded again, and he smiled, bright and beaming, before pressing his lips together and turning away. That one moment made me feel a little better, but as I looked back at my computer screen, I suddenly wondered what the hell I was doing. I wanted to travel to Italy and make pasta? I’d never travelled alone. I’d never lived alone. My own mother didn’t even recognize me. I wasn’t interesting or engaging, and yes, so I could cook decent food, but the people at the Martini Club liked me, they were friendly and felt sorry for me. They were being nice. Proper chefs, proper people who had been studying cooking for years, they weren’t going to like me, they weren’t going to think I was special. Everything I’d been thinking suddenly seemed ridiculous, and in the space of 30 seconds with my mother, I was back to being invisible Savvy. I could put a thousand colours in my hair, or cook a thousand wonderful dishes, but I was still just going to be me.
* * *
I didn’t bother going home. I didn’t want to talk about Mum, I didn’t want to see Jen’s eyes widen or her hands clench. I didn’t want to hear my dad wave it away with, ‘That’s just your mum, love. That’s the way she is.’ I wanted to hold on to the feeling of that Bloody Mary in my stomach, the curls of Milo’s ‘l’ on his note, that smile beneath his lashes across the bar. And I wanted to cook.
I strode into the Martini Club whilst the guys were rehearsing. Arabella was singing ‘All that Jazz’, and it was funny to see her on stage in jeans and a T-shirt, still giving it her all, still sassy without the black eyeliner. She never really performed any more – running the business was more than enough – but she liked to rehearse, and she liked to occasionally wow us when she returned to the stage.
‘Hey, closed session –’ She paused, suddenly looking less like a builder who’d deck you for trespassing, and smiling sweetly. ‘Hey, Savvy, back so soon?’
‘I… I’ve got some time to kill, and I am pissed off about life, and I thought maybe I could make you lunch?’
She grinned from the stage, her round face and blue eyes suddenly so less bombastic without the make-up or the figure-hugging outfits. ‘That would be fab, darling. Thank you.’
‘The others rehearsing?’
She shook her head. ‘About half an hour, I just… I missed it, you know? Wanted to make sure I still had it.’
‘I don’t think you lose what you’ve got, Bel.’ I shrugged. ‘I think it’s part of who you are.’
I watched as her forehead lifted in surprise, and she simply stared at me in pleased wonder, until I shook my head.
‘Ricardo here? Think he’ll mind me using his kitchen?’
‘I think he’ll be thrilled,’ she said. ‘We got a ridiculous shipment of salmon in – the orders guy is trying to get in my good books. Use up as much as you can!’
I walked into the kitchen, pushing the door with force, letting it swing. It was clean but empty, and I knew Ricardo had probably already been and done his prep that morning. I tied up my hair, washed my hands and put on an apron, before assessing the spare ingredients. I looked at each one, considering flavour, texture, cooking method. Time of year and location. These things were important; they were the basis for how to create a meal, how to make something that evoked memories and stirred taste buds.
I did everything in slow motion, working from instinct. Chopping slowly, properly, speeding up. Tearing herbs, crushing garlic. I heated a pan and watched as the oil sizzled. I spread out, using all the space, turning up the music on my phone and dancing as I moved. I was queen of my own domain and it was beautiful.
When I brought out the food, Bel and I sat in the corner booth, which she’d laid out with knives and forks and a bottle of beer each, and clapped her hands together as I placed the plates on the table.
‘What is it?’
‘Poached salmon salsa tacos, with crème fraiche and baked avocado fries.’ I smiled. ‘I need to work on plate presentation but…’
‘It smells amazing!’ She fell into the booth and gestured for me to join. ‘I thought we could watch their rehearsals. You’re never here at this time of day, and you never really get to watch whilst you’re working anyway.’
She picked up her fork and speared some salmon, before pausing and looking at me. ‘I know a lot of people think seeing it all in rehearsal spoils it, but I think it’s the best bit. Without the frills and the make-up and everything else, they can still make it seem magic.’
