by JL Merrow
The waitress assured them it was no problem and left.
Wishing she hadn’t abandoned them so soon, Robin opened his mouth to say something innocuous about the weather. Mum beat him to the punch, though, as she turned to Azrah. “Are you quite sure it’s all right for you to eat Sunday lunch, dear?”
Azrah gave a sugary smile. “Why, do you think I’ve put on weight, Mrs. Christopher?”
Mum gave her a slow, considering once-over. “No, I don’t think you need to be worried yet. Although perhaps the Yorkshire pudding might not be the best idea. You’re still a little too young to be losing your figure. I was speaking culturally. After all, it’s really a Christian tradition, and I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble at home.”
Azrah gave Mum a serious side-eye, although to be fair, since she was sitting next to her a direct look might have given her a crick in the neck. “I’ve had Sunday lunch round your house loads of times!”
“Yes, but this is in public. People can see you.”
“And yet, no one seems to care. Trust me. Even if I was a practising Muslim, who’s gonna have a problem with me eating lunch? Sunday or any other day?”
Dad gave a loud, fake cough that sounded a lot like Ramadan. Then went back to peering at the wine list, although now with a faint smirk.
Robin sent Azrah an apologetic smile across the table. She glared, and mouthed back, You are going to owe me your soul for this.
“Mum, what did I literally just say five seconds ago about Azrah not being religious? And it’s not polite to keep going on about that sort of stuff anyway.”
Mum’s face got all pinched. “Well, pardon me for taking an interest, I’m sure.”
They sat in stony silence as the waitress distributed the bread rolls with a pair of tongs and an uneasy smile, as if she’d picked up on the atmosphere.
“Do you fast for your religion, Mrs. Christopher?” Azrah asked brightly once the waitress had gone, tearing her bread roll into tiny pieces.
“Don’t be silly, dear. Would you pass the butter, please, Robin?” Mum sawed her own bread roll precisely in half and spread it with an even smear of butter before taking a dainty bite.
“You want to be careful with that.” Azrah simpered. “Cholesterol’s bad for older people.”
“Mum, do you and Dad want to go up first to the carvery?” Robin said desperately. “Me and Azrah don’t mind waiting.”
“Azrah and I,” Mum corrected, almost drowning out Azrah’s muttered, Speak for yourself. “And yes. Come along, Peter.”
Dad grumbled, but followed her up to the carvery, where a white-hatted chef, or at least some kind of pseudo-chef, waited to slice them off a few choice cuts.
“Your soul, and your firstborn,” Azrah said darkly. “And I’ve been meaning to ask, what the hell are you wearing? That sweater makes you look too young to drive.”
“Mum gave it to me. I thought it might put her in a good mood to see me wearing it.”
“If that hideous thing’s got any mood-enhancing powers, they’re not working on me.”
“You can talk,” Robin said hollowly.
“What, it’s worse for you because she’s your mum? You don’t even live with her anymore.”
“It’s not that.” Robin waited for the concerned enquiry as to what it actually was. Then he remembered this was Azrah. “I bumped into him on the way out.”
“Who? Talk sense, will you? I hate stupid guessing games when I’m hungry.”
“Him. Fridge Bloke.”
“What was he doing in your flat?”
“Not in my flat. On the street. Coming out of his house.” Robin heaved a despairing sigh. “With his wife. And their baby.”
“Fuck.” Azrah’s tone was heartfelt.
Robin nodded sadly, as a lady on the next table turned round to give Azrah a filthy look.
“Or rather, no fuck, to be brutally accurate.” Azrah smirked, but Robin was almost positive there was a glimmer of sympathy in her eye. Either that or it was a reflection from the lights.
Robin heaved a sigh. “I don’t know why I’m so depressed about it. I mean, what were the chances anyhow? Even if he’d turned out to be gay, he’d never have been interested in me. I’m too boring and ordinary. My life sucks.”
“Yep. But hey, at least your mum and dad are coming back so we can finally get some food.”
“Don’t get the lamb.” Mum plonked her laden plate down and started fussing with her napkin. “It’s dreadfully undercooked.”
