Prior Engagements

by Sarah Goodwin

  “The Opal,” Christophe announced, causing his wife’s face to soften unexpectedly, like someone had just jabbed a needle full of Thorazine into her spine. Christophe smiled lovingly at her, and I felt suddenly like an intruder.

  Dorian and I left the couple to it, and went to investigate the upper floors of the café.

  Both the second floor and top floor had the same Turkish carpets and multicoloured cushions as the room we had just left (and they were joined together by wooden stairs painted to look like piano keys) but while the lower floor was decorated orange and yellow, the second was blue and green, and the very top floor was a bower of red and pink. A golden Buddha was painted over an enormous round window (which had become his belly) and sunsets had been drawn over the upturned wall sconces. The whole place was invitingly cushy and homey, whilst still containing so many talking points that it felt like a theme park attraction, rather than a café, just the way I’d intended.

  It was Raspberry Bs, without the budget.

  But without Will.

  It was this thought that brought my whirligig tour to a standstill.

  Dorian looked around, impressed as I was, and sat down in a soft, lipstick coloured armchair.

  “Do you miss it?” he asked.

  “What? Working in a café? I still do,” I said.

  “No, working in your café, in Bath.”

  “It was never my café,” I reminded him, feeling my heart thud as I remembered choosing paint and chairs, hunting in charity shops for coffee sets and cake stands, even going skip diving for a comfy old sofa, working on the menu and scrubbing the horrible old kitchen up into something serviceable.

  No, it was never my café, it had always been ours. Will’s, and mine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  That night, once I’d returned to work and thanked Mags with a huge mug of tea and a fat, sugar crusted pastry, I went back to the apartment and got myself tidied up for The Opal’s grand opening.

  When we arrived, the café was lit by candles, hundreds of them, in coloured glass holders and candelabras, and the tables were all occupied with chattering patrons. The air smelt reassuringly of lemony chicken and rosewater, and waitresses in white linen trousers and bronze silk shirts were serving trays of jasmine tea cocktails. Dorian and I were ushered to a table on the top floor draped in poppy coloured silk, where Christophe and Opal were already seated.

  “Welcome,” Christophe said, standing and extending his arms to greet us, his black silk shirt making him look like a mafia don, “it’s a lovely night isn’t it?”

  “It’s wonderfully busy,” Dorian said, “however you’re advertising, it’s clearly working.”

  “Ah, but I did not advertise,” Christophe said, somewhat smugly, “I simply opened the doors and offered free drinks, knowing that they would find a reason to stay, and reasons to return.”

  I wasn’t quite convinced at the wisdom of this, but I didn’t say anything. I tucked some of my hair (which really needed a touch up, I was getting mousy at the roots again) behind my ear and downed my cocktail, determined to enjoy the opening of the café that I had helped to create. (Though, as old rock music played softly, and candles flickered and exhaled sandalwood scents, I remembered the opening of Raspberry Bs, no fuss, no wine and cocktails, just me and Will unlocking the door and waiting patiently to be discovered – playing poker and drinking heaps of tea as we did so).

  Opal gestured for a waitress to refill our glasses, and then pierced me with a look.

  “That’s an interesting outfit,” she began, looking at my verdigris coloured shirt dress (a Laura Ashley confection saved from Help the Aged’s mothball scented racks some time ago). And so another night with Opal was off to a flying start, and the urge to lie under the table and whistle until it was all over came upon me, along with a desire to be suddenly at home, in bed, alone.

  When I woke up in bed, alone, the next morning, I changed my wish to a sincere one for death. And a speedy death at that. My mouth was the texture of a hessian doormat, and my head felt like a family of incontinent Weebles with inner-ear complaints had taken up residence. My stomach felt sore, and I half remembered being sick (though when, where and over what/who remained a blissful mystery – and does to this very day). I was alone in the bedroom, a fact that it took me a while to discover, as it took me ten minutes of stomach roiling struggle to prop myself up on some pillows and open my gritty-feeling eyes.

