Milkshakes and Heartbreaks at the Starlight Diner

by Helen Cox

  ‘Nearly lunchtime. Why don’t you get a shower and join us when you’re dressed?’

  By one thirty I’d had a shower, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and was sat at Mona’s kitchen table yawning into a glass of orange juice. Mona stood by the oven, checking the meat and potatoes. Being careful not to over-cook the vegetables she had on the boil.

  Her kitchen, like every other room in the house, was ultra-homely. The walls were painted in a deep yellow that cheered you the moment you entered. Little pink flowers had been stencilled around the window frame and thin cotton curtains, also patterned with pink flowers, hung at the window. Family pictures adorned the wall and pinned to the fridge were the latest artistic masterpieces produced by Donnell – Mona’s twelve year old son. One of the pictures was of Superman but it wasn’t Christopher Reeve. Donnell’s version was black rather than white-skinned and I wondered if he’d modelled his illustration on Alan.

  ‘I don’t know how I can still be yawning. I slept for like twelve hours.’ I rubbed my eyes, then shook my head.

  ‘Well, I’d like to put it down to how comfortable our guest bed is but if you slept sound it’s likely to do with the number of drinks you downed last night.’ Mona chuckled.

  ‘Yeah. I sort of thought my head would feel worse than this but maybe I’m having one of those lucky hangover escapes I keep hearing about. Or maybe I’m still drunk and the hangover will follow shortly.’ I rubbed my temples at the thought.

  ‘Or maybe you’re too happy to be hungover?’ said Mona

  ‘Is that even a thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. But honey, you looked the happiest I’ve ever seen you last night, dancin’ with Jack.’

  I gave her a frail smile.

  ‘Maybe it was your joyous singing voice? Where’d you learn to sing like that?’ I said. The day we’d met Mona had listed her hobbies as manicures, shopping and some TV show I’d never heard of called Remember Reno. Music lessons or singing lessons or whatever she’d done to wind up with a voice like that certainly hadn’t come up.

  ‘Well…I don’t usually mention it but truth be told I was nearly a singer instead of a waitress. Even had a part on Broadway.’ Mona looked off into nowhere, losing herself in a daydream.

  ‘Really? How come you never said?’ I’d never heard Mona so much as hum in the diner.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ She shrugged. ‘A different life. But I’ll never forget how it felt to belt out “One Hand, One Heart” from West Side Story. Had the best reviews on Broadway that week.’

  ‘So, what happened?’ I’d already half-guessed the answer.

  ‘Well –’ she looked out of the small window above the sink to the yard outside where Alan and Donnell were playing basketball ‘– another life began.’ She smiled.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ She didn’t seem sad but watching her on that stage last night it was obvious to anyone she belonged up there.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Her eyes re-focused now, snapping out of their trance. ‘But I wouldn’t trade what I have.’

  ‘You’re lucky, to have people around you who love you,’ I said.

  ‘Seems to me you have somebody who loves you, if you’d reach out to them,’ she replied. I lowered my eyes.

  ‘You want me to set the table for lunch?’ There was a slight pause as Mona weighed up whether to let me change the subject.

  ‘Cutlery’s over in the third drawer along. Thanks.’ I pulled out four sets of knives and forks. ‘You want me to lay off the talk about Jack for today, huh?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I said, placing the cutlery as straight as I could on the rickety old table that was bordering on the unusable. ‘I was happy, am happy when I’m around him but –’ I sighed ‘– it’s an impossible situation.’ Mona looked out of the window again at Alan and Donnell.

  ‘I know you think your past is important but I’d say letting your past control your future is unwise.’ I went and stood near her, leaning against the work surface, and nodded. ‘The past is gone. It’s been and it’s done but your future … that isn’t written.’

  ‘Where’d you read that, a fortune cookie?’ Mona looked down into the sink. ‘Sorry.’ I put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just, I know what you’re saying is right. Just wish I could believe it, you know?’ Mona linked her arm in mine.

  ‘There’s only one question you have to ask yourself.’

  She looked me dead in the eye.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You sure you want to know? You’re not going to like it.’

  She sucked through her teeth like a builder might right before delivering an astronomical renovation quote.