“Probably means it’s not actually turned to shoe leather,” Robin muttered to Azrah as they wound their way through the tables to the carvery. “Yep, there you go—nice and pink in the middle.”
He got the chef to give him two thick slices as an act of rebellion, while Azrah stood there for a long while, considering.
“Come on, it’s not that hard a choice,” he chivvied her along. “My food’s getting cold.”
“Yeah, but I was going to have the turkey, but that just reminds me of Black Friday and work, now. Then I thought, pork, but your mum’ll start going on about me publicly betraying my culture again.”
“So have the beef.”
“I don’t feel like beef. Sod it. I’ll have the lamb.”
Halfway back to their table, Chip Shop Girl and the Cogling crossed their path like a couple of ill-omened black cats in human form.
Robin nearly dropped his plate. He stared after Fridge Bloke’s family and clutched at Azrah’s arm.
She yelped. “Oi! You made me drip gravy on my top, you git.”
“It’s her,” Robin hissed. “I mean his her. I mean them.”
“Who? This is ten percent silk, you know. Says ‘handwash only’ on the label.”
“You’ve never handwashed anything in your life. And it’s him. Fridge Bloke.”
“Where?” Azrah swung her head wildly, spilling more gravy.
“Over at the back, where the woman with the baby is just sitting down. But don’t loo—” Robin winced as she craned her neck past him.
“The bloke in the suit, right? You didn’t tell me he was a posh git. And she’s all in rockabilly.” Azrah pursed her lips. “Oh, she’s pretty. Could be a bit of a cow, mind. Stylish but hard. Do you think that’s his parents they’re with, or hers?”
“Stop staring at them!”
“Why? Nobody’s looking back— Well, they weren’t.”
Robin cringed as Chip Shop Girl sent a hard stare in their general direction. “Come on. Let’s sit down and eat.”
He strode off back to their table. Dad glanced up as he sat down. “Forget the way, did you?”
“It was Robin,” Azrah said. “He’s so indecisive.”
“We always used to hope he’d grow out of it.” Mum pursed her lips as she peered at Robin’s plate. “Are you sure you really need that much meat, dear? It’s not as though you’re particularly large or muscular.”
“Chance’d be a fine thing,” Dad muttered, frowning at the roast parsnip he was dissecting.
“Maybe he’s still growing?” Azrah suggested.
“I’m twenty-four. I’m not still growing.”
“Nah, you’re right. You’ve reached your peak.” She snickered. “Well, your foothill, anyway.”
Robin narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re still pi— I mean, miffed about that gravy on your top, aren’t you?”
Mum tsked. “Oh, you’ll never get that out, dear. It’s the rag basket for that one. A good thing it wasn’t one of your best. Robin, do you know those people sitting at the back?”
Robin made a valiant attempt to inhale a carrot. “No! I mean, what people?”
“The family staring at us. And don’t eat so quickly. You’ll give yourself indigestion.”
Robin kept his head down, his face so hot he was surprised his meal didn’t start to char.
Azrah glanced over. “Oh, yeah, they are, aren’t they? That’s a bit rude. No idea what’s brought that on.”
“Some people hav
e no manners.” Mum sent a death glare over in Archie’s family’s direction.
Robin thought longingly of sliding under the table, never to be seen again.
When she got back from changing Jerrick, Bridge had a face on her for a mo like a wet Whitby weekend—then she sat down and plastered her smile back on.
Archie wasn’t fooled. “What’s up?” he said in a low voice.
“Nothing.”
He gave her a look.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Is that bloke stalking you or something?”
Luckily Pat and Janet were busy cooing over Jerrick, or the mood at table might have gone right downhill. “What bloke?”
“Your not-mate from earlier. Kid in the sweater. He’s over there, just coming back from the carvery.” Bridge jerked her head.
Archie shot a glance over to where she’d indicated, and yes, Robin was there. He seemed to be having a quiet yet intense argument with a petite, dark-skinned girl. Was that his girlfriend? Not that it was any of Archie’s business, obviously.
