What Matters

by Gracie Leigh

  “Whatever.” Sam banged the lids back on the pans. “Get the plates, yeah?”

  “That’s all you’re going to say to me?”

  “What the fuck do you want me to say?”

  “Um, I don’t know. How about filling me on the fact that your grandfather is selling the café? That this place will be yuppie flats by the end of the summer and I’m out of a damn job?”

  If Sam was surprised that Eddie knew about the impending sale of the café, he hid it well. His dark eyes flashed, and his acid glare remained. “Why the fuck would I tell you about that? It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “No? Gee, thanks, Sam. Way to make a girl feel special.”

  “You want to feel special? Is that all this is, Eddie? You want the whole world to revolve around you?”

  “No! That’s not what I meant.”

  “Great, ’cause I don’t actually give a shit what you meant. Pops selling the business has nothing to do with you, so either get back to work, or get the fuck out.”

  Sam stormed away, slamming the kitchen door behind him, and then the back door, leaving Eddie to blink away tears and wonder how a simple discussion could go so badly wrong.

  She was no closer to an answer when Sam returned, smelling of rage and cigarette smoke, and apparently in no mood to continue the car crash conversation. He thrust bowls of unidentified stew at Eddie and grunted table numbers, turning away before she could respond. By the time all the customers had been served their main course, she’d about reached her limit of mutinous silence.

  Furious, she stalked into the kitchen and slammed the dishwasher closed, shoving Sam back from the counter. “No, you don’t get to do this. You can’t just sell the café without telling me. That’s not fair.”

  “I told you,” Sam said dully. “It’s not me selling it, because it’s not mine to sell. How many times do you need telling before it sinks into your entitled brain?”

  “My entitled brain? Are you fucking serious? Since when was this about your screwed up perception of me?”

  “Since you made it all about you by screaming in my face about shit you know nothing about!”

  Sam’s shout rang out in the cramped kitchen and merged with Eddie’s frustration. She pounded her fist on the stainless steel counter. “So tell me what the hell’s going on. Am I out of a job, or not?”

  “What do you care? You only took this job because it was the first thing you stumbled your drunk arse into. It’s not like you haven’t got the world at your fucking feet, even if your old man really has squandered the family millions. What does it matter to you if this place closes by the end of the month?”

  “The end of the month?” Eddie’s heart stuttered. “That soon?”

  Sam shrugged. “If the developer the agent has in mind takes the bait, it could be even sooner. Bureaucracy works fast when the people with the real money pull the strings.”

  “And that’s all that matters, right? Because don’t tell me you haven’t got a stake in this. Is that why you’re pushing the sale? To get your hands on your grandfather’s cash?”

  It was a low blow, and she didn’t mean it—how could she, when she’d seen Sam do nothing but work his fingers to the bone for his beloved grandfather?—but as Sam’s molten gaze turned to ice, it was too late to take it back. He pushed past Eddie and opened the dishwasher in a cloud of steamy spray that did nothing to ease the frigid cold that had sprung up between them.

  “I’m not getting shit from this sale but the chance to see Pops retire before he keels over with a fucking spatula in his hand. Now get your stuff and go home. You’re done for the night.”

  “Did you give him a chance to explain why he didn’t tell you?”

  Eddie spun around and glared at Martha, irritated, as usual, by her insistence on being so bloody reasonable. After a sleepless night staring at her phone, waiting for a sign from Sam that would likely never come, she’d woken Martha at the crack of dawn in the hope of some sympathy.

  But so far, none was forthcoming. Apparently there were two sides to every story—three, in this case, if you counted Mr. Nowak—and Eddie had only recounted her own.

  “So?” Martha pressed. “Did Sam say why he didn’t tell you about the sale?”

  “Not really. He just said it was none of my business.”

  “Well…is it? Really, I mean, because it sounds to me like it was all only finalised yesterday. Why would he share his grandfather’s business before there was something concrete for him to tell?”

