“Your champagne’s finished,” he says. “Never mind drinking that half-inch that’s left in your glass; it’s never as good when it’s warm and flat. How about another drink?” he says. “On the house? To say thank you for dinner.”
“Only if you join me,” I say, shocked by my own boldness.
He hesitates. “Oh, all right then. Doesn’t look like things are going to pick up now.”
“Flatterer,” I giggle.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Relax, Tony. I’m just teasing you.” Strange how I get so nervous thinking about him, but it feels so comfortable when we’re together. “I’ll have a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, please.”
He brings over a bottle and expertly pops the cork, then pours us both a nice, fresh glass of ice-cold white wine. He sits down opposite me and raises his glass.
“What shall we toast?” he asks.
I think. “To Cornwall,” I say.
“To Cornwall.”
We clink glasses and look out at the incredible view of the bay: cobalt-blue sea and the setting sun shining on golden sand. It’s like paradise.
“So, Courtney, tell me a little more about you. Cooking, you love to do, got it, but what else rocks your boat?”
“What rocks my boat?” I stare at him and guffaw at the saying. But I know what he’s asking. “I dunno any more, really, Tony. I’ve been trying to keep other people happy for so long I’m kinda lost at sea.” I take a long slow drink of wine and he does too.
“You love your job, though, right?” he asks me.
“Well . . . yes and no. I mean, it’s a great job and Lar is a great boss, but I’d swap it all to . . . Oh, I dunno . . . Open my own little restaurant maybe.” I’ve never admitted this. Even to myself, because I never even knew I wanted that. I’m taken aback.
“Really?” He leans across the table. His face is inches from mine. I have an overwhelming urge to reach out and feel the harshness of the stubble covering half his face.
“Oh look, it’s stupid . . . I love to cook, that’s all. It’s the one thing that really makes me happy. I always thought . . . Well, my Granny Alice used to think I’d be great. And when I cooked in your kitchen I felt really alive . . . I’m embarrassed now!” I drop my head into my hands.
“Don’t be . . . Your food is incredible. I think we might have crossed paths for a reason, Courtney Downey. If I ever get this new restaurant up and running . . .” He lapses into silence.
After a couple of minutes, I have to say something to break the tension. “You seem quiet,” I tell him as I sip my wine.
He nods. “Ah, few things on my mind.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Nah, I got it. Thank you, though.”
“Come on,” I urge.
His twists the stem of his wine glass round and round in his fingers, and sighs. “So it’s . . . it’s stupid. It’s this thing I have coming up, black-tie event. I dread these things. Silly, I know – but I really hate them.”
Ah, he must be chasing more investors. “Just go. Show up, smile, do what you gotta do, and then slip away.”
He nods, taking in all I am saying.
“That’s not all, though . . . This thing . . . It’s being held by someone that I used to know. In fact, I knew them very well at one point, but . . . There are times when we haven’t got on. We’ve argued a lot. And the person I’m bringing to it just doesn’t feel that it’s going to work out, so she doesn’t feel comfortable being there either . . .”
My heart plummets. He’s bringing a date. I shouldn’t have let myself sit down with him, drinking wine, feeling comfortable. Tony might be a player, but I’m not. I knock back my wine and put the glass down on the table, a little harder than I intended. Tony looks startled.
“Look, Tony, my advice still stands. From the sounds of it, you’ve got to be there because this event is important. No matter what’s happened in the past, you’ve got to be the bigger man. Just suck it up. Show up. Smile. Do what you gotta do. Then slip away if it really becomes unbearable.”
“Like you’ve done by coming to Cornwall?”
I’m surprised into momentary silence. “That’s a totally different situation.”
“Is it? Back home you’ve got your husband and his new girlfriend, and your daughter to deal with . . .” He frowns. “Is that why you’re here, Courtney? Did showing up and smiling get too much? Did you have to slip away?”
I’m suddenly furious. “I did not run away.”
“That’s not what I said—”
But I’m too upset now to listen to any more. Is that what he thinks? That I’ve run away from my issues, abandoned my daughter? Am I being selfish?
