by Fiona Gibson
Well, sod that, I decide, after he’s gone, hurt that Sinead couldn’t even bear to come to the house and say hello. And now, having been unable to tempt Flynn with my ciabatta doughballs with garlic butter dip, I hardly feel like tucking into them either. In fact, why shouldn’t I go out for dinner too, by myself? That’ll show them! So, where to choose for my own night out? Of course, there’s still Angus Pew’s food contamination issue, which gnaws away at the worry centre of my brain from time to time. None of the pubs are terribly appealing; I’d probably be spotted by someone I know – a situation I’d rather avoid.
Look – there’s Nate Turner, having dinner all by himself on a Friday night. Have you heard that his wife left him?
I know where to go. The fact that it’s somewhere Sinead and I would never frequent serves only to heighten its appeal, as I won’t be plagued by unwelcome thoughts, such as, ‘What would she order?’ Or, ‘Oh, look – sea bass. My wife’s favourite fish!’ No, I decide, sensing my appetite building now, Sinead definitely wouldn’t be thrilled by my restaurant of choice tonight.
Only four of the dozen or so tables in Burger Bill’s are occupied when I arrive just after 9 p.m. ‘A thousand permutations?’ I exclaim, looking up at Tanzie in her tangerine shirt, which I have to say clashes startlingly with the purplish hue of her hair.
‘That’s right,’ she says with a broad smile.
‘But … how can that even be possible?’
She jabs at the enormous laminated menu I’m holding. ‘Well, with your patties you’ve got the option of beef, chicken, salmon or veggie. Then there are eleven cheese options, thirty-two toppings and twenty-one sauces …’ She pauses for breath. ‘Are you any good at maths?’
‘Not bad, but I’ll take your word for it …’ I focus back at the shiny menu, the white type on a black background proving a devil to read. The thumping music and orange walls, not to mention the squiggly graphics of dancing gherkins on the menu, suggest that the place is aimed at a somewhat younger demographic. However, Tanzie’s cheery manner is making me glad I decided to come here after all. ‘I’m not used to this much choice,’ I add.
‘The point is that customers can build their own meal,’ she says patiently.
I look back at the menu, conscious that Tanzie has other tables to attend to – but now, with the knowledge that the patty/topping/sauce permutations are virtually infinite, I am trapped in indecision.
‘D’you like beef?’ she suggests.
Oh God, beef. As Sinead will only eat creatures from the sea, and not land, we never have it at home. ‘I do, yes. I love beef.’
‘Well, that’s what I always go for,’ she says brightly. ‘The dirty beef burger with crispy salad, pickles, Monterey Jack cheese, piri piri sauce …’
‘What exactly is a dirty burger?’
‘It just means messy and juicy with big flavours,’ she explains.
‘Tons of salt, yes.’ My stomach growls in anticipation. ‘And piri piri sauce … what’s that?’
She laughs. ‘Where have you been, Nate? It’s just hot sauce, with chillies in. You sound just like my dad. He’s so suspicious and weird about food …’
‘Hey, I’m not weird …’
‘He won’t even eat pasta, for goodness’ sake,’ she cuts in. ‘I mean, pasta! I forget it’s not actually British, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely …’
‘God help the lady who tried to serve it up to him in his care home: “I hope you’re not expecting me to eat this foreign muck!”’ She honks with laughter. ‘You’re okay with fries, I take it?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. She chuckles, and I realise that, while I have shared an alarming amount of detail about my private life with her – under duress, I might add – I know very little about hers, bar the basic details. It’s not that I particularly want to know more about her. However, she is bright and engaging and seems terribly kind, if a little overwhelming, and I can’t quite get my head around why she has landed herself with a slob like Gary.
‘Anything else?’ she asks.
‘Just a Coke please.’ I glance furtively towards the door to the kitchen. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Um … d’you know all the chefs who work here?’
‘Yeah, of course I do. There’s usually two at a time. It’s Ted and Richard tonight …’
I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘There isn’t an Angus Pew working here?’