  “You think it’s fair that I had to find out from some suit measuring up the kitchen? Or if they’d waited until they locked the damn doors for the final time?”

  “It wouldn’t have come to that. You said he was in a foul mood before you even spoke to him about it. Perhaps he doesn’t want the café to close either? You’ve said yourself that his whole life revolves around it. And what about Dylan? Does he know?”

  Eddie hadn’t thought of Dylan any more than she’d stopped to consider Sam’s real feelings. “All he said was that he wanted his grandfather to retire, and that the sale would probably happen quickly because whoever’s buying it has enough money to have clout.”

  “Did you give him the chance to say much else?”

  “Hey!” Eddie protested. “It wasn’t just me ranting and raving, you know. He called me an entitled bitch.”

  “Seriously?”

  “As good as.”

  “That’s not the same thing, Eddie, and you know it.”

  Eddie sighed. “I’m wrong, aren’t I?”

  “To a degree, yes,” Martha said. “But it sounds to me like his temper is as fiery as yours, so perhaps he said some things he shouldn’t have, too. Why don’t you just apologise for jumping all over him, and maybe in turn he’ll tell you what’s really going on?”

  Martha was right, and Eddie knew it, but even after all that had passed between them, the idea of grovelling to Sam Nowak curled her fists. She left Martha to her morning and got ready for work, wondering if Sam would be in a better mood when she arrived.

  But, of course, he wasn’t, and he spent the whole of Eddie’s shift walking away from her—leaving the kitchen whenever she came in, communicating with customers far more than he usually did in an obvious effort to keep her at bay.

  And it worked, because after a sleepless night, Eddie lost the will to chase him around the café, and left at midday without saying goodbye.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The trouble with silence was that it often brought a false clarity. Eddie worked under the shadow of Sam’s anger for more than a week before she finally snapped. And she was alone with her violin when the startling wave of perspective crashed into her, distracted and buzzing from nailing the climatic end of her favourite concerto. He didn’t tell me because I don’t fit.

  At first, she didn’t understand what that meant, and then she recalled the day she’d met Sam—how they’d faced each other in the street like two prized fighters, him sneering, and her looking down her nose. Since then, they’d worked side by side, kissed, fucked, and then some, but had anything really changed?

  From her point of view, of course it had. Her father had been right, and working at the café truly had given her the taste of the real world she’d so desperately—and unwittingly—needed. But what about Sam? Had he changed the way he saw her? “How many times do you need telling before it sinks into your entitled brain?” Until that moment she’d accepted the barb as words thrown out in anger, but paired with the sneer she would forever associate with him, now it hurt.

  He looks down on me as much as I ever did on him.

  More.

  Eddie set her violin down, fighting the sudden and terrifying urge to throw it against the wall, and wondered if Sam had experienced a similar epiphany when he’d decided not to tell her about the sale of the café. Or worse, if he’d not thought of her at all, and that made more sense than anything. After all, why would he consider someone who he thought so little of?r />
  Far from him being a bit of rough for Eddie, she’d been the—Oh God. I was the posh tart who dropped her knickers at the first smile. And what about Dylan? Eddie burned as she remembered leaning forward, Sam buried deep inside her, and begging for Dylan’s cock too.

  With shaking hands, she packed the Stradivarius away and went to her room, her heart pounding in her chest. Dylan had never answered her message about hanging out when he got home, and she’d hardly spoken to him since that night. Was this why? Because he’d got all he wanted from her too?

  Eddie pictured Dylan’s sunny smile and shook her head. Somehow, it was easier to believe the worst of Sam than of him, even though Sam was the one who’d carved his name on her heart. She picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she came to Dylan. Her thumb hovered over the delete button, but at the last second, she tossed the phone aside. And nothing changed. The weight in her chest remained. I need to get out of here.

  Shame the only place she had to go was the café for her dinnertime shift—an evening to be spent no doubt under the cloud of Sam’s mutinous silence.