Was this lunch ever going to end? Suddenly exhausted, Archie just wanted to go home. To check that Lyddie was all right, not for . . . any other reason.
Bridge looked like she was expecting an answer, so Archie roused himself. “It’s a free country. Lots of people come here for Sunday lunch.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him around before today,” Bridge went on.
“Oh, who’s this, love?” Janet piped up.
“No one,” Archie said quickly. “Someone I’ve seen a few times, that’s all.”
“A few times, eh?” Pat’s tone had a sour note to it.
“Now, dear.” Janet patted her husband’s arm with the hand not holding Jerrick on her knee. “Archie can see who he wants. You know that. He and Bridge aren’t beholden to one another.”
Archie choked on his beer. “I’ve just seen him, that’s all. I’m not seeing him. We’ve barely spoken.” He couldn’t help glancing back over. Robin and the girl were now sitting down at a table with a sour-faced middle-aged white couple.
“That red-faced startled rabbit in the woolly jumper?” Pat huffed. “Looks closer to Jerrick’s age than yours.”
“Ooh, he does look young.” Janet was frowning.
“I’m not seeing him!” Archie nearly shouted it.
“He’s with a girl, Dad,” Bridge broke in. “And his parents—Well, I’m guessing they’re not hers.”
“And they’d probably like to eat their lunch in peace, so maybe we should all stop staring at them?” Archie was getting desperate.
“I don’t know why everyone’s so interested in him,” Bridge said shortly. “Haven’t we got better things to talk about—like my son, for instance?”
Everyone stared at Jerrick, who up until then had been happily sitting on Janet’s lap chewing on a button of her cardi. His little face crumpled under the unexpected adult pressure.
Archie stood up before Jerrick could kick into wail mode. “Hand him over—I’ll take him for a wander. He could do with some fresh air. Bridge, can you give me his little jacket? I’ll have whatever you’re having for dessert.”
As they were in town, there wasn’t a handy playground at the back of the Ploughman, only a lobster-trap of a car park. Archie took Jerrick out the front instead and played aeroplanes with him until a nearby busker started giving them dagger looks and Archie realised he’d picked up an audience. Apparently a giggling tot re-enacting a First World War dogfight with his dad, complete with moustache-twiddling and exclamations of Curse you, Red Baron! had been judged more entertaining than another rendition of “Wonderwall” by Hitchworth’s Sunday shoppers.
In the interest of community relations, Archie sidled over and suggested a joint effort of a dance number. It turned out the busker’s repertoire didn’t include all that many waltzes, and Archie found himself and Jerrick bopping along to “Walking on Sunshine,” but at least the audience had sidled with them and started bopping too. It ended with honour intact, a healthy addition to the busker’s finances, and smiles on all sides.
Archie mopped his brow with Jerrick’s muzzy as he walked back into the Ploughman, the overheated indoor air hitting him like a slap with a blanket fresh from the dryer. He hoped his moustache wasn’t about to wilt. The atmosphere at the table, too, appeared to have thawed—Janet greeted his return with a smile, and even Pat unbent enough to mutter, “Eat your apple pie before it gets cold, lad.”
All right, it was hardly a public vote of confidence in Archie, but he’d take what he could get. He handed Jerrick back to Bridge with a smile, and tucked into his pud.
“You’ve gone a bit droopy,” Bridge said after he’d finished, just as their coffees arrived.
Pat barked out a laugh. “Now, now. Shouldn’t go casting aspersions on the lad’s manhood.”
Janet giggled. She and Bridge had finished the bottle of wine while Archie was outside with Jerrick, and Bridge never drank more than a glass when she was driving.
“Is that what they’re calling moustaches these days?” Archie stood up. “I’d better go and, er, re-wax my manhood, then.” He tried not to wince at Janet’s shriek of laughter. Good thing he was used to people looking at him anyway. Patting his pocket—yep, tin of moustache wax present and correct—he strolled over in the direction of the gents’.
Robin had done his best to choke down his roast lamb and all the trimmings. It could have been so much soggy cardboard for all he tasted.
