Cocktails and Dreams

by A. L. Michael

  She hesitated. ‘It’s… in case.’

  ‘In case…?’

  ‘In case things don’t go to plan, there’s things I didn’t get to apologize for last night. Lots more things.’

  ‘Okay, you can’t spend your life apologising every time you remember some shitty thing you did 20 years ago.’ I waved the letter at her. ‘Burn it or something. Make it a ritual. Get a gong bath.’

  I wriggled my nose in faux-distaste and she laughed, pushing the note back into my hands.

  ‘There’s some official stuff in there too, so just… look, leave it in your room and if you need to look at it, look at it.’

  ‘You’re not going to die, Mother.’ I rolled my eyes, grabbing the car keys. ‘Come on then.’

  ‘Come on then what?’

  ‘I’m driving you to the hospital…’

  ‘Oh.’

  She’d seemed poleaxed, drawn and slightly grey with the thought of what lay ahead. I patted her hand.

  ‘Won’t Jen mind you taking the car?’ she asked.

  ‘Have you had a personality transplant or something? Get in the damn car, Mum.’

  * * *

  It had felt like hours of waiting for news. I was ever conscious of the envelope in my back pocket that I didn’t want to read because I didn’t want to remember something awful she’d done, just when I was starting to like her. We drank weak, stale cups of coffee, and Dad produced a pack of cards. We sat, we stood, we walked, Jen and Dad trading glances every few minutes.

  ‘All right, you’re pissing me off now. What’s with the looks?’

  They seemed to do everything in their power not to look at each other, but their eyes slid right back to their partner in crime, guilt on their faces.

  ‘Come on, look, if you guys have decided to be a couple, I’m fine with it, but now’s not really the time to be –’

  ‘Savannah!’ Jen gasped.

  ‘What!’ Dad yelped, looking at Jen with a new level of awkwardness. ‘No, sweetheart, there was a letter at home for you – the envelope says it’s from some Spanish cookery school – but we didn’t want to give it to you until Clare got the all-clear.’

  ‘Spanish? Which one?’ I snatched the envelope from my dad, before stopping and looking at their awkward faces. ‘Um, sorry about thinking – you know.’ I shrugged one shoulder, and Jen muttered something under her breath.

  ‘Just open the letter.’

  I looked down at the postmark. Barcelona. It was La Cocina, Barcelona. The school I wanted. Some of the best chefs in Europe, a focus on fresh produce, on a relaxed way of cooking, of working with ingredients. As close to holistic as cooking could be. No mad, angry English chefs swearing at anyone. It would be challenging, and it would be part-time studying with part-time training in one of their restaurants in the city, but it was what I wanted, desperately. I had only applied a few weeks ago, and I knew Ricardo had sent his recommendation, but… surely it was too early? It was going to be a rejection. But why send a letter in rejection? I closed my eyes and prepared for the worst. I imagined the curve of the letters, telling me they were sorry, but due to my lack of experience, they would not be offering me a place in one of the best cookery schools in Europe. I had wanted to make tapas. It was my fault for stealing part of Milo’s dream. It wasn’t mine to have.

  ‘Savvy! Open the damn letter,’ my dad insisted.

  ‘Right, yes.’ I took a deep breath and ripped the edge off the envelope, sliding the letter out. I let my eyes scan the contents twice before taking it in.

  Miss Curtis… due to the excellent letter of recommendation from your mentor, Chef Ricardo Lopez… the testament of your work ethic by your employer and letters complimenting your dishes from customers… we are pleased to welcome you to La Cocina, Barcelona. We look forward to seeing you very soon.

  ‘I’m in!’ I yelped. ‘I’m going to Barcelona!’

  They bundled in and hugged me, Dad tugging us up and down slightly before we realized it probably wasn’t the most appropriate behaviour in a hospital.

  I pulled back for air, their arms still around me. ‘I did it! I’m doing something! I’m going to have an adventure!’

  ‘When do you leave?’

  I looked back at the letter and raised my eyebrows. ‘A few weeks… apparently I submitted very late.’