  ‘When has that ever stopped you?’ I asked, a glint in my eyes.

  ‘The question is: how do you feel about him?’ Then it was my turn to take a sharp breath. My eyes shone no longer with good humour but with tears. I fought my mouth as it wobbled and morphed the motion into a smile. ‘Well, looks like you have your answer.’ Mona looked at me and swiped away a single tear that’d sneaked down my cheek.

  ‘But how can I be falling for someone I barely know?’ Mona gave me a look of mixed admiration and irritation at just how stubborn I was being over accepting the truth. ‘After my husband died there was nothing. Nothing except guilt and emptiness. Until I met Jack I never…’

  ‘Well, we can’t control our feelings, honey. Only how we respond to them. Who ever said love was logical anyway?’ I laughed and put a hand on my forehead. ‘I hope when you’re done fightin’ with yourself over this he’s still around waitin’ for you.’

  ‘But what if –’

  ‘Oh Lord give me strength. What if? What if? You’re gonna “what if” for the rest of your life. There’s only you standin’ in the way of your own happiness. Anyone can see it ’cept you.’ She took a deep breath and lowered her volume. ‘Bad things happen to us all, honey. We can’t let them destroy us.’ I nodded, took her hand in mine and squeezed.

  The kitchen timer dinged to tell us the meat was done. Mona opened the oven door, prodded the meat with a fork, and nodded. She then opened the window above the sink and called to her husband and son that lunch would soon be on the table. Both came charging into the kitchen. Alan gave me a peck on the cheek and a hug and Donnell, who I’d never met before, wrapped his arms tight around my waist.

  ‘You’re my Aunt Esther, aren’t you?’ His eyes bulged wide, yearning for approval.

  ‘Er. Yeah. That’s right.’ I put a hand on his head. His skin was soft the way all children’s skin is and he pulled himself closer for another cuddle.

  ‘When you finally put Aunt Esther down, Donnell, perhaps you could see your way to the bathroom to wash up?’ said Mona.

  ‘OK, Mom.’ He ran off into another room whilst Alan and I took a seat at the table. Mona dished up. Steam rose from the plates as she set them down. The smell was divine and I suddenly realised how hungry I was. Mona and Donnell both joined us at the table and Mona insisted on saying grace before anyone started eating.

  ‘Dear God,’ she began, ‘thank you for feeding us, keeping us and loving us.’ My stomach tightened. It’d been a long time since I’d said a prayer. I took it as read that, if there was a God, He’d rather not hear from me.

  If He hadn’t already disowned me because of my weakness in the face of Mr Delaney or what I’d done to him thereafter, I was sure He’d be sore about what I said to Reverend Quinn, our local priest, back in Finchley – the man who’d officiated my wedding and Mr Delaney’s funeral. And Dad’s, for that matter. Telling him God meant nothing to me, on top of everything else, probably wasn’t the best way to ingratiate myself with the people upstairs. I scrunched my eyes shut tighter, remembering how overcast Quinn’s cloudy eyes had become the moment he realised I’d lost all faith.

  I’m sorry, Quinn. If you can hear me. I’m so sorry. For everything.

  ‘Amen,’ said Mona, and that closing word rippled around the rest of the table. A moment o
f silence passed before we started pouring gravy and carving extra slices of beef off the joint.

  ‘How you feeling this morning? Alan asked, spooning another hunk of potato onto his plate.

  ‘Surprisingly well given how many drinks I had. You?’

  ‘I only had a couple of beers so I’m good. Sure was a fun party though.’ He started cutting up his meat and let out a short chuckle. ‘Did you see Lu dancing?’

  ‘Oh no, I missed it,’ I said. Probably because my head was buried in Jack’s chest, or in the nook between his shoulder and his neck. ‘Is she a good dancer?’

  ‘She’s both mesmerising and terrifying.’ Alan laughed again. ‘Definitely caught the eye of a gentleman or two though. Especially after her rendition of “Yakety Yak”. Talk about attitude…’

  I smiled, remembering some of the ridiculous dance moves we’d all come up with during Lucia’s song.