  It took a further half hour for me to drag myself out of bed and across the room (stopping to lean heavily on the doorjamb and whimper as my face burnt and my body shivered) then I groped my way down the hallway towards the kitchen. I could tell that Dorian had been there, the remains of his bowl of granola was curdling in the sink (a sight which set the Weebles wobbling). I made myself a cup of tea and braced myself for the trial of lifting the cup to my mouth and getting the liquid down my throat.

  Once I’d recovered from the Herculean labour of lifting and swallowing, I shuffled to the door of Dorian’s studio and knocked politely.

  “Come on in,” Dorian called, “I’m on a break.”

  I opened the door and was confronted with a confusing sight, which, had I not been in so much pain, might have stood a chance of convincing me that I was still very much plastered.

  Dorian was wrangling two cloth mannequins, on to which some socks stuffed with cotton balls had been sewn to approximate both penis and testicles (the socks were stripy, and one bollock had ‘Tuesday’ written on it in green). The mannequins were dressed in black leather bondage gear (one even had on a mask with a zipped mouth – something I’d have to purloin for our next dinner with Opal) and Dorian was trying to position them in a sex swing.

  “...this is for work, yes?” I asked.

  “Yes. The scene is quite complex, and I needed a model.”

  “You could have asked me.”

  “You were sleeping the sleep of the wretchedly drunk,” Dorian pointed out with a smile, “I know Opal can be trying but did you really have to try and give yourself liver poisoning?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said, “was I disgustingly sick?”

  “Only a little,” Dorian soothed me, “and you did it quietly, in the corner, like an animal.”

  “Where?”

  “I’d rather not say,” Dorian said, “it’s best forgotten about.”

  I sank down onto the padded desk chair and leaned forwards, resting my head against the cold black glass of Dorian’s uncluttered desk top. Everything in Dorian’s study was black or white: white walls, black blinds, black floor, white leather office chair, black drawing board and a black and clear glass set of swivelling overhead lights.

  Dorian patted me on the back of my head. “I’ll get you some water.”

  As he pottered away from me, I heard him call back, “by the way, there’s some post for you.”

  “Where?” I shouted, wincing at the volume of my own voice.

  “Under your face somewhere,” Dorian’s faint voice replied, “I left it on my desk.”

  I sat back and looked at the desk, there were papers in neat stacks all around me, envelopes and thin cardboard folders labelled ‘hands’ and ‘penises - erect’ (I’d have to have a look through those later). Right in front of me, now rather wrinkled having been under the damp waft of my hangover breath, was a lavender coloured envelope.

  I picked it up, realised it was lavender scented and felt a stab of apprehension. The invitation to the reception party had clearly arrived. I opened the envelope and pulled out the lavender speckled sheet of writing paper, which was covered in sloping, deep blue writing.

  Dear Dorian and Annie Foffaney,

  It is with great delight that I am writing to call you home for a gathering of your closest family and friends, where we will be celebrating your marriage, and wishing you well on your journey onwards together.

  I cannot wait to see you again, and Fifi is beside herself with excitement for Annie’s return.

&nb
sp; Have a safe journey,

  Regards, Alice and Jerry Foffaney.

  P.S. Fredrick’s bistro went into foreclosure this morning, I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t bring it up when you arrive, he’s being rather touchy at the moment.

  At the bottom of the carefully worded letter was a scrawl of creamy pink pen that still smelt slightly of strawberries – Darling Annie! Just wait until you hear the news! Clearly Fifi had got a hold of her mother’s letter at the last minute. The three exclamation marks worried me more than anything else about the invitation.

  I put the letter aside and noticed the postcard that had been pinned underneath. It was a collection of generic Bath pictures – the Abbey, the Royal Crescent and the Roman Baths, on the back, my mum (because who else would send me a standard postcard of Bath, all the way to America, when emails were free?) had written – Lots of news to catch you up on love, I’ll wait till I see you face to face. Love Mum.

