by Amy Bratley
‘My cake!’ I said, leaping up to stand.
I clamped my hands over my ears, running into the kitchen to turn off the oven. I grabbed a tea-towel from the back of a chair and flapped it madly under the smoke alarm until it stopped. Coughing, I pushed open the window and, using the tea-towel, extracted the cake from the oven. It was burnt black, a thin stream of smoke pouring out of the top. I slid the whole thing into the sink and turned on the cold tap. The pan hissed in the water. I stood stock still for a moment, clutching the back of a kitchen chair, my knuckles white. I imagined what it would feel like to scream. Then I reached for one of the wine glasses Joe had got out of the cupboard. I threw it at the wall and watched it smash.
Chapter Fourteen
A while later, the broken glass still littered on the kitchen floor, I grabbed my keys, purse and mobile phone and walked out of the flat, into the pouring rain. It was growing darker and I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I wanted to be outside, among people, lost in the city somewhere, anonymous. I didn’t want to be alone with the sinking silence of what I’d just done to Joe. I felt oddly blank and my hands were trembling. My hair smelt of burnt cake and it wasn’t until I reached the end of my street that I noticed I still had my apron on. Nobody I’d walked past had even batted an eyelid. In my pocket was Joe’s beautiful illustration. I glanced at it, then folded it up and held on to it tightly, walking quickly through the streets, busy with people coming and going, some with their heads bent under umbrellas, others not caring about the rain. I carried on towards the bus stop, standing waiting while buses squelched through puddles on the road, wanting desperately to talk to Isabel. I wanted to ask her what she knew about Joe’s money for the cafe. Why hadn’t she told me about his plans? Why had she let me think he was going to propose, I thought furiously. But it wasn’t her fault, was it? Not in the least. I sighed. Boarding a bus headed for Brixton, I let myself imagine that I hadn’t told Joe I needed time to think, that we were warm and dry in the flat, drinking that bottle of wine, slicing into the cake, planning how to finish the cafe now I didn’t have to worry about money. Images of my plans – deliberately mismatched crockery, cake stands laden with home-baked treats, old-fashioned standing lamps, lace doilies, wooden tables decorated with old-fashioned posters, a large chalkboard for children to draw on and a bookshelf of books for them, too – popped into my head. Joe had gone to all that effort to help me realize my dream. No one had ever done anything so generous, and it wasn’t just the money itself. It was the effort involved – the thought and the self-sacrifice. He’d sold his beloved Spider! I felt sick. I didn’t deserve someone like Joe, I thought bleakly. He was far too good for me. I’d done him a favour. I found my mobile in my bag and keyed in Isabel’s number, but her phone was off. For a moment I thought about calling Daisy, but, after our argument in the park, quickly dismissed the idea. Daisy would be furious with me. She would never understand how I could be unsure about making a commitment to Joe. Or why I would be thinking about Ethan again after what he’d done. In her eyes, if someone wronged you, they didn’t get another chance. Look at Iain. Since he’d dumped her, she point-blank refused to have anything to do with him, would rarely even speak about him. Anyway, Daisy had been tired and upset about Mum. She was in no place to comfort me.
Mum. It seemed almost ridiculous to think such a thing, but as we reached Brixton I looked up at the big dark rain clouds, moving across the skyline, a backdrop to the black railway line cutting across the busy road, and I felt an old longing open up inside of me like a flower blooming in fast-forward. I never let myself think like this. It was too dangerous. But I was at rock bottom, wasn’t I? Everything would come out of the woodwork now. I sniffed, aware that I was being completely self-pitying, but couldn’t help thinking: what would she say to me now? What advice would she have? I missed her so much. I wished I could speak to her. I got off the bus, people jostling to and fro around me, and forced myself not to cry.
