by Mark Morris
I arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early, because I wanted to be first there. I didn’t want to come in out of the rain and the cold, flushed and dishevelled, to find him waiting for me. I wanted to be sitting at the bar, sipping a G and T, looking calm and assured. That part of the evening went to plan, at least, even though I didn’t feel all that calm and assured. I don’t know quite what I expected, but I certainly didn’t expect Matt to turn up in an Armani suit and silk tie, looking healthy and happy. Yet suddenly there he was, a bouquet of red roses in his hand, a delighted grin on his face.
‘Ruth,’ he said. ‘It’s brilliant to see you. You look fantastic.’ He leaned down with the obvious intention of kissing me on the lips. I turned my head quickly aside and felt his mouth graze my earring.
‘You look very nice yourself,’ I said, wanting to ask him how, when he’d had no work for the past few months, he’d been able to afford a £500 suit.
‘One has to make an effort for a special occasion,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘These are for you by the way.’
He handed me the flowers. Their scent was incredible, but I was uncomfortably aware of everyone at the bar regarding me with an expression somewhere between humour and pity. Marco’s was the kind of place that attracted young and trendy city types, and I knew exactly what they were thinking: Red roses. How obvious, how gauche, how embarrassing.
I wondered whether Matt had bought me the flowers as a genuine token of … what? Love? Affection? Apology? Reconciliation? Or whether it had been an ironic gesture, calculated to make me feel awkward. I forced a smile and said, ‘They’re beautiful, Matt, thank you.’ Then I turned and smiled at the barman. ‘Could you possibly put these in water for me?’
Matt ordered drinks and we were shown to our table. He seemed relaxed, completely at ease. I wondered how much of it was an act. It was certainly hard to reconcile this elegant, together-looking individual with the person who’d mumbled incoherent threats over my answerphone, who’d repeated the word ‘bitch’ over and over for the best part of an hour. I felt tense, wary of being lulled into a false sense of security. We sat down and were handed menus, and when the waiter went away I said, ‘So, are you OK?’
Matt glanced up from his contemplation of the menu, a quizzical smile on his face. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I just asked you whether you were OK. I mean, you look great—’
‘I feel great,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, sorting things out in my head.’
Since when? I wanted to ask him. It was only four days since I’d last been in contact with him and then he’d seemed like a prime case for institutionalization.
‘Well, that’s good,’ I said. ‘So what have you been thinking about specifically?’
‘Us,’ he said, making it sound portentous, staring into my eyes.
I held his gaze. ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘For the last few weeks I’ve thought of nothing else.’ I found my fingers stretching out, toying nervously with my fork, and forced myself to clench my fist. ‘And I think we both know that we can’t go on like this, don’t we?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ he said.
I tried to keep the surprise from my face. ‘You really mean that?’
‘Of course I do. We’ve just been letting things drift on, haven’t we? We haven’t been going anywhere. Things have been getting stale.’
‘Well, that’s only part of it, Matt,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it?’
Before he could reply, a waiter appeared at our table with a basket of warm ciabatta rolls. Matt broke open his roll and raised it to his face as he breathed in deeply, eyes closing in a languid blink.
‘Best smell in the world,’ he said. He opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘This is all I want from life, you know, Ruth. You, me, the smell of fresh bread …’
‘If only it could have been that simple,’ I said curtly.
‘I think it still can.’
I started to shake my head, but he held up both hands as if to shield himself from any negative gestures or comments I might direct at him. ‘Look, let’s order our food first, OK? Then we can talk properly. I know you’re not happy with the way things are – neither am I – but I think I know what the answer is, if you’ll just hear me out. Red OK?’
He was waving the wine list. I shrugged and nodded. Matt called the waiter over and we ordered our food.
When the waiter had gone I said, ‘I’m glad that you’re OK. After some of those messages you left on my answer-phone, I didn’t know what to expect tonight.’