  And she wasn’t disappointed. Sam took over from Mr. Nowak at nine o’clock and sent Eddie home half an hour later. “I don’t need you,” he said flatly.

  “I’m aware of that,” Eddie snapped. “You’ve made it perfectly clear.”

  She dropped her tea towel on the side and walked away, letting the kitchen door slam shut behind her, and wondering, as she looked at the elderly men so obliviously enjoying their supper, how long she would hold out before the bubble of grief in her belly finally burst.

  She got her answer a week later when Mr. Nowak pulled a chair up to the cluster of evening tables and gave them the bad news. And even though the conversation was conducted entirely in Polish, the old men’s distress was clear to see.

  Unable to watch, Eddie fled into the kitchen and burst into tears. Mr. Nowak came in as she was wiping her eyes with some blue kitchen towel.

  “What are you crying for, missy? That grandson of mine forget your birthday or something?”

  “What?”

  “He’s not one for the—how do you say it—the grand gesture? None of us Polish boys are. We show you our hearts with hard work, no?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Nowak shrugged. “So it’s not Sam who’s upset you? You wouldn’t be the first girl to be crying over my onions for that boy.”

  “I’ll bet.” Eddie sniffled and pushed the nearby bowl of sliced onions away. “But it’s not Sam who’s upset me…not really, anyway. It’s all of you.”

  “All of us?” Mr. Nowak frowned, apparently mystified. “You not get paid enough?”

  “It’s not about the money. It’s this place…the sale. Sam never told me, and I can’t help worrying about what will happen to them out there.” Eddie pointed at the kitchen door. “Where will they go without you here to feed them?”

  “To my friend Bolok’s in Pimlico,” Mr. Nowak said steadily. “You think I would shut my doors without a second thought for my friends?”

  Eddie bit her lip, unwilling to admit that she had thought exactly that—assumed it, even—ever since she’d heard the news about the sale. “Did you know that before you decided to sell?”

  “Of course, and I never decided to sell, Eddie. I have to sell, to give my Agnes the best care. Did Sam not explain this to you?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything,” Eddie said sullenly. “Just that he was planning your retirement for you.”

  Mr. Nowak smiled sadly. “Ah, now that part is true. He likes to think I’ll have time to be off playing poker with my friends, but that will not happen while I have my Agnes to look after. He knows this really.”

  “Is your wife very ill?”

  “Yes, dear. She has the same as our Sam, but she is much older, and we didn’t have the treatment that Sam has access to now. Her kidneys have failed, and she won’t outlive them for long.”

  “There’s nothing they can do?”

  Mr. Nowak shrugged. “Perhaps, but she is old, and she’s lived. She doesn’t want the pain.”

  Eddie didn’t know what to say, and in the face of real sadness, her tears dried up. “I’m sorry.”

  “What on earth for? It is only because of you working here that I have had time to see what I have to do. Now, are you done snivelling, or do I have to wash these pans on my own?”

  Apparently changing the subject with a sledgehammer was a Nowak thing, after all. Eddie drifted to the dishwasher as Mr. Nowak left the room and opened it absently, her mind on Sam. He’d barely looked at her in a fortnight, only spared her a word when he’d absolutely had to, and it was clear that he was still as angry with her as she had been at him. He wouldn’t be angry if he didn’t care. But was that really true? Could it be true, or was Eddie’s previous theory about him and Dylan the cold hard truth?

  With Sam nowhere to be seen, there was no way of knowing, so Eddie got back to work and spent the rest of the evening doing as much for Mr. Nowak as she possibly could.

  At the end of the night, she packed up a dish of leftovers and thrust it into his hands. “You didn’t eat tonight. Make sure you have these when you get home.”

  Mr. Nowak smiled, the harsh lines of his weathered face softening in the dim light of the empty café. “You’re a good woman. Much nicer than any other girl my grandson has ever brought home.”