I fire my parting shot. “What I’ve done, Tony, is the mature thing. I took your advice and gave my daughter space. And if your girlfriend doesn’t want to go to this event you’re so worried about, maybe she should do the same.”
“My girlfriend . . . ?”
But I don’t hang around to hear yet another explanation. I’m out of here. Tony Becker can deal with his own problems. Much as I’d like to deny it, I’ve still got plenty of my own.
13
“Well, lookee here . . . Good evening.” A smartly dressed man leans in beside me at the bar of the Garrack Hotel on Saturday evening, where I had dinner with some possible relocation clients. It didn’t go fantastically and it wasn’t a great choice of venue, to be honest; I hadn’t realised there was a wedding reception taking place in the ballroom. It’s noisy, crowded and, I now realise, full of drunks. There is a pungent smell of alcohol from the man’s breath. From his pores.
“Hello,” I say back politely.
“What’s a beautiful woman like you doing all on her lonesome?” American accent. Southern. Creepy.
“Minding my own business,” I say in a flat tone. I stare ahead at the polished bottles gleaming at me from behind the bar and don’t meet his eyes.
“How sad.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and I drop it immediately, allowing his hand to fall away.
“Not really,” I say, still not looking at him.
The young barman is hanging over the end of the bar, deep in conversation with a very pretty girl in a tight red dress, a single wedding guest, I’m guessing. He won’t look over at me any time soon. He doesn’t know I exist. I am all alone.
“Been stood up, I take it?” His hand waves in front of my eyes to try to get my attention. His fingers smell of cheese and onion crisps.
“No, I haven’t been stood up,” I say, leaning back slightly so his hand doesn’t hit my nose, and using the kind of tone one might use when telling someone to fuck off and leave them alone. I don’t like him.
“Allow me to buy you a drink. Women really shouldn’t drink alone,” he offers.
Oh Lord, he probably thinks I’m a hooker. Just when I thought my night couldn’t possibly get any worse. Claire might even get a laugh out of this when I tell her.
“Thank you, but I’m just leaving,” I tell him politely now. He really is making me uncomfortable and suddenly I feel frighteningly vulnerable.
“Allow me to walk you home then.” He comes closer into my space, craning his head around to look at me, and taps his leather wallet off the bar top. I open my purse, lay a tenner on the bar, remove my bag from the back of the high stool and go to stand up.
“Don’t leave on my account, lonely lady,” he drawls.
I don’t really want to leave. I want to have a nice, quiet drink by myself. I want him to leave me alone. Why should I go? I hear Granny Alice’s voice in my head: “Stand up for yourself, Courtney!” I glance at him now. His eyes are glazed and his tie is crooked. He’s very drunk.
“I’d prefer if you left me alone, if you don’t mind.” I stare hard at him.
“Aren’t you already alone? How much more alone can you get?” he continues.
“Please go away or I’m going to call the barman.” I raise my voice.
“You more tha
n likely won’t get a better offer tonight, sweetheart.” His words are cross now and he looks me up and down.
I don’t need this hassle. He’s beaten me. Again, I go for my bag, but then I hear a voice behind me.
“Did you not hear what she said? Fuck off and leave her alone!” I know who it is immediately.
“And who are you?” my American now non-admirer asks as I turn around.
“I’m a friend of hers,” Tony Becker says, dressed in a dark suit and navy tie. I nearly don’t recognise him.
“Her ‘friend’, is it?” The American straightens himself and stands tall.
“Go away, mate.” Tony stands up to him. The two men are so close the tips of their dress shoes are almost meeting.
“Or what?” the American childishly replies.
“Do you really want to know the answer to that?” Tony growls in a low voice, and with a snort the American slithers off.
I look at Tony and he looks back at me, nervously.
“I showed up,” he says. “And I’m smiling.” He grins like a loon, and somehow I forget about how furious I’ve been. All my anger melts away. I gesture to the free stool beside me and he sits down.