‘Never heard of him,’ she replies, frowning. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Just someone I’m hoping to avoid,’ I say quickly.
Now Tanzie is studying me intently, and I realise my mistake in bringing this up. ‘C’mon,’ she urges, ‘you can’t start to tell me and then not.’ Across the restaurant, a woman raises a hand to attract Tanzie’s attention.
‘It’s nothing,’ I mutter, scanning the room. ‘Just a guy who failed his test with me. Said he’s a chef at some restaurant in Hesslevale – he wouldn’t tell me which one – and if he sees me eating there …’ I tail off with a shudder.
‘You mean, he’ll do something to your food?’ Her green eyes widen.
‘He threatened to, yeah.’
‘What, like, spit on it or something?’
‘I’ve no idea, he didn’t specify …’
‘Or put snot on it?’
‘I don’t know! Can we leave it now, please?’
‘God,’ she says, grimacing. ‘Well, don’t worry – you’re safe here.’ With a pat of my arm, off she goes, leaving me to study my surroundings with feigned interest, as if I have arrived from some distant planet where there are no burger joints; then, stuck for how to occupy myself, I turn my attention to my phone and prod at it, finally settling on the list function.
My plan is to make notes about the points on Sinead’s list which I might try to tackle next. I inhale deeply and run through it in my head. Obviously, I know it off by heart; this could be my specialist subject. But I can’t think of anything to note down. My brain is drained, my energies consumed by the anticipation of a vast platter of fast food.
‘You look miles away there,’ Tanzie remarks as she brings my burger, which is surprisingly delicious: a veritable feast of sizzling red meat, cheese, fat and salt, all jammed together with wooden sticks and involving a mere cursory nod towards greenery. It’s like being in a service station caff with one of the bands again – only everything is bigger and juicer than I can ever remember. The chips, heaped generously in a silvery receptacle (I knew zinc buckets were trendy!) are equally pleasing. In case I’m not quite sending myself off to the coronary ward, I sprinkle extra salt all over everything. See what you think about that, Sinead!
‘How was that?’ Tanzie asks when I’ve devoured the lot.
‘Really good, thank you,’ I enthuse.
‘You sound amazed.’ She laughs. By now, the other remaining customers are getting ready to leave; minutes later, it’s just me and Tanzie. Looking rather tired now, she plonks herself down on the chair opposite.
‘So, is that your shift over for the night?’ I ask.
She grimaces. ‘Pretty much. Just got to wipe the tables and cash up …’
‘How will you get home?’ Somehow, I can’t imagine Gary rousing himself to come and fetch her.
‘Last bus,’ she replies. ‘Twenty past eleven.’
I frown at her. ‘It’s only just gone ten now. That’s an awfully long wait. Will you hang about in here?’
‘No, Ted’ll want to lock up before then. I’ll just wait at the bus stop,’ she says matter-of-factly.
I glance at the rain-streaked window, then back at Tanzie. ‘For, what, over an hour? In this weather?’
She laughs, in the way that Flynn does, when I’m being patronising for perhaps suggesting that he might deign to wear proper, watertight shoes, and not flimsy canvas articles, in three-inch snow. ‘I am a grown-up, and this is Hesslevale, remember. There’s no crime here …’
‘The Happy Fr
yer’s window was smashed last weekend!’
‘… and there is actually a bus shelter.’ She gives me a bemused look. ‘Not that you ever have to lower yourself to using public transport …’
‘Of course I do,’ I retort.
‘When did you last take the bus, then?’
‘Erm …’ I roll up my paper napkin into a skinny sausage and frown. ‘It must be when we took Flynn to the safari park …’
‘That’s not a public transport bus,’ Tanzie retorts.
‘Of course it is. It’s for lots of people – the general public …’
‘The general public don’t pay twenty quid to be driven round a safari park …’
I laugh in disbelief. I know she’s winding me up, but now it feels imperative to win this debate. ‘They do, actually,’ I retort. ‘And there’s a choice, you know – you can either drive around in your own car …’
‘If you can drive,’ she chips in.