  All these promises of news, and still not a bead on Will, not even a mention of what had become of the empty café. It couldn’t still be vacant, not at the height of the tourist season. Some postgraduate go-getter was probably slopping paint all over it as I sat, feeling violently sick, in an apartment in Soho.

  Dorian returned from the kitchen with a glass of water and a piece of toast, which I devoured eagerly, and struggled not to regurgitate for the next hour. I left Dorian to his mannequin wrangling, and went to the bathroom.

  While I was lying in the bath, desperately trying to sweat out my hangover in a prone position that was conveniently near the toilet, and still allowed me to be covered in mandarin bath soak, I thought about the letters, and our imminent return to Bath.

  The party was in a week, and I couldn’t imagine returning to a Bath that didn’t contain Will and Raspberry Bs. It felt like it had been years since I’d last been there, and the idea of going back made me uneasy, like I was returning to the scene of a particularly heinous crime.

  The week shot by so fast that I seemed to leap from my bed, into my work apron, into the shower, and back into bed again in a single twitch of the clock’s hand. Christophe came by to show me a review of his café in a magazine, where it had been given four out of five coffee cups for its ‘freshness of decor and quality of service’ lacking only some kind of entertainment to make it completely fashion-forward (Christophe was already researching the possibility of hiring a mariachi band, and I had never been so glad not to work somewhere as I was when he played me a demo tape). The review was sandwiched between one for a burger restaurant called Sunnys, that had an indoor beach, complete with wave machine, and another for a floating café (name not given – some places were just too cool for school), it seemed Christophe was up against some stiff competition.

  I found something to wear for the party, a green silk dress that I spotted in the window of a thrift store (only mildly too big, a problem solved with some careful stitching) and after that, time slipped by, leaving me at the airport clutching my boarding pass. Dorian stood at my side, looking nowhere near as dazed as I felt. Where had all those reassuring days gone? And why did I feel like I was taking my final exams all over again?

  The flight was rather uneventful and our arrival at Bristol made me feel even stranger, as if I’d just stepped out of the sun and into a shadowy building. The bright newness of my American life being abruptly eclipsed by the normality that I had left behind.

  We got into a taxi and went straight to the Royal Crescent to see Dorian’s parents, with whom we were staying in the run up to the party (still two days away, an ocean of time that was sure to pass in the blink of an eye, leaving me in the middle of a crowded room with no idea what I was doing there).

  When the door was opened to us it revealed Freddy, who had a black eye and was carrying a tumbler of whiskey.

  “Oh, you’re back,” he said, as if we weren’t expected, or had just popped around the corner to buy some milk, “tired of him already? Can’t say I blame you.”

  “What happened to your eye?” Dorian asked, apparently adept at ignoring his brother’s meanness.

  “A stripper. It’s not something I want to get into at this time of the morning. Far too unsavoury. Downright inappropriate.”

  I looked at the brimming glass of whiskey, but said nothing.

  “Mother and Father are in the breakfast room, they’ve got a lot of news for you, all of it strange, and none of it very interesting for me.” He glanced at me and as the glance turned more into a leer I regretted my choice of a pink shirt and denim almost-mini, which had seemed cool and metropolitan back at the apartment, but in the cold light of England seemed scruffy, inappropriate and rather OTT on both cleavage and leg.

  “Fifi’s upstairs, I imagine you’ll want to have a word with her once you’ve seen the parents.”

  As he turned and walked off, I could swear he was smirking.

  Dorian glared at his brother’s retreating back. “He’s far too happy, this can only mean something terrible is about to happen.”

  “Thanks for putting me at ease,” I said, as he led me through a warren of gorgeous rooms (ones that I could have sworn I hadn’t seen before – I’d have remembered that teal wallpaper covered in silver sweet peas, and that stuffed badger with the lazy eye), and into the rose coloured breakfast room. At a mahogany table set for four sat Alice and Jerry, both wearing green jumpers and drinking tea from elegant china cups. A roly-poly ginger terrier was stretched out on the floor in a ray of watery sunshine, and she made a noise like a wet fart in a beehive as I stepped over her.