  ‘Wow. Well, we’ll have to go on holiday to come see you,’ Dad said sadly, and Jen patted his shoulder. I still wasn’t convinced about them. But maybe me being out of the way would mean something could finally happen.

  I wanted to tell Milo. I wanted desperately for him to put on hold being angry with me, just so I could share my news with him. It was selfish, but… screw it. I was taking a leaf out of Persephone Black’s book for once. I signalled at my phone and walked around the corner, out into a courtyard, where I watched the fallen leaves dance across grey concrete. I pressed his name on the screen, heart thumping. Would he be cold, brusque? Would he tell me to go to hell? Would it change anything?

  The call went straight to voicemail, and I was almost relieved, though hearing his voice as he asked me to leave a message made my stomach twitch.

  ‘Hey… it’s me. I got into cookery school. Barcelona. I leave in a couple of weeks, and I… I wanted to tell you because you’ve been this massive part of everything. And I know you’re mad, and I know I didn’t tell you the whole truth, but I didn’t have anything to do with getting Jamie fired, and I’m standing here in the hospital because my mum’s having an operation, and I got this letter, and you were the first person I wanted to tell. Because, well, it’s massively inconvenient and bad timing, but I think I’m falling for you. Which is dumb. And incredibly irritating, and doesn’t change anything, because you’re going to run a bar and I’m going to cook, but –’

  The call beeped loudly and cut me off. Voicemails were always good indicators that you were rambling.

  I’d told him I was falling for him? Or rather, I’d told his answer machine.

  I trundled back to the waiting room, slightly shell-shocked. Jen looked up, hopeful.

  ‘What did he say? Was he pleased?’

  ‘He didn’t answer. I may have insinuated that I loved him. By voicemail…’

  They stared at me, before my dad suddenly started laughing, loud and hooting until the people around us shushed him.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘I’m sorry, love.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Really I am, but sometimes, as serious as you think you are, you are your mother.’

  ‘Tempestuous and passionate?’ I said hopefully.

  ‘Bloody unbelievable,’ he said, dissolving into giggles once again.

  * * *

  She was fine, as we knew she would be. She reappeared, croaky, groggy and pissed off at having to remain silent. The hospital room seemed to suddenly fill with flowers, balloons and ‘Get Well’ cards. Her current label sent a tree full of throat lozenges, each one on a lollipop stick, with a card saying they couldn’t wait to get started on the album when she was recovered. Her old label sent a bottle of whisky and a bottle of cough syrup. I was pretty sure she was kicking herself for switching. It started to become a bit ridiculous, and the Hertfordshire hospital was not equipped to deal with a superstar. Not so much because she was demanding, but because the paparazzi were crafty, attempting all sorts of impersonations, sneak-throughs and other tactics I thought were only employed by Wile E. Coyote. Then there were the fans. One guy passed Mum’s room so many times she beckoned him in, only for him to explain his wife had been in labour for eight hours, and he was bored, but he was so glad it meant he could meet Persephone Black. He handed her a piece of paper to sign and she frowned at him, before taking the pen, scribbling violently, then handing the paper back. I read it over his shoulder: Get back to your wife, numbskull. Persephone Black, Destroyer of unsupportive birth partners. I snorted as he ran from the room, but did worry about her staying there any longer than necessary. The papers would run with the surgery story, and it would either be cos
metic surgery rumours, or they’d guess correctly. Either angle resulted in Mum being a has-been desperately clinging to fame, and I dreaded what that might do to her.

  However, a few days later, after taking all the stuffed toys to the kids’ unit and the presents being spread out amongst the different wards, she was given the all-clear to go home, and rest up. I knew, from Jen’s gleeful smirk as they settled my mother into the spare bedroom as if she were an elderly relative, that she was going to have some fun with her sister’s enforced silence.

  My mother’s perpetually irritated face as she looked between me and my aunt, raising an eyebrow at me, as if to say, Really?

  I nodded, fighting a smile. I bought her books, magazines, music. She couldn’t listen to the music, frowning and waving her hand against it whenever I brought the record player in. It was too painful to hear what other people were growing whilst she had no access to the garden.