‘Tickets for the Academy?’ a ticket tout said, his thin face suddenly too close to mine, invading my thoughts, and I shook my head in annoyance, looked down at the pavement and carried on walking. I turned in to Brixton Tube, where escalators were spitting up hundreds of people and classical music was booming incongruously out of speakers. I pressed the phone to my ear and quickly called my dad, wincing as I watched a little old guy in a dirty yellow coat sit down on the floor, unlace his shoes and remove sodden socks to reveal filthy, unloved feet. I felt the familiar internal tug of war in my heart that I always had when I saw lost souls like this. Should I go and offer my help? I pushed my hand in my pocket and found a pound coin, which I dropped by his side. It meant nothing, really. What would Joe have done? Bought him a coffee. Spoken to him. Given him his own socks. Advised him to see a doctor. I remembered Joe’s expression when I told him I didn’t want to marry him. I gulped. I didn’t know what I was doing any more. All I knew was that I’d gone and ruined everything, all for Ethan.
‘Hello, darling,’ my dad answered. ‘How are you?’
The sound of my dad’s voice, soft and cheerful, lifted my spirits slightly. I held my hand over my other ear, to block out Tchaikovsky, so I could hear him properly.
‘Can you meet me?’ I asked, my voice thin. ‘Tonight? I’m in Brixton so I can get the tube.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Hang on a second, will you?’
He was silent for a moment and the sound was muffled, as if he had covered over the mouthpiece of his phone. I thought I heard the sound of a woman’s voice in the background.
‘Is that Daisy?’ I asked, when he came back onto the phone. ‘Can I speak to her? Is she still mad with me?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not Daisy, just one of the neighbours popped in. Have you two girls fallen out? What’s happened?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘She was in a strop with me for seeing Ethan again. She doesn’t think I should.’
‘No,’ Dad sighed. ‘I know she doesn’t. Look, don’t bother about the Tube. Jump on a bus up to Gastro. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.’
‘That sounded like a cork,’ I said. ‘Am I interrupting something? I thought you’d be free, but—’
‘Of course I’m free,’ he said, almost crossly. ‘If you get there first, I’ll have steak tartare and a bottle of red. Don’t let them sit us anywhere near the loo. I hate it when they do that in restaurants. Doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ a waiter said, bowing slightly, as I walked in through the creaky doors of Gastro in Clapham Common, the snug, authentically French little restaurant that was in my list of favourite places to eat – and drink – in London. The smell of classic French cooking hit my nose and I breathed deeply, smiling to say hello. The place was already bursting with customers and the only remaining table was a rickety wooden one in the window, facing out at the Picture House cinema, where normally I could happily sit for hours, pretending to be Parisian, dropping sugar lumps into strong black coffees, casting my eyes over the French adverts on the walls, not to mention the smouldering French waiters gracefully moving between tables. I sat down, peeled off my damp cardigan and hooked it over the back of the chair, laced my fingers together and leaned my lips against them, deep in thought. Moments later, I saw a man rush by the window and in through the door. For a second, because of his newly shaved head, I didn’t recognize him.
‘Darling girl,’ Dad said, kissing the top of my head and collapsing his umbrella. ‘Have you ordered? I’m ravenous.’
‘Not yet,’ I choked, pulling out a chair for him. I felt his eyes on me. He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I hardly recognized you.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Eve, what’s wrong?’
I shook my head and opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. At the sight of my dad looking at me with his dark blue eyes full of concern, smiling warmly, I felt like a child and could feel my own eyes filling with tears and my cheeks heating up. I swallowed, reaching for the menu to
wave in front of my face. Dad put his big warm hand on mine and sighed. He signalled to the waiter, a gorgeously handsome Frenchman, and I listened while Dad ordered in perfect French. He turned his attention back to me.
‘I’ve ordered you moules frites,’ he said. ‘I hope that will do. OK, what’s on your mind?’
I smiled gratefully. I was quiet while the waiter brought our cutlery and the bottle of wine, with glasses. I waved my hand dismissively when he suggested I should taste the wine, mumbling that I’m sure it would be fine. My dad smiled apologetically at the waiter then leaned back in his chair, waiting for me to speak.
‘I know I’m a dinosaur,’ he said, grinning madly and crossing his eyes. ‘But I might be able to help. Tell me what’s wrong.’