  My jet lag weighed heavily on me, and it felt more like a time for dinner and a hearty sleep than for crumpets and tea, but I couldn’t help being awed by the gorgeous silverware and found myself seduced by the steam of the teapot.

  “Dorian, and Annie, how was your journey?” said Alice.

  Before we could reply she trilled, “do sit down and have some tea.”

  Dorian and I sat down and he smoothed a linen napkin over his crumpled trousers (The flight had not been kind to Dorian, and he looked rather ruffled, and was sporting a large orange juice stain on his shirt from where a small, demonically chubby child had squirted him with a Capri Sun).

  Janine entered the room, pushing an honest-to-Stephen-Fry hostess trolley, laden with little silver trays of sausages, bacon, eggs, smoked salmon, kippers, crumpets, kidneys (why? Jesus Christ why?) and grilled vegetables. She transferred the platters to the table and departed (the kidneys were shunted towards my elbow, rolling slightly in reddish-brown juice; they smelled like cheap dog food. I edged them away from me).

  Jerry helped himself to kippers and spliced their brown, fishy flesh apart with a silver knife (this was clearly not going to be a breakfast aimed at soothing those suffering with jet lag).

  “So, how are you getting along in New York?” Jerry asked us.

  “Very well,” Dorian replied, pouring tea for himself and stirring it carefully (still feeling the effects of our journey, and looking increasingly like he was about to topple forwards and start snoring). “I’ve started work on a new graphic piece. It’s for the same publishers, but the market is slightly more... selective,” he added.

  I thought of the Tuesday bollock-socks. ‘Selective’ was probably putting it mildly.

  “And how is Annie?” asked Jerry, which made me feel like the dog- present, but not included.

  “I’m volunteering,” I said, not willing to be politely left out of the conversation, “and I’ve been consulting as a café designer.”

  “Ahh,” said Jerry, not looking up from his kippers.

  I was beginning to feel a distinct coolness in the room, not an unfriendly kind of atmosphere by any means, just, the suffocating feeling that hung around gatherings of people who weren’t really interested in each other.

  “In your letter, Fifi said that she had some news,” I said, after the silence had gone on for fifteen minutes (and forty nine seconds).

  For the longest moment I thought no o
ne was going to answer.

  “Yes, she’s taken a lover,” Alice said, the same way any normal person would say ‘she’s taken up macramé’.

  “More kidney, dear?” asked Jerry.

  “Please,” Alice said.

  Dorian picked up the kidney plate, tipped it slightly, and accidentally dropped a plump (now rather cold) and bloody kidney onto my hand.

  I couldn’t help it, I squealed. Everyone looked at me, and I hastily wiped my hand on my napkin, trying to contain a shudder.

  The dog crept over to my feet, slithered under the table and wolfed down the leathery bit of meat.

  I tried to revive the conversation. “So, Fifi has a...”

  “Lover,” Alice said, “of the Sapphic persuasion.”

  The dog hacked and choked on the kidney, and I felt hot, doggy saliva and kidney residue pepper the bare top of my foot. I shivered, but tried not to squeal, mindful that it would not be well received.

  “That is the news she was referring to,” Alice continued, “she thought you might feel better if it came from us.”

  “If what came from you?”

  “Jerry, could you...” Alice gestured at him to continues as if the conversation was a heavy bag that she no longer wished to carry.

  Jerry cleared his throat with a great deal of importance (and phlegm, which he spat into a red and white spotted handkerchief that he pulled from his trouser pocket).

  “Fifi’s new partner is called Tess,” he announced.

  “Oh,” I said, not really sure where this was going, but feeling like I should add something to show that I was paying attention, “my mum’s name is Tess,” was what I came up with.

  Jerry looked at me in a ‘well there you are’ sort of way.

  Alice looked into her tea, a slight frown pinching her brows.

  Dorian blinked at his parents, then looked quickly at me, his face blanching like old cabbage.

  “What?” I said, “what is it?”

  As the realisation struck, the dog gurgled from under the table, and then vomited spectacularly over my shoes.