by Anna Maxted
But before I got the chance, a note was delivered to my office.
Hannah,
Hello.
I think of you often.
Would you like to meet for dinner?
It might be nice.
Love,
Jack
PS. Bath in storage.
I danced around my office for a bit, then I posted my reply.
I might. When? Where?
Oh.
Baggage in storage also.
Jack posted me the details. It was a new place. In West London, inconvenient for both of us. But I felt he’d made a good choice. I didn’t want Jack or me to roll off the sofa and slouch down the road to the nearest chippy, and I guess, neither did he. It was important, that night, to travel. The food might be terrible, for all he knew, but he was right to take the chance.
I kept his first note in my pocket. I touched it until the paper went soft. It was quaint, and not a little thrilling, this old-fashioned way of communicating. Like negotiating with a kidnapper. I didn’t want to blow this gossamer bond by foghorning down his ear on my mobile. For the first time in my life, I realised that waiting wasn’t all bad.
I soon changed my mind.
I checked my watch, again. He’d booked the table for eight. And here I was. Early. I’d arrived at ten-to. I could have sat in the car, but I wanted to play it straight. Also, I’d wanted to check out the place. So. I walked in. Not bad. A big square white room, dark wood chairs and tables, a crowd that gave the impression of being gorgeous. A waitress led me right to the back wall, and I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or furious. For me, I looked good. I felt good, which is half the battle.
I ordered a vodka. Sat there. Watched people. Read the menu.
I put my mobile on vibrate, placed it on the bench next to me.
At five-past eight, I told myself that Jack only seemed to be late because I’d arrived ten minutes early.
At quarter-past eight, I decided that fifteen minutes late was normal and acceptable.
At half-past eight, I presumed he’d been caught up at work. However, a phone call would have been nice.
At a quarter-to nine, I scurried into the street and rang his mobile. ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘I’m at the restaurant, waiting. I’m sure you’re on your way. I’ll wait till nine. Then I’m gone.’
I wasn’t going anywhere. I’d wait all evening till they started stacking chairs on tables. He had to turn up. I couldn’t quite believe he wasn’t coming. I felt sick, and shaken. Was it a trick? To punish me for forcing him to confront his shortcomings? For setting down a few relationship rules? I couldn’t care less about sitting in a restaurant alone – I’d done it for work a thousand times. So what if people looked? All I cared about was Jack. So was this it?
I crumpled my napkin, fiddled with my phone, tried not to notice the couple on the next table, who were slowly twining from the feet and hands. She had streaked blonde hair and looked effortlessly fabulous. He had an intense tan, and black hair, possibly dyed. All around me, people were together, and here was I, alone. Do people even get stood up at my age? Isn’t that something that ends when you hit twenty?
I refused to believe it.
Jack had asked to meet me. That meant he was ready. I was no longer bothered if he had emotional baggage yet to be laundered, pressed, folded and forgotten. As if I wasn’t a work in progress. If he got out of line, I’d tell him so. I know he’d tell me so. But I had a feeling that supersonic fallouts would be rare. I had a sense that, after all these years, after all the confusion, the passion and the rage, we finally understood each other, accepted each other. I wanted him as he was. We’d fight our way together.
Unless he wasn’t coming. But I knew he was. I trusted him. He’d written ‘Bath in storage’.
There had to be a reason for his no-show. Perhaps I should start calling hospitals. I accepted the waiter’s offer of another vodka, I fixed my gaze on the door of the restaurant. It was five-to nine. I drummed my fingers. Checked my reflection in the knife. Ate some bread. Wished for salt and butter, instead of squashed virgin olive oil. I was certain that at any moment, Jack would rush into the room.
As I stared at the door, a tall man rose from a table nearby and strode towards it, mobile clenched in fist.
Jack.
What!
They’d seated us at separate tables.
I leapt up, dodging waiters, stumbling over chairs.
‘Jack!’ I called. ‘Jack! Jack!’
He stopped. Turned. He saw me, broke into a smile.
I couldn’t get the words out fast enough, ‘I’ve been waiting for you over there since for ever!’ I said.
‘I’ve been waiting for you for longer than that! I got here at quarter-to for ever.’
‘I called you!’
‘And I called you.’
‘Either our phones are inferior, or the reception in here is nil.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I was going to wait.’
‘Me too. You did book the table in your name, didn’t you?’
‘I remembered it specially.’
‘Well then!’
‘Their error then. Not ours. Although,’ he grinned at me, ‘one of us is a detective.’
‘Excuse me,’ said a man in a black jacket who was gripping a clipboard. ‘Could I ask you to move, please? You’re blocking the door.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Jack. ‘Could I ask you why my friend and I were shown to separate tables, where we’ve sat waiting for the last hour and a half?’
The man seemed to wilt inside his black jacket. ‘Oh, no!’ he cried. ‘You waited that long!’ He riffled pointlessly through his notes. ‘I presume you didn’t book under two names?’ he added, hopefully.
I could see Jack fighting the tide of sarcasm. ‘Just one,’ he replied.
‘My apologies, a drink, the meal on the house. I—’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry. It’s fine. Isn’t it, Jack?’
He looked at me. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve found each other. We don’t need anything … more.’
I smiled at my shoes. I saw Jack follow my gaze. I was wearing my black shoes with the ribbons that criss-crossed, beautiful shoes for a beautiful moment. I felt a wave of bliss wash over me. For once, my life was movie perfect, people might look at me and think, wow, she’s as polished as a conker! Jack bent suddenly, grabbed at the hem of my black flared trousers. My smile faltered as he opened his hand, flashed me a glimpse of a small ball of pink material.
Yesterday’s knickers.
Jack grinned and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. I turned a pants shade of pink.
‘Hannah,’ he said, ‘I know you’ve changed. But … never change.’
I lifted my gaze and smiled at Jack, smiled at the world. My life would never be movie perfect, and it didn’t matter. It was good enough the way it was. I made a mental note to throw out the fifty-quid-a-pot moisturiser Gab had forced on me. It was starting to smell like mildew. And it was about time I donated Jason’s babydoll nightdress to Oxfam. They could do with a laugh.
‘I won’t change if you won’t,’ I said.
The head waiter was still standing there, carefully oblivious, and I peered beyond him, gave Jack’s table the once-over.
‘Mine’s nicer,’ I said, and led him to it.
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bsp; Copyright © Anna Maxted 2004
Anna Maxted has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by William Heinemann
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