With my eyes trained on the salt and pepper, tiny glass jam pots with perforated gingham lids, I told Dad everything that had happened with Joe. I showed him the illustration Joe had done for me of the cafe. I smoothed it out on the table for him to see. Dad’s smile was tinged with sadness. He told me he’d known about the cafe idea, since Joe had borrowed £4,000 from him, to contribute to the cost. He hadn’t wanted to tell me because he didn’t want to ruin the surprise.
‘The trouble is,’ I said, concentrating on a plastic lobster hanging from the wall, ‘I don’t really understand why I’m doing all this, throwing my life up in the air like this. Joe’s great. He’s more than great. He’s almost perfect.’
‘Why don’t you want to marry him?’ Dad said. ‘Tell me what makes you hesitate.’
I leaned back in my chair, fiddling with my necklace, as a couple on the next table started to kiss passionately.
‘Maybe it’s marriage as a concept,’ I said. ‘Maybe I don’t want to belong to anyone else.’
Dad frowned and shook his head.
‘It’s not about that,’ Dad said, appalled. ‘You know that.’
I smiled at him apologetically and slouched forward in my chair.
‘I know,’ I sighed. ‘Perhaps it’s the idea of an actual wedding. All the people and fuss and people arguing about where they want to sit . . .’
‘You could have a very small wedding,’ Dad said. ‘What’s the real reason? Is it Ethan? Did something happen at the Supper Club?’
I stared at the candle flickering on the table and nodded.
‘I wish I could say it wasn’t him,’ I said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘But yes, it’s Ethan.’
We were both quiet when the waiter brought over our food, a steaming pile of moules marinière and a heap of frites for me, and Dad’s steak tartare: a circle of raw minced beef surrounded by little glass bowls of capers, onion, parsley, mustard, oil and raw egg. We looked up at one another and, in spite of everything, grinned.
‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully now, passing me the basket of bread. ‘So haven’t you spoken to Ethan about exactly why he left you?’
He looked at me expectantly and I shook my head. I put down my wine, breathing in the tantalizing seaside smell of my mussels.
‘I don’t think there is a reason,’ I said, scooping one mussel out with half a mussel shell. ‘From what he’s said already I think he panicked and needed time to himself. I’m sure I must have been too clingy or something like that. There is no other reason.’
Thinking that Ethan had left because he was frightened of commitment, which I thought he was, made me feel better about what I’d said to Joe. At least then I would be justified in having feelings for Ethan. He wouldn’t be the bastard some people wanted him to be. Dad’s expression grew grim. He finished his mouthful of steak tartare, put down his fork and took a gulp of his wine. Then he held my hand with his.
‘I know you’ve said to Joe that you need time, but I’m sure he would come round again,’ he said. ‘Joe genuinely loves you. I know he does because I once felt the same way for your mother. I recognize it in him. He’d walk to the ends of the earth over hot coals, give you his kidney, slay dragons, all that. But Ethan . . . Ethan’s more of an unknown.’
I frowned, annoyed that he wasn’t really listening to me properly. Tearing into a chunk of bread, I dipped it into the garlicky, buttery sauce under the mussels and popped it into my mouth.
‘But he says he still loves me,’ I said.
Dad sighed an enormous sigh.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He probably does. Who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t mean he’s better for you than Joe. If I were you I’d let the whole thing drop. Move on. Forget Ethan.’
Dad needlessly picked up the menu and gazed at the drinks list distractedly. I frowned. Surely he realized this was the most important thing to have happened since, well, since Mum had died?
‘But I can’t forget . . .’ I said sadly. ‘That’s the whole point. I can’t.’
Dad put the menu down and looked at me intently. He sighed heavily.
‘Then see him,’ he said quietly. ‘Then jump off the cliff and find your wings on the way down, as your mother would have said. But be warned, darling girl, you might be in for a nasty fall. Oh, I can’t bear the thought—’
He shook his head, muttering, and carried on with his food, but wasn’t giving it the loving attention he normally did. He seemed to be thinking of something else entirely.
‘You’ve got to let me live my own life,’ I said. ‘Even if I get it all wrong, you know? I’ve decided anyway. I’m going to see Ethan this week, before Andrew’s dinner party, and I’m going to tell him how I feel, that I still have feelings for him. There’s nothing to lose now.’