‘Yes, of course – or you can take the bus—’
‘Which is painted in zebra stripes.’
‘And your point is …?’
Tanzie chuckles. ‘Normal buses aren’t zebra-striped. Anyway, look – here I am, babbling away when you’re sitting there, waiting for your bill.’ She springs up and makes for the counter.
‘I’m not in any rush,’ I call after her, because, actually, I am enjoying her company. It’s far preferable to sitting at home alone.
She returns with my bill, then attends to the tables with her squirty disinfectant and cloth.
‘Erm, I could give you a lift home, if you like,’ I call over. ‘It’s awful weather and I really don’t like the idea of you standing out there by yourself.’
She puts down the plastic bottle. ‘Thanks, but it’s fine. I do it all the time.’
‘Well, I’d be happy to. I’d just have to let Flynn know, in case he comes home when I’m out—’
‘Are you allowed to do that?’
‘You mean, give you a lift? I don’t see why not—’
She beams at me. ‘I mean as a driving examiner. Are you allowed to give a lift to someone when you’ve done loads of their tests?’
I pause. ‘Yes, of course I am.’
She hands me the card machine to settle up my bill, and I slide a generous tip rather self-consciously under my glass.
‘I really do think you could’ve passed last time,’ I add as I tap in my PIN number. ‘You nearly nailed it. If you hadn’t been so distracted—’
‘I’m not looking for an assessment of my driving right now,’ she says with a snort, ‘but, actually, I will take your offer of a lift home, kind sir. So, where’s your chariot?’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The drive to Tanzie’s only takes twenty minutes, and she uses the time efficiently in order to grill me about my progress with The List. ‘So, your records have gone?’ she asks.
‘Yep, all sold …’
‘Even the Bruce Springsteens?’
‘Even the Bruce Springsteens!’
She stares in wonder from the passenger seat. ‘Well, she can’t say you’re not committed.’
‘Maybe I should be committed,’ I mutter, which she seems not to hear.
‘So, what’s next?’
‘That’s the tricky part,’ I reply as we speed along the dark country road. ‘I mean, it’s easy to pick up Scout’s poos and tackle the laundry and all that …’
‘Why didn’t you do it all before then?’ she asks with a sly grin, and I frown, wondering whether or not she is teasing.
‘I would have if she’d asked.’
She exhales through her nose. ‘Women don’t always want to have to ask. I mean, why should we?’
I glance at her. She seems to be harbouring a grudge against men in general; understandable, I guess, considering the specimen she’s living with. Lino’s not the only thing he lays, she reckons. Maybe her ex, Neil, was of that type too. I am keen to show her that I am not of that camp – not because I care what she thinks of me, but simply because it’s not true.
‘Nate?’ she prompts me. ‘Why should a woman have to ask her husband to do stuff?’
‘Because it’s useful to communicate?’ I suggest.
She blinks at me, exasperated. ‘Yes, but asking implies that it’s the woman who’s meant to be in charge, and he’s just helping.’
‘I’ve always been willing to help,’ I insist, which seems to rile her even further. Perhaps it’s not just Sinead I’m capable of irritating to the point of combustion – but the whole of womankind.
‘You’re still thinking of it as helping,’ she says slowly, as if I am eight, ‘when really it should be an equal partnership.’
‘Oh. Yes, I see what you mean.’ I focus on the road ahead, deciding right now that I won’t be going in for a cuppa this time, even if she tries to lure me with a Penguin biscuit.
‘So,’ she adds in a calmer tone, ‘how about the stuff on her list about you being a better, more thoughtful husband? The deeper stuff, I mean?’
‘Ah, yes …’ I run through them silently, relieved that she’s stopped haranguing me for a moment or two. You don’t consider my needs, is the one that springs to mind. ‘I guess she thinks I took it for granted that she gave up her jewellery business to look after Flynn,’ I murmur, more to myself than to Tanzie.