“Allow me to buy you a drink?” I laugh now, relief flooding through me that the American has gone.
“Pint of Guinness, please . . . lonely lady.” He elbows me playfully and pulls himself up.
“Seriously, like I needed that.” I wave my money at the engrossed barman and reluctantly he comes over to me. I order another large white wine for me and a pint of Guinness for Tony. “Thanks, Tony.” I nod after the insect of man.
“Ah, I’m sure you had his number. He was just starting to piss me off. I hope you didn’t mind me stepping in? I was looking for somewhere to hide out for a bit and I overheard.”
“Slipping away?”
He nods. “Slipping away. At first I didn’t know that it was you. I’m well aware that you can take care of yourself.” He turns the glass towards him so that the black Guinness writing is facing him.
“You look very smart, Tony.”
He loosens the navy tie. “Thank you. I’m choked here: not really my thing, monkey suits.” He shrugs.
“Listen . . . I’m sorry, Tony. I flew off the handle the other night. I guess you hit my sore spot when you talked about Susan.”
“No worries. I overstepped the mark and it’s none of my business. That’s what I get for trying out some armchair psychology.” He grins ruefully. “You’re a great woman, Courtney, and I bet you’re a great mam. I’m sure you’re doing what’s best for everyone.”
I blush and can’t help smiling at him. He looks so contrite I decide to give him a break. “So, is this the black-tie event you were talking about?” I ask.
“You could say that.” He puts the pint to his mouth and drinks half in one gulp. “I can’t tell you how much I needed that.” He wipes his dark stubble and the white froth from the sides of his mouth with the back of his hand. I notice how clean his nails now are. Scrubbed. “What are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I had dinner with some prospective clients, but I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere this time. You win some, you lose some.”
“Sorry,” he says.
I change the subject. “So why are you looking so smart, Tony? You must be on a date. But where is she then, and why do you look like you are all dressed up with nowhere to go . . . A row, maybe? Did you forget to pick her up perhaps? Or is Marina waiting in the Ploughboy while you sit here having a drink with me?” I’m tongue-in-cheek, to hide my hurt feelings.
He peers at me. “What makes you always think I have a girlfriend? Or girlfriends?” He looks amused now.
“Well, aside from Marina, you mean? I saw that copy of Cosmopolitan, hair donuts and the pretty red wedges in your car. Us women spot these things, ya know.” I pause. “And I saw the picture of that pretty young woman on your phone when you were round at our apartment.” I stare at the shiny bottles behind the bar as I twist the slim stem of the wine glass around between my finger and thumb on the pretty doily. Lounge music plays around us now. The pianist in the corner must have returned from his break.
“How many have you had?” he asks.
I close my left eye and hold up two fingers, and just then I see that young girl behind him in a sleek, red, figure-hugging dress. I was joking just now, but he cannot be doing this to me again. She lifts his pint of Guinness and drinks some.
“Hey . . . What? Oh come on now!” He takes the glass from her hand gently.
“What? Aren’t we celebrating? Isn’t this supposed to be a celebration? Didn’t you tell me to wear this dress? Didn’t you tell me . . .”
I have to get out of here, but I’m frozen to the seat.
“Not now, Phoebe.” He talks to her like she is interrupting him.
“But—”
“Not. Now.” His voice is loud. Oh Lord. Is this how he talks to the women he dates? Is this how he thinks he can treat women? I’ve gone from being a deserted mother to a hooker at the bar to the other woman. Get me out of here.
“Look, I’m just going to go . . .” I say quietly.
“No, you aren’t going anywhere . . . Phoebe is leaving, aren’t you, Phoebe? She is going straight back to her mother’s wedding, isn’t that right?” He takes her hand now and kisses it. I’ve seen enough. This girl is only a child, for God’s sake!
“I’m so out of here – this is . . . this is just too weird for me . . .” I jump up to my kitten-heeled feet and back away towards the door. He jumps off the stool and stands in my way.