He was going to die alone, he prophesied gloomily. And not be discovered for weeks. On the bright side, he wouldn’t be eaten by his pets, because he loved animals far too much to condemn them to a life with a total loser like him.
“Was everything all right with your meals?” the waitress asked brightly when she came to clear the plates.
Mum gave her a hard look. “It would have been too late now if it hadn’t.”
The waitress’s smile dimmed. She could probably hear the chink of pound coins as her tip tumbled down the drain. “Oh . . . I’m sorry about that. Was everything all right?”
“It was really good, thanks,” Robin said quickly if not precisely honestly.
“Would you like to see the dessert menu?”
“Yes, please,” said Azrah before anyone else could speak.
Robin had to admire her dedication to getting all she could out of this penance of a meal.
Menus passed around, they all stared at the choices, which were the usual sugar-and-cream–laden confections. “Why is there never anything like a fruit salad?” Robin wondered aloud, and glanced up to see three identical expressions doubting his sanity. “Um, nothing for me. I’ll just have a coffee.”
Dad humphed, muttered something that definitely included the words girlish figure, and announced his intention of having the triple chocolate fudge cake. His tone strongly suggested that real men ate puddings and liked them, although it was possible that Robin was being paranoid. Mum went for the apple pie and custard, probably so she could complain that it wasn’t as good as hers.
“Cheesecake for me, please.” Azrah said, rising. “And you’ll have to excuse me. Need a trip to the ladies’.”
Robin jumped up from his seat, desperate not to be left alone with his parents in their current mood. “Me too! Um, the gents’, I mean. Not the ladies’.”
Dad muttered something that sounded like, Are you sure?
Robin’s wince was totally not visible to the human eye.
Azrah sent him a sympathetic glance, but he’d long suspected she wasn’t entirely human. She linked her arm in his as they headed off towards the facilities. “Come on, we can touch up each other’s makeup.”
“You’re not wearing any makeup.”
“What, and you are?”
“No, but . . .” Robin shook his head and dropped her arm. “Never mind. See you in a bit.”
He pushed through the double doors to the gents’, and nearly had a heart attack.
Fridge Gent was there
, his back to Robin. It was the first time Robin had had a good look at him from behind, and with his jacket off. It was an arresting view, his tailored clothing emphasising his trim waist and hips, set off by those impossibly broad shoulders. If they stuck him in the window of Willoughbys, waistcoat sales would quadruple overnight. He was standing in front of the mirror waxing his moustache, and why did that sound like a euphemism in Robin’s head?
Play it cool. He strode confidently into the room, slipped on a rogue piece of loo roll, and only saved himself by flinging out a hand to the wall of the nearest cubicle. It hit with a sound like a clap of thunder, swiftly followed by an almighty Oi from the bloke inside.
“S-sorry,” Robin stuttered. “Slipped.”
As if drawn by magnets, his eyes rose to the mirror, where the reflection of Fridge Gent—Archie—was staring back at him in surprise, his eyebrows arching—hah!—in perfect counterpoint to that natty moustache. And yes, the monstrous, sweaty, anguished beetroot looming behind him was indeed Robin’s face.
Maybe the ladies’ would have been a better choice, after all.
Archie turned to stare straight at him, which didn’t improve Robin’s composure one bit. “Are you all right?”
“F-fine. Sorry.” Robin turned to escape, realised that he did, actually, need to pee quite desperately, and spun back round again, almost tripping over his own feet as he did so.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Archie was still giving him concerned looks. “Do you want me to get anyone? Treacherous things, tiled floors. You might have turned an ankle. Hit your head on the wall— Did you hit your head on the wall? You could have a concussion—” He stepped forward, a hand held up as if to feel Robin’s brow for a fever.
“No! Really, I’m fine.” To prove it, Robin marched up to the urinal—watching carefully where he put his feet this time—unzipped his flies, and waited for the blessed relief of an emptying bladder.
And waited. There was no sound of retreating footsteps behind him. Mortified, Robin flung an angry glare over his shoulder. “I can’t go with you standing there!”