Matt grimaced as though I’d drawn attention to some mildly embarrassing misdemeanour. ‘I suppose I did go a bit over the top, didn’t I? To be honest, the last couple of weeks have been something of an odyssey for me. I stayed in my flat and forced myself to think about things I’ve never really thought about before. It fucked my head up, made everything a bit of a blur, but it was worth it in the end. Thanks to you I’m a better person now. I know exactly what I want, who I am.’
Matt talked quietly, reasonably, but there was something in his manner that set me on edge. Beneath his earnest humility I sensed the intense glitter of the fanatic. It seemed he’d chosen a path for himself and was walking assuredly along it in a straight line. But what if the path were to curve unexpectedly, or even disappear altogether? What would that do to him?
The wine arrived. Matt tasted it and proclaimed it excellent – a happy customer, full of Christmas cheer. The waiter filled each of our glasses two-thirds full and then departed. I leaned forward and said, ‘What if you can’t get what you want?’
Matt smiled at me, as if my lack of faith amused him. ‘I don’t entertain the possibility of failure any more,’ he said. ‘I refuse to acknowledge negative thoughts. This is the new me, Ruth. The new improved version. I’ve shed my skin. I’ve left the past behind once and for all.’
‘And it’s really as easy as that, is it?’
‘No, it’s not been easy. I didn’t say it had been easy. In fact, it’s been really hard. It’s been like going cold turkey. But I’m through it now. From this day forward, things can only get better.’
Our food arrived. Matt had a spicy pasta thing, with prawns and cream. I’d ordered a chicken and bacon salad.
‘Well, if that’s the case, then I’m really pleased for you, Matt—’ I began.
‘For us,’ he said. ‘This change will benefit both of us.’ He grinned suddenly, put down his knife and dipped his hand into his jacket pocket. He produced a small velvet box which he placed on the table between us. I felt my stomach contract.
‘What’s this?’
‘Open it,’ he said, eyes glittering eagerly. ‘I was going to give it to you a bit later, but I can’t wait any longer.’
I stared at the box for a few moments, then reluctantly put down my cutlery. My heart punched at the base of my throat. With a sense of foreboding I took the box in my trembling left hand and opened it. Inside was what I had been dreading and expecting – a beautiful white-gold ring studded with a cluster of pale topaz.
My head was pounding so much that Matt’s voice throbbed in my ears. ‘I want you to marry me, Ruth. I want us to make a fresh start, a new life together.’
I just stared at the ring. For a minute or more I couldn’t move or speak. All other sounds in the restaurant seemed to recede. We were enclosed within an umbrella of silence.
‘Well?’ Matt said at last. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
I closed the box and pushed it back across the table towards him. ‘I’m sorry, Matt, I can’t,’ I said.
Again he offered me that quizzical smile, as if I had told a joke whose punchline he didn’t quite get. Then he gave a snorting half-laugh and said lightly, ‘What do you mean?’
My mouth was dry. I took a gulp of wine. ‘I can’t marry you, Matt.’
He blinked. ‘Yes you can.’
‘No, Matt. I can’t.’
‘Why not?’ he said, looking genuinely bemused.
�
��Because I don’t love you, Matt. Because you frighten me. Because you hurt me.’ Two weeks ago I had loathed this man. Now I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
He frowned. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a single word I’ve said? All of that is behind me now. If you’ll just … just say yes, it’ll never happen again.’
I actually thought at this point that our relationship was going to end with a civilized conversation. I leaned forward so that I could speak gently, softly. ‘I’m sorry, Matt, but I’m not willing to take the risk. Too many times in the past you’ve said how sorry you were, how you’d never hurt me again—’
But this time I mean it!’ he said.
‘And you never meant it before?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s different this time. I promise you it’s different. Just give me a chance, Ruth.’
I ran my tongue along the roof of my mouth, along the cut which was healing now, but which still tasted raw, metallic. I shook my head.
‘Sorry, Matt. I haven’t got any more chances to give.’