“Sorry . . . Courtney Downey, Phoebe Becker. Courtney, meet my sixteen-year-old daughter and owner of some lovely red strappy wedges that cost me a small fortune. She told me she just couldn’t live without them, yet hasn’t taken them out of my jeep in about six months.” Tony winks at me.
“Your daughter?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Reversing, I find the seat under me again.
“Yup.” He puts a strong arm around her thin frame.
“You never said you had a daughter,” I say.
“You never asked.” He picks up his pint. “Now, young lady, back to the hotel ballroom, please. I did my bit, so you have to stay.” He looks at her and I notice how his dark eyes have lit up.
“I hate him, Dad!” She grinds her teeth.
“He’s not that bad, pet, and he loves your mam . . . Mind those blooming teeth, Phoebe, I’ve paid a small fortune for them!” She purses her pretty lips together, reminding me so much of Susan that my heart lurches again.
“Speaking of teeth, everyone is laughing at those blinding-white veneers Mam got for the big day!” Phoebe wails at her father.
“I’m sure they aren’t laughing, love. Look, she’s your mam: be nice to her. Now, I’ll come back to the reception in an hour or so, I promise.” He looks adoringly at her. This young girl certainly has her daddy in the palm of her hand. Exactly how it should be, I know, and I’m petty to be jealous that my little girl loves her daddy so much. I think, in this moment, if it wasn’t for Mar-nee, I’d understand Susan wanting to be with David.
“Who are you anyway?” she demands, turning to face me with a complete Susan look on her face. Oh, I can handle this girl. She’s met her match in me this evening.
“Manners, Phoebe, please!” he chastises her.
“Sorry . . . Who are you anyway please?” She continues to stare hard at me.
“Hiya, Phoebe, it’s really lovely to meet you. Your dress is amazing! Lipsy?” I ask, and she narrows her eyes slightly at me before she nods in agreement. I go on. “I’m Courtney from Dublin, just a work colleague of your dad’s.”
“Oh right.” She pulls at the neckline on her dress. “How’d you know it’s from Lipsy?” she asks.
“Oh, because I have a sixteen-year-old daughter, Susan, who wanted that dress for a party last year,” I inform her.
“I only get dressed up for special occasions. That’s
why I wanted those shoes, Dad,” she says, shooting a glare at him and waggling a red-wedged foot at him. “I’m a jeans and jumper kind of girl usually.”
“Want a soda water and lime with us?” I try Susan’s tipple of choice on her.
“Oh, my favourite! Can I, Dad?” Her eyes light up.
“No. Back to the wedding with you, please. You know I can’t have your mam thinking I dragged you away with me. It’s not fair on her. You know how excited she’s been about this day for months.”
“Years!” she drawls, and throws her eyes up to the ceiling. “Do you have a husband?” She asks, and looks at my left hand.
“I’m separated, Phoebe,” I tell her.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector Becker, you may go.” Tony gently turns her around to face the door and she takes her leave.
As she shimmers through the open glass doors, she calls back, “Do not be more than an hour, Dad, I mean it! Love you, Big Daddy!” She blows him a kiss. He laughs.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you had a daughter the same age as mine! She’s absolutely beautiful, Tony,” I tell him, and I mean it. She really is stunning. A model scout’s dream girl.
“That she is.” He laughs after her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I dig him gently in his ribs.
“I was just playing with you. You seemed to think I was some Casanova, a different woman every night, when in reality I haven’t . . . Well . . . It’s been a long time for me.” He looks down to the barman. My stomach lurches in excitement, and I’m not sure why.
“Phoebe is a beautiful name. She really reminds me of my Susan.”
Tony orders two more drinks.
“So who got married today? Your ex-wife, I take it?” I lick my lips.
“No . . . I told you before, I don’t believe in marriage; therefore I saved myself the torture of ever having an ex-wife.” He takes a long drink and replaces the pint square in the centre of the beer mat. He turns it around a few times. His tanned hands rotate it as the world turns.
“Look, I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me anything about your private life. I—”
The Importance of Being Me Page 18