  Donnell pulled at Alan’s Yankee vest and proceeded to tell him about an incident at school that week in which one of the other boys in his class ‘broke the law’, as he called it, by taking a second carton of juice when the rule was one per child. The whole episode had been most dramatic as the boy concerned tried to cover up his crime by planting the extra empty carton in another kid’s desk. Alan listened with patience to his son whilst Mona scolded him for raising his voice too loud at the table. Even in her scorn, you could see the love she felt for the men in the room. Her easy manner was one of a contented woman. They were a snug family unit and didn’t care who knew it. Watching them, I thought of Mum’s upcoming visit to the city. Would we manage to be so easy with each other? Would she have forgiven me for the way things had turned out? If she could forgive me, maybe I still had a chance of forgiving myself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Poised to knock, I paused, took a breath and lowered my hand away from the door. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe? This was the worst idea I’d had since I paired a floral tie with a mustard skirt suit in 1970. In my defence, Twiggy was doing it so there was a slight social pressure to conform. I reasoned Twiggy had probably also made some questionable relationship decisions in her time. Then I decided to stop thinking about Twiggy.

  Jack had invited me round for the evening to run through some lines for a part he was due to audition for in a rom-com ominously called: It’ll Never Happen. When he’d mentioned it in the diner the day before he’d been somewhat too casual with an ‘Oh by the way…’ sort of an attitude. I’d responded in an equally unconvincing ‘Oh, sure, always happy to help a friend out’ kind of manner. It’d been three days since the hop but we hadn’t talked about what we’d said and felt that night, or about our cell block embrace or the kiss we’d shared. Still, it was sort of obvious where a night in together with a bottle of wine and a pre-written romantic script would lead and, even after all my painful deliberating, I still wasn’t sure I was ready. His reluctance at the hop had knocked me off kilter and the only force that prompted me to reach up again and knock, resisting the urge to leg it down the corridor, was fear. Fear that if I didn’t show; that if I feigned a sudden cold or a non-existent, New York-based Grandma in hospital, I’d never see Jack again. That thought was scarier than anything else. Even scarier than him finding out the truth.

  After my knock there was a slight pause. Then the sound of the chain coming off and then there he was, with that unquantifiable dreaminess he had going for him. He was dressed smart in khaki trousers and a loose, sand-coloured shirt covered with a lightweight blazer patterned with thin pinstripes. The best thing I could find to wear was a white, polka-dot shirt dress with threads of cotton hanging off the hem (I’d tried trimming them but to my horror this, like throwing water on a Mogwai, only made them multiply) and a pair of gold flip flops. At least it was better than my usual jeans and T-shirt. And I’d washed my hair: an event that shouldn’t be quite the novelty it was. For a moment we didn’t say anything, all our energies were absorbed with looking each other up and down but then we both let out an awkward Hi-How-Are-You, our respective answers overlapping and inane. We laughed (what else could we do except die inside at our own gawkiness?) and Jack invited me in, pushing a champagne flute into my hand.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  ‘What’s the occasion exactly?’

  ‘Uh,’ he said, pouring himself a glass, ‘the occasion is that it’s Tuesday and you don’t like whiskey.’ I rolled my eyes but champagne was not a regular occurrence for me. I wasn’t going to turn it down no matter what the consequences. ‘Cheers,’ he said. We clinked glasses and took a sip, unable to avoid each other’s eyes as we did so.

  His apartment was, as expected, grander than mine. Hardly palatial – he didn’t have his star on the Walk of Fame yet – but it had a lounge and a kitchen and a bedroom and a bathroom as opposed to the mere sleeping and bathing areas my living quarters comprised of. The floors were laminate, there was a fake fireplace as a centre piece in the lounge and the walls were painted in a warm, cream colour that gave the whole place a spacious, airy feel. I was pleased to see the bookshelf was filling up and contemplated making a joke about his taste in authors before deciding my joke wasn’t funny. In fact, my jokes got worse when I was in a state of inebriated, emotional panic so I further decided to steer clear of making any. At least for that evening.