Dad nodded at me despondently. I could see that, on whatever level, this conversation was painful for him, so I concentrated on eating my big bowl of mussels and changed the subject. Dad visibly relaxed until we came to the end of the meal, when he told me he had news of his own. The family home – Mum’s home – he blurted out without warning, was going up for sale.
‘I need a change,’ he said quietly, draining the last of his wine. ‘I can’t go on living in the past. I want to sell up and find somewhere smaller.’
I frowned. Dad had lived in that house now for thirty years. I couldn’t understand why he would want to sell. The house was part of him. Without it, he would be like a snail without its shell. It held each and every one of his memories of Mum. Was this anything to do with his mystery illness? I had a hateful feeling of dread. My dad wasn’t allowed to die.
‘You’re not going to die, are you, Dad?’ I asked, while the waiter whisked away our plates and a large group edged themselves into the restaurant and up to the bar, enquiring after a table. He burst out laughing and rubbed his bald head self-consciously.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘In fact, I feel like I’m just coming back to life. Just because I’m nearly sixty doesn’t mean I’m going to join the heap of people my age who appear to give up on life, shuffling around in bloody boat shoes. I might be retirement age, but I’m not retiring from life.’
I smiled, leaned over the table and hugged him around the neck. He kissed my forehead and patted my back gently. The waiter slipped us dessert menus and Dad ordered two crèmes caramel, our usual dessert.
‘You are just like your mother,’ he said, his eyes moist. ‘Believe it or not, she couldn’t decide between me and another chap. Alec, he was called. What an absolutely stupid name.’
He grinned at me and I laughed.
‘But I thought your eyes met when she was measuring you up and that was it?’ I said.
Dad shook his head. ‘That’s true, to a degree. We did love one another from the moment we met and I asked her to marry me the same afternoon, but she was with this Alec bloke at the time. She had to break one heart and she couldn’t decide which one to break for quite some time. But I persisted. There was no way I was going to lose her, but it wasn’t always easy. In fact it was bloody impossible at times.’
My mouth fell open. I’d always seen my parents’ relationship through rosy, Hollywood-movie-style spectacles. He’d never told us this before. It was ridiculous, but I felt mildly disa
ppointed.
‘So how did she decide what to do?’ I asked.
‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘Probably tossed a coin or threw a dart at a photograph. Something like that.’
He chuckled and grinned at me. Partly due to the silky-smooth crèmes caramel that had arrived in front of us, gently wobbling on the plates, and partly because it was the only thing to do, I smiled in return.
‘It’s going to be absolutely fine if you listen to your heart and trust your instinct,’ Dad said warmly, handing me a spoon and diving into his pudding. ‘That’s all I can say and I’ve said enough. Let’s eat.’
PART THREE
Andrew’s Supper Club
Chapter Fifteen
The following Saturday, the day of Andrew’s dinner party, I woke to the sound of the doorbell ringing. I bolted upright in bed, knocking a plate holding the remains of a late-night slice of toast off the duvet and sending it spinning onto the wooden floorboards with a crash.
‘Shit,’ I said, swinging my legs out of the bed, catching sight of the time. ‘Oh fuck, it’s three o’clock!’
Ever since Joe had left the flat, I’d spent more time sleeping than ever before. Though I fully intended to work as hard as I could on the cafe all week, I’d slept late almost every day, waking up feeling groggy and incapable of doing anything much. I never felt refreshed. Instead, it was almost like having the flu, but without the symptoms. Maggie, when she’d called in one evening to share a bottle of wine, had told me that all this sleep was my body’s way of protecting itself from confronting the changes happening in my life. She was probably right. I certainly couldn’t face thinking about Joe and how he must be feeling. Imagining him in his Kentish Town flat, bruised and rejected after my horrible outburst, made me feel physically sick, so I tried the best I could to ignore it. I didn’t know what else to do. I had to see Ethan again. I’d tried to arrange a meeting for just the two of us, but he’d told me he was going to be in Italy until the day of Andrew’s party. I hadn’t a clue if he was telling the truth.