He clenched his teeth. ‘But this is so unfair, Ruth, don’t you see? For months I’ve been fucked up and you’ve stood by me. But now, when I’m finally better, when I’ve finally come out of the other side of the tunnel, you drop me like a hot brick. It doesn’t make sense.’
I sighed, picked up my fork, prodded half-heartedly at my salad. ‘I’m sorry, Matt, really I am. I really wish it could have worked out between us—’
‘It will,’ he insisted. ‘I promise you, Ruth, it will.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s too late. I don’t trust you any more. You frighten me. You say you’re better, but I’m just not prepared to put that to the test. This is the end, Matt. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not the end,’ he said. ‘I won’t let it be the end.’
‘Matt, you’ve got no choice. I don’t want to see you again. Nothing you say will persuade me otherwise.’
There was desperation on his face. He picked up his glass and gulped down the wine, poured himself another and drank that like water too. His face twisted as though he was in pain.
‘Why did you have to spoil it?’ he said. ‘Why did you have to fuck everything up? Do you get some sort of sick pleasure from seeing me suffer, is that it?’
‘Calm down, Matt,’ I said. ‘Of course I don’t like seeing you suffer. I’ve been trying to help you for God knows how long. And what have I got for my efforts? Punches, kicks, pain. I’m not prepared to take it any more.’
‘Why don’t you ever fucking listen to me?’ Matt said, suddenly vicious. Then, before I could respond, he snatched up the third-full bottle of red wine, stood up and clubbed me on the side of the head with it.
I closed my eyes a split-second before the bottle impacted with my skull. Thankfully the glass didn’t shatter, but it was a hard enough blow to knock me off my chair, to make lights explode inside my head. I didn’t feel any pain at first. As I hit the floor I felt only a sinking inevitability, and, oddly, a sense of embarrassment at the spectacle Matt was forcing me to make of myself. I raised my head, blinking the sparks out of my eyes, and was just in time to see the table and all its contents sliding and toppling towards me.
I ducked and rolled away, felt something hard smash into my shoulder, bringing instant pain, was surrounded by the crashing of crockery and glass, the jangling clank of cutlery. I was spattered by something wet and warm, heard angry shouts. I pushed myself upright and looked around, caught a glimpse of Matt running out of the restaurant and into the bar, pursued by one of the waiters. Everyone was staring at me. Some looked shocked, some curious, some had obviously enjoyed the spectacle. The overturned table was next to me, its smashed and spattered contents strewn over a wide area. Most of Matt’s dinner had splashed up my left arm and the left side of my dress. I was sitting in a puddle of sauce and salad dressing. A waiter with a plump face and very dark, bushy eyebrows appeared by my side and crouched down.
‘Are you all right?’
My shoulder was full of hot pain and my ankle throbbed as if I’d twisted it, but I said, ‘Yes, I’ll live.’
‘You’ve got blood in your hair,’ he said.
‘Have I?’ I raised my hand to the side of my head and my fingertips came away red. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Can you stand?’
‘I think so. My ankle hurts.’
‘Take my hand. I’ll help you up.’
He supported my weight as I got to my feet, wincing with pain, bits of food sliding off me. The waiter who had chased Matt came back into the restaurant, red and panting, shaking his head.
‘Come with me. I’ll take you to the staff rest room. You can clean yourself up there.’
I thanked him. He escorted me through the door into the kitchen and out of another door into a short corridor made narrow by the crates of wine stacked up in it. At the end on the right was a clean and sizeable toilet and sink.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘When you’ve done, go back into the kitchen and get one of the guys to give me a shout. I’ll get you a cup of coffee or something.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘This is really good of you. I’m so sorry about what happened in there.’
‘Looks like it was the other bloke who had the problem, not you.’
‘You could say that. He’s my boyfriend. Or rather, my ex-boyfriend. He’s a bit unstable. He’d come here to ask me to marry him, but I’d come to tell him it was over. He didn’t take the news very well.’