  “Been lots of them, have there?”

  “A few, but none since the last one did the dirty on him a few years ago, and I was beginning to think he had given up. You’re good for him, I think.”

  “I don’t know why you think that. He hasn’t spoken to me for weeks.”

  “He will,” Mr. Nowak said. “Our Sam has his mother’s temperament—stubborn as a mule, no? Give him some time, Eddie. He wouldn’t be so cross if he didn’t care.”

  The echo of her own hopeful thoughts set something in motion in Eddie’s brain, but with back-to-back rehearsals for the end of year show packing her schedule for the next week, she didn’t even have time to work at the café, let alone chase Sam around, begging him to listen to her.

  And what on earth would she say? You’re as much to blame for this as I am, but please forgive me for making every assumption that you’ve ever accused me of?

  Yeah, right.

  “For goodness sake!” Martha flicked a popcorn kernel—their dinner after a full day of rehearsals—at Eddie’s head. “Just call him. I know you don’t have time to go over there, but that doesn’t mean you can’t talk.”

  Eddie left the popcorn in her hair, too tired even to pick it out. “What if he doesn’t answer?”

  “Then you’ll call him again until he does. He can’t ignore you forever.”

  Eddie was willing to bet that Sam was quite capable of doing just that, and even though she’d long come around to the reality that the deadlock between them was partly her fault, she couldn’t help being indignant that he hadn’t responded to any of the handful of messages she’d sent since her last shift at the café. Even if I’m guilty of all the things he says, I deserve a chance to explain myself.

  But did she? With Mr. Nowak’s help, she’d convinced herself that Sam’s anger stemmed from the fact that he really did care, but what if he didn’t? What if his silence was simply the bi-product of scornful indifference?

  “Eddie, you’re such an overthinker.”

  “What?”

  Martha sighed. “I can practically hear the cogs turning in your brain. Just call him, will you? Then we can all relax.”

  “I didn’t realise it was keeping you up at night,” Eddie said dryly.

  “It’s not, but this constant mooning over Sam is driving me up the wall. And it’s ridiculous, because the café hasn’t even been sold.”

  “It might have been, for all I know. I haven’t been there for a week.”

  “You don’t think they’d tell you?”

  Eddie rolled her eyes. �
��Bloody hell, Martha. Don’t you listen? This is how it all started. They don’t tell me anything.”

  “No, they didn’t tell you one thing. Who’s to say that they haven’t regretted it as much as you regret prematurely ripping Sam’s head off?”

  It was a nice theory, but as candid as her last conversation with Mr. Nowak had been, she couldn’t imagine that she was at the top of his list of people to call when the sale of the café finally went through.

  And so she got the shock of her life when her phone lit up with the café’s number a few days later. Sneaking out of the orchestra pit, she answered it in a dark corridor. “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  “Sam?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Um…” Eddie’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Is everything okay? Do you need me to work—”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m calling to tell you that Pops accepted an offer on the café this morning.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. It was for less than the asking price, but it was to someone he wanted to sell it to far more than some dickhead with a corporate masterplan.”

  Eddie frowned. “He didn’t sell it to a developer?”

  “Nope. Sold it to some hipster fella who wants to serve tapas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And there’s probably still a job for you, if you want it. They’re only gonna close the place for a couple of weeks.”

  Eddie placed her palm over her speeding heart, and felt more than a little faint, though she couldn’t tell if it was the effect that Sam’s remarkably pleasant tone was having on her, or the fact that her job was apparently safe. “When will all this happen?”

  “No idea. Pops wanted you to know, though, so you had time to make other arrangements if you wanted to skip out and get another job.”

  “Who exactly would I be skipping out on if I did that?”

  “Me. The new owner offered me a job managing the place.”

  “What do you know about tapas?”

  “Fuck all, but I don’t fancy hoofing it back to Leeds any time soon, so I guess I’ll learn.”