  She had a little notepad beside her at all times, and she’d communicate simply, her swirly writing straightforward: ‘No’, ‘Yes’, ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me’. I thought after a week she’d be chomping at the bit in irritation, desperation to speak and be the centre of attention, but, bizarrely, she seemed to be enjoying the quiet. She was nothing if not dedicated to her silence. I found myself missing her voice. For the first time in years, I listened to one of her albums, playing it on my way home from work, truly hearing the lyrics for the first time, not as an awe-struck child or abandoned teenager, but as an adult, searching for meaning. I found the words of a vulnerable, scared woman, shouting into the void, desperate to say something real. She didn’t always manage it, but I played ‘Rumble for Trouble’ four times and fell asleep with a smile on my face, missing my stop and having to get a taxi home. It felt worth it.

  Clare did ask for photographs though, and after getting in from work I’d often find her still awake, tracing our faces in the photograph albums. Some nights Jen would be sitting by her side, pointing out images, sharing memories. I didn’t like to disturb them, but I loved to hear Jen narrate.

  ‘That was when Savvy won the young journalist of the year award at school. She wrote a piece on something serious and important – trafficking? I was so proud as she walked up those steps – and then she tripped on that stupid skirt she insisted on wearing and fell on her face! I thought of you, then, and that wiggle skirt you use to wear at primary school, the red polka-dot one?’

  I loved it, sitting outside the door as my aunt recounted my life from this strange perspective I’d never considered – one as a guardian, a watcher, someone who was noting down every moment and movement, so she could give these stories to my mother one day, gift them to her. I wondered if she’d ever thought she’d have this moment with my mother. I knew she’d sent photographs over the years, but I’d always assumed most of them ended up care of an agent or label, or got mixed in with fan mail and never seen again. After a while, Jen stopped sending them, though she always pretended she did, making a point to order an extra copy of the photos of me on results day, going to prom, things like that. I wondered if she’d stopped being angry too. I felt almost sad to leave now, being given this opportunity to know my mother, and to know my aunt as this different person, this loving, relaxed sister. I loved seeing them together, wondering what they were like as kids, whether my mother trailed after her big sister relentlessly, whether Jen teased her or looked out for her.

  I heard a rustling of paper, and Jen’s voice shifted.

  ‘She’s fine, Clare, she’s always been fine.’

  More scribbling, a pause, a ripped piece of paper. Another scribble.

  ‘You did the right thing, love. You could have done it a better way, but you did the right thing.’ Jen paused. ‘She’s a wonderful girl.’

  My mother croaked, and I could hear the movement of the pen.

  ‘It’s down to both of us. She’s a little like each of us.’

  A pause. This time my mother must have been writing an essay, because I could hear Jen humming along in agreement as she scribbled.

  ‘The DJ? I couldn’t do anything about it, she was living her life. I had to let her. He was beneath her. He… good women get trapped when they don’t think they’re worth anything.’

  A pause again, and I heard Jen’s voice, even as it dropped to a whisper. ‘No, that’s not your fault, Clare. It happens to the best of us. She learnt eventually and still with her life ahead of her. I think she’s falling in love, with that bartender. At least, that’s what she told his answer machine.’

  I heard a hacking, coughing sound that might have been a laugh.

  ‘Yes,’ Jen snorted. ‘We said she was just like you too.’

  * * *

  I had given in my notice at the Martini Club. Arabella, in a moment of slipped composure, squealed and hugged me. And then she stepped back, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and said, ‘If you tell anyone that happened, you will never make it to Barcelona.’ She grinned, and clapped her hands. ‘A party! We have to have a going-away party!’

  ‘Am I going to have to cook for it?’

  ‘No!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Although if you want to design the menu, then that’s cool. Ricardo will do it.’

  She paused, her kohl-lined eyes suddenly serious as she reached out and grabbed my hand, her dark red nails digging into my skin. ‘Darling, you will come back, won’t you? If you want to come back and be our head chef, we’ll serve tapas every day and I’ll make Ricky the pot washer.’

  ‘You would not!’

  ‘Well, I’d tell him I would, and start some sort of bidding war,’ she smirked.