‘Looks like you had a lucky escape,’ the waiter said.
I held out my hands, palms up, and looked down at my ruined dress. ‘If you can call this lucky.’
The waiter left me to it and I cleaned myself up as best I could. As I sponged the mess from my dress, I thought, Well, if that wasn’t closure I don’t know what is. It had been a typical and rather fitting way for Matt to acknowledge the end of our relationship. I wondered whether I’d ever see him again. I thought about him saying how much he’d changed, how he’d never hurt me again, how he just wanted another chance, and then I thought of him hitting me on the head with the bottle, and I laughed until I cried.
I didn’t stop for a coffee. I just wanted to get away. I apologized to the waiter who’d helped me, and offered to pay for all the mess, but he refused.
‘I’ll bill your friend,’ he said. ‘Just give me his name and address. If he doesn’t pay up we’ll sue.’
I told him I didn’t want that, that it would only be an excuse for Matt to contact me again, if only to stir up trouble. In the end the waiter grudgingly allowed me to pay for the meal we’d barely touched, but he dismissed the breakages as unimportant.
‘Occupational hazard,’ he said. ‘The amount of crockery we buy in, those plates only cost us a few pence each.’
He told me that getting rid of Matt was the best Christmas present I could have given myself, then he called me a cab. I found myself giving Alex’s address, because instead of going home to lick my wounds I realized that what I really wanted was company, the kind I could be myself with.
Alex was watching The Birds for about the four hundredth time when I turned up on his doorstep. The only illumination in his front room came from the flickering TV, a lamp on the mantelpiece which was shaped like a clenched fist holding a red bulb, and a small artificial Christmas tree we’d had since we were kids, which was standing proudly in the centre of his dining table, festooned with strings of fairy lights.
He opened the front door, took one look at my dress and said, ‘What did the bastard do this time?’
I shrugged, but I felt my voice cracking with emotion. ‘He hit me over the head with a bottle and then threw a table at me.’
Diagonal shadows sliced across Alex’s face as his jaw clenched in anger. ‘Right, I’m going to kill the fucker,’ he said, and looked as though he would have rushed out of the house there and then if I hadn’t placed a hand on his arm.
‘Alex, please,’ I said. ‘It’s two days before Christmas and
I’m so … so sick of violence.’ All at once emotion rushed up through me and I reached out for him. ‘Just look after me,’ I sobbed into his chest.
Alex apologized, settled me in the front room, made me a cup of tea, fetched me a change of clothes.
‘You watch the end of this while I have a bath,’ I said when I’d drunk my tea and put my dress to soak in the kitchen sink. ‘Then we’ll talk.’
An hour later I reappeared, hot and damp and languid, the bath having enervated me almost to the point of inertia. My shoulder was throbbing where the edge of the table had caught it, but my head and ankle felt much better.
‘It’d better be over,’ Alex said.
I flopped down. The Birds was finished and there was a Bond film showing now, Pierce Brosnan, without sound.
‘It is,’ I said. ‘I’m going to start going out with him.’ I nodded at the screen.
‘Not if I get there first,’ said Alex.
I grunted a laugh and Alex turned the TV off with the remote. ‘Shall I open a bottle of wine?’
I shook my head. ‘It’ll just send me to sleep.’
‘OK.’ He settled back on the settee. ‘Do you promise me it’s really, really over?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If I never see that bastard again it’ll be too soon. He’s a nutter, Alex.’
‘I’ve been trying to tell you that for the last year.’
‘No, I mean he’s … he’s not just violent, he’s seriously unhinged. He belongs in a straitjacket.’
‘He belongs at the bottom of the Thames with a sack of rocks round his neck,’ Alex said.
‘You know, I really don’t give a shit what happens to him now. He could throw himself under a bus for all I care.’
‘You really mean that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My Matt period is definitely over. It’s onward and upward from here.’