  I sauntered over to the olive green sofa and made myself comfortable. ‘So, is this the script of which you speak?’ I picked up one of the two manuscripts sitting on his oak coffee table.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s easier to learn and get a feel for it if you’ve somebody to spar off.’ He sat next to me on the sofa. I began to remove my flip flops.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, when he looked confused by the gesture, ‘you’re not one of these people who insists on guests keeping their feet off the sofa, are you? Because, if so, in about twenty seconds we’re likely to have a problem.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I hate those people.’ He was teasing but I didn’t care. In the interests of being more relaxed, I took him at his word.

  ‘Thank goodness. Can’t read anything properly unless I’m curled up.’ I swung my feet up on the sofa and tucked them to one side.

  ‘Well, if we’re making ourselves that comfortable…’ He started untying the laces on his black Converse, then kicked them off and manoeuvred himself into a cross-legged position.

  ‘So, who am I playing?’

  ‘Juliet,’ said Jack.

  ‘Really? Is this a reworking of Shakespeare?’ I said, leafing through a couple of pages. I was only half-serious but with the number of ‘re-imaginings’ floating around the cinemas you could never be totally sure. If they’ll remake The Blob they’ll remake anything.

  ‘Er, no.’ Jack laughed. ‘It’s just a coincidence. Or unimaginative writing, whichever you prefer.’

  ‘OK. Tell me about my character. Is she one of those typical rom-com types who is beautiful, intelligent and capable but still can’t find a boyfriend?’

  ‘So you’re an expert on romantic-comedies now?’ Jack picked up his copy of the manuscript and tilted his head at me.

  ‘Teacher of literature, remember?’ I pointed a thumb at myself. ‘Plus, I saw The Pick-up Artist.’

  ‘I think you were the only one who did.’ Jack laughed. ‘Juliet doesn’t have a boyfriend because she’s just getting over a big break-up. She’s swearing off men. And that’s when my character, Chris enters her life.’ Jack flicked his hair and gave a dashing smile. He was joking but it made me melt, just a bit. I glared at my glass of champagne. Being tipsy was the only explanation for that pitiful move having any effect on me at all.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘The casting director thought you could convincingly play a man who tempts a woman into breaking a vow of celibacy?’

  ‘Oh well, thanks a bunch,’ he replied, pushing my shoulder just as I took another gulp of my drink so I nearly spilt it down my front. I tapered my eyes at him then looked back at the script.

  From the comfort of the sofa, w
e started reading through the lines. I was quite self-conscious at first. I’d no formal acting training so the dialogue often came out flat and unfeeling. But Jack wasn’t at all distracted by this and didn’t hold back on his performance of the clumsy but well-meaning Chris as he won the heart of fair Juliet. Parts of the script were laugh-out-loud funny and, when they were, we duly laughed, topping up our drinks as we did so. Other sections of the script were tense. The couple made mistakes, broke each other’s hearts.

  Jack had an intensity about him that was irresistible. I tried with all my might to stay focused on the script but as we read I couldn’t help but think about all the missteps I’d made in the short time we’d known each other. Was he thinking the same? Did he wish he’d been gentler? Or less prone to drinking and beating up reporters? Then there were the secrets I’d kept, the cruel words I’d said and my determination to do anything I could to push him away.

  ‘Juliet, listen to me, listen.’ Jack looked from the script to me.

  ‘Just leave me alone, OK? I don’t need you.’ Hadn’t I once said some derivative of those words to Jack?

  ‘You may not need me –’ he put a hand on my arm as per the stage directions and goosebumps stirred at his touch ‘– but I need you.’ He paused for effect. ‘You’re the only person I want to be with.’ He was saying the words without even looking at the script now.

  ‘You, want to be with me?’ I checked back at the script.

  ‘I do. I feel like, even if we’d never met I’d still have known something was missing.’ Jack’s hands were on my shoulders now, again in accordance with the stage directions. His breathing deepened and mine followed suit. His eyes moved down to my lips and settled there. I glanced at the script. The stage directions read: Juliet: (crying).

  ‘I can’t cry on cue,’ I said. ‘I think we’ve already established that I’m not much of an actress.’

  ‘That’s OK, you can just say the line.’ Despite my attempt to break the tension building between us his eyes were large and expectant.