‘She had a jewellery business?’
‘Yeah, a pretty successful one too. She was in all the glossy magazines – Elle, Marie Claire …’ I glance at Tanzie, who looks nonplussed. I’m guessing that she isn’t a glossy magazine kind of person.
‘Couldn’t she get that up and running again?’ she suggests.
‘I suppose so, but—’
‘Why couldn’t she, with your support?’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ I say, feeling a little agitated myself now. ‘I mean, she has a job—’
‘Yeah, in a gift shop …’
‘And she needs an income, especially as we’re not together anymore …’ I tail off, remembering that, if I can’t put things right, then sometime pretty soon we’ll be sorting out our finances and dividing everything up. The very thought fills me with dread, because then, it’ll be final. There’ll be no list to work from – no project. It’ll be solicitors and divorce and the rest of my life spent without her … ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘enough about me. How have things been with you lately?’
‘All right, I s’pose.’ She throws me a guarded look. She has a certain expression, I realise, that she adopts when she is less sure of herself; a determined face, chin jutting out, as if she is trying to project an air of defiance.
We fall into silence, and I wonder what Flynn made of my hasty text: Went out to dinner, giving someone a lift home, back v soon.
‘It’s just … I hope you don’t mind me bringing it up,’ I add.
‘Bringing what up?’ she asks.
‘Well, that night I was round at yours, you mentioned …’ I pause. ‘Um, you said there’d been a bit of a situation at home, that’s all. And that worried me a bit.’
‘Oh, that,’ she mutters. ‘Yeah, that was nothing …’
‘Really?’
She nods mutely. ‘Oh, all right. You want to know what happened that night?’
‘Only if you feel comfortable telling me …’
‘Okay, well – ever since then I’ve been sort of wishing Gary was trans.’
I throw her an incredulous look. ‘You mean, you wish he liked wearing women’s clothes?’
‘Yeah. Well, underwear, specifically. In fact, a gigantic pink bra, even more specifically—’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve kind of lost me now …’
‘I found this bra,’ she says emphatically, ‘in our laundry basket that night, just before I stormed out with Wolfie and found you. We’d had a row about it. That was the situation I was talking about …’
‘I see,’ I murmur, turning off the wipers now the rain has finally subsided.
‘Hideous thing, it was,�
� she continues. ‘Definitely not mine …’
I inhale deeply, wondering what to do with this piece of information. I’ve never had a woman confide in me like this before. ‘So, you think the bra might be Gary’s?’ I venture, giving her a quick look.
‘No,’ she retorts, as if I’m an idiot. ‘I was only joking. But it belongs to someone, obviously.’ She shrugs. ‘He denies getting up to anything, but I know he’s lying through his teeth.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
Tanzie nods. ‘Remember my last driving test?’
‘Yes, of course.’ It’s embedded in my brain …
‘Well, that day, on the way to the test centre, I spotted Gary’s van parked where it shouldn’t have been. He said he was over in Bradford doing a job, but I spotted it in a side street on the edge of Solworth …’
‘Right. That does sound odd …’
‘That’s why I was so distracted,’ she adds.
‘No, honestly, you drove pretty well that day!’
‘Hmm,’ she murmurs. ‘Anyway, I phoned him just before I did my test. He was still adamant that he was in Bradford laying someone’s floor …’
‘Right. Could you have made a mistake, though? I mean, might it have been another van?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says, frowning.
We fall into silence for a few moments. ‘And with the bra, well … are you sure there’s no other explanation? I mean, could a visitor – a friend of yours – have left it at your place?’
Tanzie snorts. ‘No one ever stays over. We don’t have the space, and anyway, my friends can’t stand Gary …’
I focus on the road ahead, trying to figure out other ways in which a rogue bra might have deposited itself in a random laundry basket. ‘Could a bird have flown in through an open window with it?’