She tilted her chin towards the stage, where Jacques was practising his moves, twisting his shoulders before doing a one-handed back flip, righting himself instantly.
‘Whoa.’
‘See,’ Bel snorted, ‘it’s important to see how much work goes into stuff like this. The same way you’ll be with your craft. It takes practice, and instinct and talent, and desperation, all rolled into one.’
We sat in a companionable silence as we ate, nodding to ourselves, sipping at the beers as they each started to sing, dance, move. The music started playing, and eventually Taya and Charlotte moved and preened and sang along to ‘Stupid Cupid’, fluttering their eyelashes to let you know that the winged little bastard had never got them yet. But if you hoped enough, maybe you’d be lucky.
‘They’re selling possibility,’ Bel grinned at me, suddenly looking so young. ‘That’s the beauty of it.’
‘You know,’ I ventured, swirling my fork around, ‘this is the longest time we’ve interacted without you calling me “darling”.’
‘That’s because technically I’m off the clock,’ she winked, her dark brown hair flowing loose over her shoulders, her lovely round face crinkled in a cheeky smile. She sighed, looking at the forkful of food, held up to her eye line. ‘You know, I never used to be able to eat like this – I would never even have looked at this food – and now here I am, tasting it and enjoying it. It’s wonderful.’
‘It’s not unhealthy… I poached the salmon!’
Arabella snorted, and smiled at me, tilting her head. ‘When I came to London I was here to be a dancer, a singer, an actress. Anything. Only work I could get was modelling, which seemed great at the beginning. I was 21, living on coffee and cigarettes. But then… well, there seemed to be less dancing, and I was getting too old for the modelling, and gradually, these hips and boobs and arse seemed to grow, because I wasn’t working, and I was drinking every night and living off takeaways, and somehow… no matter how hard I hated my body, or how much I tried to force it to go back, it wouldn’t.’
‘You stopped dancing?’ The thought made me sad.
‘For a while,’ she shrugged, ‘and then one night I came to a burlesque show and I saw this woman, this femme fatale standing there proud and shameless, knowing how to contort her body to make jaws drop, how to bare all and give nothing away. How to make them weak with a wink. And so I decided to become that. And this place was born.’ She threw her hands up. ‘I was reborn.’
She winked slowly, and even without her fake lashes or dark eyeshadow, even without the sparkle, she had it.
‘And that, my darling, is why I will eat this and fucking well enjoy it. Because that’s what my beautiful body deserves.’ She nodded her head at me.
‘This place is all yours?’
Bel s
norted. ‘Sweetheart, did it never occur to you that I swan about as if I own the place because I do, actually, own the place?’
‘… I didn’t think people owned burlesque clubs. I figured some rich fat-cat banker was sitting in his Notting Hill mansion getting rich, and we were putting in the work.’
‘I can assure you no one is getting rich. But we’re all working, we’re all making money and friends and memories, right?’ Bel laughed at me, piling up our plates. ‘And one of these days we’re going to get you on the stage, too – right, Sav?’
‘You’ve already got me in the kitchen. Leave me be!’
‘And look how wonderful you were once we got you in there.’ Bel winked as she stood up, taking the dishes to the back. ‘Think of the wonderful things you could do.’
* * *
The Attic was one of those pretentious places that tried to trick you into thinking it was something that it wasn’t. Mainly in that it was called the Attic, and it was a basement bar.
It was one of those places Rob used to love, lots of people talking to each other loudly about how great they were, and trying to look like they were having the best time. Everything was a competition. However, at five o’clock, it was quiet. There was space to sit at the bar, and the few people in there had clocked off early to have a quiet Tuesday with their friends. Buddy Holly was playing in the background, and the bartender was dancing along behind the bar as she swept. When she looked up and saw me, she didn’t even look embarrassed.
‘What can I get you?’
‘She’ll have a Manhattan Twist, my way.’ Milo slid onto the bar stool next to mine, and I jumped at the proximity. I was used to him being on the other side of the bar, and to have him right there felt too close. I could see each inch of the stubble on his chin, the hazel of his eyes.