  ‘You’re really wasted in this world,’ I said. ‘You should be day trading or something.’

  ‘Yeah, or something.’ She sighed. ‘Okay, so a party for Savannah, chef, undercover food snob and currently heartbroken. Have we heard from the would-be Brando?’

  I made a face. ‘Can we stop with the nicknames? Brando did not age well.’

  ‘Yeah, but when he was younger he was snappy,’ she smiled, waiting for me to agree. ‘Seriously, you want me to compare him to some whippersnapper from One Direction or something? The boy looks classic. Like he should be dressed in a decent suit and whisk you off to Havana.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, at least you’re thinking Guys and Dolls and not Streetcar.’

  ‘Huh, well, we totally missed out on the part where you know your classic movies and musicals. Perhaps in another life we could have been good friends,’ she joked, as I wiped down the bar top and went to move the crate of beer.

  ‘Yeah, another life,’ I agreed as she walked away.

  ‘So you don’t think there’s any chance you and Brando will work it out?’ she asked across the empty room.

  I shook my head. ‘I lied, I made mistakes, and I accidentally suggested I might be, could be, possibly falling in love with him. I think it’s time to bow out disgracefully. I’m off to a new life. Cooking is good for heartbreak.’

  ‘I’ve heard that,’ she smiled softly, turning away before pausing to turn back again. ‘We are friends, Savvy. In this life.’

  ‘I know, Bel.’

  But she’d already gone.

  I wasn’t joking about the heartbreak. I’d received almost everything I wanted but was losing someone who made me feel alive, who I couldn’t stop thinking about. I would have cooking and learning and purpose, being good at something, being chosen for it. I would go and live in Barcelona, meeting new people and making myself into someone else, someone talented. It was everything I’d ever wanted. And yet I would have to leave the Martini Club. The job I’d come to love. The brilliant friends I’d made, no longer strangers behind the glitter and the music.

  And him. I would leave him behind, just a brief blip in the plan, a place to rest my head and heart whilst recovering from Rob and discovering a new life. That was all it was.

  I was lying to myself, but it was the only way to make it okay.

  I passed Cafe Argentine on the wa
y back from work that night, still open to the night owls and arty types who sought out a haven in the darkness. I paused. I shouldn’t go in.

  I’d spoken to Alba, letting her know I was off on my next adventure. She’d congratulated me, said it made sense, and wondered what I’d thought overall. Were the restaurants she’d sent me to as mind blowing as they should have been, could her bosses be pleased with her project? I told her they’d changed my life. She seemed satisfied. I was relieved to put it behind me, I’d become a little too accustomed to walking into places booked up for months, and getting a table with no problem.

  I walked through to the bar, not entirely sure what I was looking for. On some level, it was Milo, just to be near him, see his face again as he twirled cocktail shakers in the air and laughed when his colleagues said it was uncouth. Or maybe I just wanted to say goodbye to this one, strange blip in my life, full of fancy cocktails and beautiful people.

  A waitress passed me, asking if she could help.

  ‘Oh, actually, is Milo working tonight?’

  She shook her head. ‘He just gave notice, got a job abroad. Very jealous!’ She smiled and shrugged, turning her attention to a handsome possible TV star who was trying to get her attention.

  Abroad. Of course. Maybe he was finally setting up his bar. That’s who we were for each other, those in-between people.

  When I got home, the house was cloaked in silence and as I climbed the stairs to bed I wondered why all the comforting lies I told myself during the day never lasted when I was alone at night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was the night of my farewell party. Mum was still at Jen’s. Still silent, but she smiled more, soaking in everything. In the evenings, I’d bring her tea and she’d ask me questions, holding up her little notebook. Some were innocuous, some were big, important questions. Tea or coffee? Are you a dog person? Do you want kids? Do you hate me? Did I do the right thing leaving you with Jen?

  Her being unable to speak made it easier to me to be honest, to be heard. She wasn’t waiting there with a quip or a throwaway sarcastic comment. She would ask a question and revel in the answers, as banal as some of them were. Persephone Black listened silently as I spoke, and I finally felt important.